The heavy footsteps grew closer, and Orren was in full panic. He grabbed Douglas under the arms and drug him away, cursing and swearing all the while. The patient, who he had been so sure was coming after them, turned off into a room, disappearing into the darkness. Orren paused, letting out a sigh of relief. He didn't let his guard down long, however. He rearranged his hold on his coworker and continued to drag the unconscious man into a different room, closing the door behind them. 

"Okay. Fuck. What are we gonna' do? You know this would be a lot easier if you'd wake the fuck up." He shot a dirty glance at Douglas, then sighed. "Alright, I guess I'm gonna' have to handle this myself. You...stay here and hide, I guess." He looked around, then spotted a locker off in the corner. Orren grabbed Douglas and hoisted him up, shoving his limp form into the locket and closing the door. "That should keep you out of sight until I can get some help..." Orren looked around for anything useful. Why was it so dark in here? "Oh, wait a second." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys, which had a little mini flashlight on the keychain. Orren knew it would be useful some day.

"Well...I guess I'm gonna go...get help. Just stay in there and fucking sleep, I guess." He felt bad for leaving Douglas there to fend for himself, but what could he do? They were a sitting duck here. At least Douglas had that video camera thing he'd used to gather evidence. All Orren had was a lousy flashlight. Clearly [i]he[/i] was the one who had gotten the short end of the stick. 

Orren turned back to the door and braced himself. He crept up to it and pressed his ear to the wood. He couldn't hear anything; maybe the coast was clear. He cracked the door open and slipped out, only to come face to face with one of the many variants. The patient's face was mutilated and deformed, a broad grin on his face. Orren let out a rather feminine shriek before turning and hauling ass out of there.

The hospital seemed quiet today. Dylan slunk through the darkness as if he belonged there. Perhaps he did. With no sign of company or danger, he slowly let his guard down. He was headed to visit one of his favorite places in the asylum: the breakroom. The soft, blue glow of the Pepsi machine had an almost therapeutic calm to it. It hummed softly; and the side of it was warm. Dylan had found himself frequenting the machine during the winters, when the asylum was sometimes so cold that the blood on the floors froze. He would curl up in the dark corner beside the machine, huddled in a blanket. With the door closed, he sometimes felt safe. 

Dylan rounded the corner and was met by the glowing, beat up machine. He lumbered over to his corner and plopped down, leaning his head against the side of it. Another variant occasional visited this room; a friend. Dylan hadn't seen him in a while. He figured the guy was probably dead. Maybe Frank ate him.