ROUND 5 - First time was luck, second time was a lynch. (LYNCH KILL)
As they left the fourth hour of their isolation, the realization that something beyond a biological terrorist attack was finally started to freak Myraan Avers out. She had already survived an accidental lynch attempt, but was still vulnerable to an attempt on her life. It was murder â€“ anyway you sliced it, no pun intended. More people had died than she thought possible outside a full out war. Maybe thatâ€™s what this was â€“ a war between good and evil. Something was orchestrating this, pushing people to make either emotional acts of vengeance or murder. Myraan closed her eyes as she huddled in the conference room with the others, trying to concentrate on the images that had been flooding her mind.
A steady, soft voice was telling her to survive. It washed over her like an uncomfortably warm blanket, forcing her to wrap her arms around her waist, her fractured, if not broken ribs pinching at her sides. She concentrated on the voice; was it guiding her or preparing her for somethingâ€¦
A hand slapped loudly on the conference table top, snapping her out of her reverie. Myraan looked around with startled eyes and watched as the remainder of the bank patrons began to fight amongst themselves yet again, forcing Mr. Green to turn a shade of his namesake. The lynch mob was rising up again like clockwork, on the hour someone completely lost their shit and got the others worked up, pointing fingers. Quietly, Myraan got up from the table and moved to the wall as far away from everyone else as she could get.
â€˜Listen! We have to get out of here.â€™
Mr. Green found his voice and chimed in, â€˜Pleaseâ€¦try and remain calm?â€™
â€˜Why havenâ€™t we heard from anyone? What happened to the police outside the windows?â€™
â€˜What are you talkingâ€¦?â€™
â€˜Have you looked?â€™
The crowd moved to the windows, one at a time, and looked out. The streets were empty. No cop cars, no CDC trucks, no obligatory crowd of rubber-neckers hoping for a shoot out or jumper. There was nothing but silence.
â€˜Weâ€™re all going to die in here.â€™
Myraan had said the words before she realized it. The crowd swung their heads back and looked at her.
â€˜Yeah â€“ you fell three stories down an elevator shaft and lived.â€™
â€˜That was an accident,â€™ Myraan said softly. â€˜That wasnâ€™t my fault.â€™
â€˜It wasnâ€™t that Olivia girlâ€™s fault that she got cut in half helping you, either.â€™
â€˜That was YOUR FAULT!â€™ Myraan yelled at the top of her lungs so everyone would hear her perfectly. â€˜This fuckingâ€¦LYNCH MOB. You all killed her and damn near everyone elseâ€¦and with what clues? Youâ€™re all fucking detectives all of the sudden? Fuck you. FUCK. YOU. ALL.â€™
Myraanâ€™s hands were shaking badly now and her eyes searched for her pills. Pushing through the crowd, she made a bee line for her bag and grabbed at it greedily as she broke out into a cold sweat. The contents of her bag, usually perfectly organized, were a jumbled mess and with a fury she had not felt in some time (thanks to antidepressants) Myraan dumped everything onto the glass conference table. Her compact flew out and across the table and someone put their hand down on it loudly. She jumped at the noise and the room fell silent again.
â€˜You have a compact.â€™
Myraanâ€™s eyes narrowed. â€˜Yes. Iâ€™m a girl. That a surprise to you?â€™
The mob began to murmur, throwing wild accusations and theories at her when finally someone body checked her into the glass door. Her broken ribs howled in pain, but that was nothing compared to the indignity that followed.
Someone grabbed her from behind and wrapped their arms around her waist, pushing her broken ribs into her lungs, puncturing them. The tears welled up in her eyes as the pain shot up into her chest. They were dragging her out of the conference room, to the railing that overlooked the bank lobby, but the blood filling her lungs was making her gasp for breath, almost blinding her with pain. Her skin was turning a soft shade of pale blue and was clammy to the touch. Her breathing became labored with rapid, short breaths as she felt something wrap around her neck. The fear of suffocating was an extreme, primal fear and she felt it as the jugular veins in her neck began to protrude. She began to gag, throwing up bright red blood as they picked her up and tried to hoist her over the rail.
The will to live is a powerful one, and with all her strength, she kicked out and managed to push one of her captors down, but the others only clamored together, forcing the tiny yet scarily strong woman over the rail. She fell, but in her mindâ€™s eye time slowed as she watched the ground floor rush up into her face. Then it was there again.
She smiled at its steady voice. Iâ€™m going to a better place, she thought.
The voice turned suddenly cold and apathetic and said, â€˜No, not really.â€™
Myraanâ€™s eyes opened wide and she finally found her voice just as the makeshift noose they had tied around her neck became taut and snapped her neck like a twig.
She was the closest thing I had to a friend here.. I helped fix her up after they almost killed her the first time.. now they've actually done it. What the fuck? This is fucked up. This is fucked up. No one's getting out of here, we'll all end up killing each other trying to stop whoever is killing the people the "Lynch Mob" doesn't. It's fucking hell.
Feeling a familar constriction in her chest, Ella realized her line of thought was leading to an anxiety attack, not a good thing right now.
They'll kill me - they think that I'm a bad person. I gotta get out. I gotta -- No!!! Stop. Remember what the counselor told me, ten deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Focus on the breathing...
Trying to calm herself, Ella saw the content of Myraan's purse on the table.
There's gotta be some sort of anti-anxiety pills in here ... She was kinda messed up. And she wouldn't mind if I took some, right? I mean, she's dead... just like me, like everyone else...
Panic rising in her chest again, Ella dived into the pile of junk, trying to find something, anything, to help her before she completely succumbed to the panic that would lead her into dark, dark places.