Transition with me if you will, just for a little while, into the mind of Logan. See what he sees. Feel how he's feeling. You're in a hospital, doctors are everywhere as are nurses, any one of these apparitions near by could reach out and grab you. They are real. They are in this story just as much as you are. So lets feed our imagination and step off into the deep end with him.

Welcome to Gatlinburg Pittman Hospital.

Stranded upon the island of psychosis time has no meaning but these halls twinkle with lights of Christmas spirit. A tall white tree stands in the center of the lobby and it's decorated with purple ornaments covered in glitter and topped with a bright purple shiny star. The silver garland scarfs the nurses station. Blue snow flakes dangle from the ceiling. Elevators embroidered with large jingle bell stickers slide open. Three doctors step out and join a crowd headed for the ER.

Through clean yellow tarps arrives a gurney, on it's blood stained sheets creens a defeated James. Logan is the first one on to approach the girls, "Dr. Stone, prognosis?"

"Car crash. Hypotensive. Laserations on the right shoulder and the left leg is shattered." She spat out as they pulled him into the ER.

Logan nods, "Take him to trauma one."

Lab coats and stethoscopes, charts and prescriptions, beeps and flatlines. This is what we hear. This is what we see. This is what we feel pressing against our skin and pulling at our hair as we manuver through this hallucination. Now snap out of it. Because that's the easy way out. To slip in. To let go. To forget who you are and where you stand.

Masslow looks up at the swaying lamps in a beat up wear house where his friends are and his whole body trembles as he knows they chose an illusion over actually getting him help. His eyes find Logan's and his heart sinks. That's not Logan anymore. That's a beast that wants to cut people open and reap harvest. The pain in his body is nothing compared to the devastation coursing his blood as he looks out and sees the heavy meat dangling from hooks behind the tarps. How can none of them see this? Are they all gone?

Then her hand finds his. Dr. Lucy Stone looks down at her patient as they turn down into another corridor and he's pulled into a room. He's slipping. The world is spinning. Needles in his skin. He screams as they send shockwaves through his skin. Loving them is his greatest sin for now he sees nothing but bodies and spirits who inhabit them. What's he to do? He cries out but it's in descend for this time the black pulse takes him into the stream of unconsciousness.

What is Jo Taylor thinking when she brushes her hair out in a dirty mirror in the upstairs bathroom? She's thinking about the boy they just pulled in off the streets. The young man, if you will. James Diamond, a boy she feels she knows but perhaps it's just the adrenaline of getting him to Gatlinburg Pittman on time. He's alive for now. Only she hopes she did everything she could. His blood stains her clothes. His fingernails left marks in her arms. She's freezing cold but something else weighs heavy on her mind and as she sees the bright lights of an expensive founded hospital you and I see the powered down remains of a part of a dance warehouse left out of use since the pandemic began.

A pale boy comes walking into the locker room she's in and begins putting his things in his locker, "Dr. Taylor. I'm Jack, I'm the intern on your service today."

She nods at him in the mirror and picks up her clip board off the counter-top to hand it too him waiting patiently as he lifts his shirt up over his head to reveal his lanky toned chest that almost seems to glisten in it's alabaster facade. On his right peck is a blue and purple shimmer tattoo of a snowflake, one of the six points are broken and she's sure it's on purpose.

He pulls his bright green scrubs over his exposed skin and takes the clipboard from her, "Ah. The car crash victim. He made that's good." a small smile spreads across his lips and he darts his baby blue eyes up at her.

A feeling of deepening woe takes course in her soul as she looks at him. Only for her to sigh and walk away.

Carlos. Alone in a room he once held sacred, finds the wilting reality of what surrounds him. These bodies, how did they get here this quickly? Are these children? All of them? Why does he see them when Kendall and Katelyn see nothing but the ER? How is it that he too sees the ER but he's tormented by what swims behind the illusion? Questions questions, all these questions. All he's sure of is what he hears so very far away.

Carlos hears the music.

He steps to the rhythm he's so sure of and the illusion shutters. Another step and it starts to fade. He pulls himself into the song and his body starts this very significant conversation with the melody. He goes as he does when the studio is his and he swears the world is his. If he keeps dancing he'll escape. Perhaps it's all a horrible nightmare any way and he's still trapped in quarantine.

If that were true the cheif of surgery wouldn't be looking at him right now as he clutches a dying patient. A four year old he just walked in with from the snow storm outside. He thinks but this, "where is my mind?" but the moment he evaluates the knowledge she's taking the little boy from his arms and there's nothing he can do to stop her from poaching his cases. She can do whatever she wants, she runs the hospital.

That's when he cries out in pain and buckles down into himself where the blood from his leg puddles. A nurse steps out with a bloody scapel and smirks, "Dr. Pena Vega, you're going to need someone to take care of that nasty laceration." A singing sound is only outweighed by the sound of Carlos screaming again as the boiling acidic substance a second nurse just dumped on his shoulder begins to eat his flesh, "And those are some nasty third degrees but we can assure you doctor that we have one of the best burn units in the state."

They strap him to a gurney and he's led down the dark ally where shadows dance and music has fowl lyrics that drain the spirit.