Snippet #1530469

The distant whining of a police siren was suddenly barely audible, the sound echoing across the city in unwelcome authority. Any other day, it would have meant nothing. Police sirens went off everyday, after all. Why should this one be any different? The annoying whining would fade in time, and the asylum would return to eerie quiet.

...only the sound grew louder. The wailing sirens echoed in high-pitched reverberation, demanding the attention of all the employees in the building. It wasn't long before the source of the noise became visible. An armored police van skidded to a careful hault at the curb of the asylum, the screeching of the tires nearly as loud as the sirens. Although the sirens were turned off a moment later, the flashing lights remained on.

A rugged-looking figure suddenly exited the van, his hard-leather shoes tapping stern metronome on the asphalt beneath him; pausing only briefly to survey the looming asylum. So this was it. The Murder Therapy Center. This was the place that his six little convicts (tightly handcuffed in the back of the van) would be "re-habilitated" into society.

Or if that wasn't possible, where they would spend the rest of their lives.

Walking around to the back of the vehicle, the man called Austin Marshall set to work unlocking the re-enforced back door. Heavy bolts and barriers fell out of place with loud, metallic groans. As the doors swung open, exposing Adrian, Travis, Hildezart, Ivory, Abbey and Erin; Austin drew his gun.

"Out," he commanded, his voice rimmed with iron, "stand single file. We're here." The police detective's eyes remained hidden behind his dark sunglasses, revealing nothing. His sturdy jaw was grit sternly, his brows furrowed intently. The man's face could have been chiseled from solid marble.