-hands Pineapple Crunchies and Pecan Pralines to her reviewers- Thank you, your feedback really brightens my day!

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Chapter 9

Trip followed Nurse Owens down the hallway, feeling tired and weary in body and soul. The only thing that really kept him going was the prospect of a bed to lie down on, where he could close his eyes and forget all about this shitty place.

The examination had been intrusive and humiliating, Dr. Rowland's gloved fingers poking and prodding them everywhere, instruments being shoved down their throats and up their asses so the doctor could tell if they were "clean". Ostensibly, the examination was supposed to be purely medical, but Trip was convinced that at least part of it had been about finding out whether they were trying to smuggle any dangerous objects into the place, to use against the nurses at an opportune moment. Thinking of Paul Lendon, Trip was beginning to find the idea rather appealing.

They hadn't been allowed to dress until they were both thoroughly examined, after which Owens had handed them a set of patient's clothing each. The garments weren't black and white as Trip had imagined, but consisted of a pale green t-shirt and matching pants as well as a pair of white sneakers with velcro instead of shoelaces.

After they had dressed, Rowland had pulled out two question sheets, instructing Owens to have them filled out and added to the medical files. After that, the doctor had disappeared without another word, and Owens had sat down to begin their psychological evaluation.

Name?

Age?

Nationality?

Do you know why you're here?

Do you have any specific expectations of your stay?

Do you frequently experience nightmares? Feelings of anger? Anxiety? Violent impulses? Do you ever have the urge to strangle anyone, asshole nurses in particular?

The evaluation sheet hadn't touched upon that last issue in particular, but Trip would have been hardly surprised if it had. It took Malcolm and him an hour each to wade through the multitude of seemingly random questions Owens threw at them, covering everything from their favorite food to their sexual orientation. The whole business was all the more frustrating since they couldn't give an answer to most of the queries; that was, an answer other that "I don't know, I can't remember." Sometimes, Trip had resorted to outright lying, telling Owens that his favorite food was meatloaf - not that he could remember having it, but it sounded good - and that he couldn't remember having nightmares in the close past.

Malcolm answered the questions with even less enthusiasm, shrugging most of the time or replying with the standard "I don't know." The only pause came when Owens asked Malcolm if he had any fears or phobias that he knew of. The British man had stared down at his hands, then, without raising his head, had said in a quiet voice, "I'm afraid of drowning."

He had looked up, almost defiantly, and at Trip's surprised look had added, "I feel uncomfortable when I'm close to large bodies of water. That's it."

Trip had said nothing, sensing that Malcolm wanted the subject to be left alone. He hadn't asked how Malcolm knew; it was probably one of those things, like the images of eerily familiar people and places that would come to him in dreams and sudden moments of recognition. It was not something that could be explained, and so he let the matter go.

Owens hadn't seemed too interested in any of their answers, and had finished the questionnaire in the same business-like manner as he had shown them to the showers. Watching the sheets disappear into their medical files, Trip had wondered if anyone was ever going to look at them again. Dr. Cooke's speech about group therapy rather than individual treatment had come back to his mind. Maybe these things were a mere formality, something that had to be done to complete the records. From what he had seen of this place so far, he wouldn't be surprised if it were so.

"Here we are," Owens said, returning Trip's thoughts to the present. They had arrived at a door made of frosted glass and framed with steel. "Ward 4" was printed on it in large white letters. Owens slipped his key card into another slot on the wall and the door opened silently, revealing a long, gloomy corridor. Doors lined it on either side; some of them were glass doors like the entrance, some were made of wood and equipped with a small observation window.

Like a prison, Trip's mind immediately supplied. Welcome to the River Valley House of Correction.

Malcolm seemed to have similar thoughts; the expression on his face spoke volumes as they followed Owens down the corridor. One of the glass doors stood open and Owens switched on the light to let them take a look. Inside, there was a large table surrounded by plastic chairs, and in the back of the room a few armchairs and a sofa grouped around a television. The whole place exuded an air of gloom, and not only because it was dark and rainy outside. The chairs were worn as if they had served their purpose for many years, and it was obvious that the sofa and the armchairs had also seen better times. Missing curtains and a single halogen lamp rounded off the impression of indifference and neglect.

"The common room," Owens said. "You'll be having breakfast here and dinner, and you can come here during free time to read and watch TV. That is, if the TV works. I think it's broken," he added. Trip eyed the thing. From the looks of it, he would be surprised if it were still functioning. Well, maybe he would be able to do something about that. Give him something to do during free time if nothing else.

Owens motioned at them to follow him and they left the common room behind, walking down the corridor until the nurse stopped in front of one of the wooden doors. He slipped his card into the slot and waited until a green light flashed up, then pushed it open.

The room inside wasn't big; two beds on either side of the window and one next to the door with little room in between. In front of the window stood a small table and a chair. Except for the narrow locker next to each bed, there was no other furniture.

The lights were out, and so Trip didn't notice the man on the bed next to the door until Owens spoke to him.

"Your new roommates, Toby."

He turned the lights on, and now Trip could see the man, who was sitting cross-legged on his narrow bed. He wasn't tall, maybe Malcolm's height, his eyes bridged by dark eyebrows. He had brown, bushy hair, and the green patient's garb hung loosely off his wiry frame. He gave no answer to Owen's announcement, and his face remained stony as the nurse showed his roommates-to-be inside.

"These are Malcolm Reed and Charles Tucker," Owens introduced them and when the man remained silent, turned to Trip and Malcolm.

"This is Toby Reynolds. He's been here for a few years, so you can ask him if you have any questions."

Somehow I doubt that he'd give us an answer, Trip thought. Toby Reynolds was still staring at them with cool, indifferent eyes.

"Well..." Owens looked around as if trying to remember whether he had forgotten anything. "Wash kits and spare underwear are in your lockers. Bathroom's over there." He nodded at a door Trip hadn't noticed so far. "You'll be given a second set of clothing before you hand those in for cleaning; in four days at the latest, so please don't forget. I'll show you around the ward and the premises tomorrow. Breakfast's at seven, then you'll be starting with the work program. Anything else... oh right, it's me, Sam Moreno and Paul Lendon who are in charge of this ward. You can come to us anytime if there's a problem, okay?"

Trip nodded, careful to keep his face neutral. So the asshole was in charge of the ward. Great. Well, he could wait a long time until Trip would approach him about anything; he only hoped that Lendon would see the matter in the same light and leave them alone. Malcolm's lips had tightened at the news, and he avoided Owens' eyes as he muttered "thank you" in reply.

Owens nodded. "I'll leave you to it, then. See you tomorrow."

"Night," Trip said, and the nurse left, closing the door behind him. A soft mechanical click announced that the locking mechanism had been activated, then Owens' steps retreated down the corridor.

Trip exchanged a glance with Malcolm. Back at the hospital, the doors to the patients' rooms had never been locked, and Trip doubted that it was standard procedure in mental health facilities to do so. Probably part of River Valley's "strict security protocol", and one more reason for him to hate this place and everything about it.

"I know what they're up to."

Toby Reynolds had spoken up, so suddenly that Trip jumped. He turned around and found himself confronted with a disdainful stare.

"I know what they're up to," the thin man repeated. "If they think I'd fall for that, they've got another think coming."

"What are they up to?" Trip asked before he could stop himself. In a way, he found himself unsettled by the man's remarks. It was one thing to know that there were people with mental disorders living in this place, but to be confronted with it face to face... well, he would be lying, saying that he had been prepared for this.

The corner of Toby's mouth twitched. "Don't treat me like I'm stupid," he said. "I know why you're here, so you can drop the act right away."

Malcolm regarded him calmly, arms crossed in front of his chest. "I'm not so sure you know all you pretend to know."

Trip stared at him. All you pretend...?

It seemed exactly the right thing to say, however. Toby's face came alive, and his next words tumbled out as if he had been holding them in for far too long.

"I know everything. I know about the drugs, I know about the cameras, I know about the invisible rays. Found out long time ago where they keep the generator that sends them out, so don't tell me it's not true. I know what they're doing here. Those rays, they're designed to keep everybody under control, under their thumb. But they're not getting me. Look."

He jumped off his bed and opened his locker. The walls, shelves, top and bottom were silvery and shining, every inch of it painstakingly covered with tin foil. Toby smiled proudly.

"They never realized that I found a way to neutralize the rays. The tin foil works like a shield, bounces them off and sends them back." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "If you like, I can fix your lockers as well. They won't get you then, I swear."

Trip blinked. From "I know why you're here" to "they won't get you" in less than three minutes. You sure tuned in to that guy, Malcolm.

Malcolm inspected the tin foil with the air of an expert. "Looks good," he said then. "Good idea. Although I believe this should work for the entire room. I don't think we need to shield our lockers as well."

Toby looked disappointed. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Trip said, running a hand over the foil as if to examine it. If Malcolm can do this... "It'd be dangerous to have more shielding in here. The rays would jump back and forth between our lockers and not get sent back. We'd eliminate our own protection."

Toby nodded, obviously impressed. "Makes sense," he said, closed his locker and returned to his bed.

"So... why are you in the loony bin?" he asked in a surprisingly normal tone of voice.

"We're..." Trip trailed off. Because they want us out of sight and out of mind sounded dangerously like another theory about invisible rays. Eventually he settled for a more neutral way of putting it. "We've lost our memories."

Toby nodded. "Brainwashed," he said. "Happens all the time."

You might even have a point there, Trip thought but did not say.

"They say I'm schizophrenic," Toby continued conversationally, almost if he were amused by the idea. "Of course I'm not, but they're not going to let me go after I found out about their plans. Before you came, they had two spies stationed in here, to keep an eye on me. Pretended to know nothing about the rays. I never told them anything, of course, after I found out that they were here to observe me."

"How do you know we're not spies?" Malcolm asked, and Trip wasn't sure whether to be impressed or worried by the way Malcolm was picking up on the man's way of thinking.

Toby shrugged. "I don't. You might be. Although I don't think you would admit to knowing about the rays if you belonged to them. That "nurse" – " Trip heard the quotation marks drop into place around the word – "Owens, he's quite nice, actually. He pretends that there are no rays, of course, but he lets me keep my shielding as long I don't give him any trouble. Not all of them are bad people."

Trip regarded the small man in his ill-fitting institutional garb, and suddenly felt sorry for him. The idea of rays coming out of the walls might sound funny, but to Toby it was reality, and a frightening one, at that. Trip couldn't imagine what it must be like, living in fear every hour, every day of your life.

"I'm sure they're not," he answered quietly, sitting down on the bed to the left of the window. The springs creaked under him, and he shifted a little to get more comfortable. Malcolm took a seat on the other bed, picked up the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Trip frowned when he saw him suppress a shiver.

They should have admitted him to the Medical Ward, he thought, his anger returning as he remembered Rowland's indifferent shrug when he had told him that Malcolm was only just recovering from pneumonia.

"He seems fine to me," the doctor had said. "No reason why he shouldn't start the work program tomorrow."

The work program. They did mention it a lot, and Trip was beginning to suspect that it wasn't only about painting postcards, taking pottery classes or whatever activities they offered in places like this to keep the crazies occupied. Even Dr. Cooke had referred to it. Trip considered asking their new friend, but dismissed the idea when he saw the tired look on Malcolm's face. They would find out soon enough, anyway, and tonight, he – and Malcolm - could do without any more bad news.

He yawned, only half faking it. "I think I'm gonna go to bed," he announced. "I'm dead beat."

As he had hoped, Malcolm nodded. "Me too. If you don't mind..."

He looked at Toby, who shook his head. "Go ahead," he said. "I was going to turn in as well. Long day tomorrow," he added with a smile. It was surprising, Trip thought, how normal Toby seemed - if you ignored his ramblings about invisible rays and tin foil shielding, that was. Still, Trip had met people on the streets who were less civil and certainly not as intelligent as this man, who lived in a mental asylum and was locked into his room every night.

He pushed the thought aside and got up. "Okay if I use the bathroom first?" he asked the two others. Malcolm nodded, and Toby waved a hand for him to go ahead.

"Careful with the water," he said. "I wouldn't recommend drinking any of it."

"Why?" Trip asked, and regretted it a second after the word had left his mouth. Toby gave him a look of disbelief, as if he couldn't conceive of anyone being so naive.

"Drugs, of course. You're dealing with pros here, bud."

"Right," Trip said. In that case, I'll be sure to have myself a glass. I could do with a good night's sleep.

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He was back in the white room, only that this time he was not alone. Someone was there with him, someone who talked and talked and wouldn't leave him alone. He backed away to the far wall, pressing his palms against the cool tiles. The someone came closer, and an inexplicable panic rose in his mind.

...not going to hurt you...

...leave me alone! No!

...it's necessary for you to understand that...

He was no longer listening, ducked under the other person's arm and ran, passed a doorway and ran on. White hallways, more white rooms, people yelling. His fist, pounding on a door panel. Steps behind him. He pounded harder, desperate. No! I've gotta get away, find Malcolm-

The panel broke and a crack appeared between the wall and the door frame. He slid his fingers inside and pulled, widening the gap. Behind it, there was another hallway, gray instead of white, and it was where he needed to go. His hands slipped and for the first time he noticed bright red blood welling out where pieces of the broken panel had pierced his skin. Never mind, I need to get out of here...

He pulled harder, ignoring the pain, and was halfway through the gap when someone grabbed his arm.

...won't work... you'd do well to...

... No!

He screamed and kicked as he was dragged back down the hallway, blood from his hand dripping everywhere. The person of before was back, giving orders – hold him down, now – and he was pinned to the floor, hands gripping his arms and legs.

... not going to hurt you...

A gloved hand descended on him, holding something, and he squirmed away, terrified.

... No! Leave me alone!

... keep him still...

Coldness on his neck, a sudden sensation like a shock.

...don't let go...

The person was watching him, waiting. At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the cold began to spread from his neck, freezing him, encasing him in ice. He was immobilized, and could only watch as the person's face blurred and then faded away, leaving only darkness behind...

Trip found himself sitting upright in bed, his heart racing in his chest. One of his hands found its way to his neck, and he touched the place that still tingled with coldness.

A dream, he told himself, only a dream. The white room, the hallway, the person... only a nightmare.

Only that nightmares didn't feel that real, except... except if you were dreaming of things that had happened. Memories.

Rain was pounding on the window outside, and he could hear soft, even breathing coming from the other beds. The room was dark and quiet.

See? No hallways, no blood, no one's after you. It was a nightmare.

The images wouldn't fade, though, and Trip knew that he would not be able to go back to sleep... not right now, anyway. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up, the blanket wrapped around his bare shoulders; their issued wardrobe had not contained any pajamas, so Malcolm and he had gone to bed in their underwear. The floor was icy, reminding him of the cold thing that had touched his neck. A needle? No... it had been more like a smooth metal stick. Weird. Not that it mattered, of course; dreams never made any sense, and God knew what his mind had dragged out of his subconscious to create this particular nightmare.

He went over to the window, which, like the windows in the common room, had no curtains or window sill. Trip raised a hand and rested it on the glass. The surface was smooth and cold, and too hard to be real glass. He tested it out by rapping his knuckles against it. As he had expected, the sound was dull and soft, nothing like the tinkle real glass would produce. Breakproof. The modern version of a barred window.

He leaned his forehead against it and stared out into the wind and the rain. With no lights behind him to produce a mirror effect, he could see fairly well what was out there, although it didn't make a lot of sense to him. Their room was obviously on the backside of the main building, a few floors above ground level as far as he could tell. There was another small yard behind the house, and, on the other side of the yard, rows and rows of elongated, windowless buildings. There had to be at least two dozen of them.

It was raining harder now, and the water running down the window was beginning to hinder his sight. Trip closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the rain hitting the window.

Only a nightmare.

Or maybe he was finally starting to remember... although he was no longer sure he wanted to.

TBC...

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