I had to move sideways to see out of the window. The hole was crammed with writhing bodies and I wanted to see how Red was doing.

I could have tried to call out. Perhaps it would cause one or two to pause. To rethink their options and come stand by my side as a spectator rather than participant. Probably not, though. The herd majority ruled and any extraneous voices were just part of their roar.

They'd been trapped, some of them, for a long time. Those in that situation had nervous energy stored away in places they usually wouldn't notice. Going about their normal days, the energy lay dormant. When something happened, the energy awoke. It stretched out and yawned. Like Sonic the Hedgehog, it built up momentum, spinning on the spot for a few seconds before exploding forth.

I kept my silence and my place. What was the point in doing otherwise?

If not for their uniforms, the orderlies would have been indistinguishable from the residents. Order had retired for the day and its sibling, disorder, had taken its place. Dis was having much more fun.

I'd estimate about half the residents had managed to exit the room before things changed. They'd poured outside, revelling in the feel of fresh air and non-artificial heat. And space! Many had no idea what to do next. They stood and simply looked around, a delirious expression brightening their faces. Some of the orderlies had peeling from the pursuit of the proper escapee to round them up. A few allowed themselves to be led back to an area just outside the hole, where they waited, enjoying the semi freedom not being inside gave them.

Others resisted, pulling away and saying something angrily I had no way of hearing. A second grab from a staff member, more forceful, reminded them resistance was futile. The group of retainees grew steadily.

Only one patient, Adams the ex-long distance lorry driver, resisted. A sharp kick to the back of his knee and an elbow the nape of his neck left him immobile on the ground, where he could be left until things had calmed down. In another life, he'd driven past the depot and continued for as long as his full tank of fuel took him. Eventually, he'd coasted to a halt in the middle lane of a motorway. The pile up behind him left five with no further heartbeats or breaths, one without a right arm and one who had to watch as his wife of thirty years died at a similar speed to the lorry's stopping. A further three had life threatening injuries they eventually fully recovered from and seven were hurt, but not seriously.

When the authorities arrived, Adams was checking his supposed route on his mobile phone, muttering to himself that it didn't make sense. A lack of any power in his phone's battery, coupled with the resultant dead screen, wouldn't help with that.

Some residents were running after Red. Some orderlies were, too. The staff were concentrating on the initiator of the breakout, hoping, I assumed, his capture would bring the rest to heel. Unfortunately, they couldn't catch him.

He hadn't slowed since smashing through the wall, but the staff were lagging behind, their minimal energy fast being depleted. He was already past the black stump and would soon be in the copse that stood solitarily in the distance.

A sudden hush fell on the Recreation Room. All movement ceased and those still trying to get through the hole drew back. I didn't need to look to the side to know. He had a presence that filled the room to the point no-one had space to expand their lungs. He didn't steal the air, he made it so none could fit. He did it without uttering a word.

Connors walked calmly across to the new exit. The Red Sea of residents parted and he stepped through to the outside. The wave of silence and immobility rippled through every person there, regardless of their location. Finally, and quickly, Red was the only person still moving. Even Connors was stationary.

"Richardson."

It was loud, but far from a shout. I wasn't sure if Red would have been able to hear it, but the sudden slow – not cessation – of his pace showed he must have. He was still going, however. It would take more than that to stop him, even from Connors.

It seemed Red's real surname was just a method to gain his attention, as the doctor didn't feel the need to use it again. Instead, he called:

"Stop."

Red stopped. His slowing a few seconds before hadn't stolen all the speed from him. He should still have had momentum. A stumble, however slight, should have moved him forward a few paces. It didn't.

When he was told to stop, he did exactly that.

"Turn."

Red turned, as if strings held him up and a hidden hand above had twisted them to spin him around. He was staring ahead, and seemed held in place by that same hand. I'd have expected him to be looking around, taking account of his options. He wasn't.

His pursuers were close to him, but didn't advance. Instead, they looked alternately at their employer and their prey.

"Kneel."

Red dropped to his knees, taking no care of the potential pain of impact.

Connors walked forward, taking his time to reach his patient. He could have been taking a leisurely stroll around his hospital's grounds. He would do that on occasion, when the sun was shining and the birds were singing. I'd assume they were singing. We wouldn't hear it inside, of course. The fact birds could be seen outside made me think they'd possibly sing. Or perhaps they were taunting us.

"We see you in there, trapped! Look at us! See us fly! See us free!"

I wouldn't blame them. To an outsider, we could easily be rats in a laboratory. To Connors, it wasn't far from reality.

When Connors neared Red, he stopped and crossed his arms. I had moved by then, as had everyone else. We crowded the window and the hole, our collective breaths held.

Connors had his back to us, so we couldn't see if he was saying or doing anything. It didn't look like he was. Red wasn't looking up, that was obvious.

Connors held out his hand above Red's head. There was no real way, taking into account the distance and the glass between us, that I could hear the snap of his fingers, but I felt sure I had.

Before the doctor's fingers had completed their click, Red was slumping to the side. He lay still. I think his eyes were closed.

Connors turned and walked back. His staff fell in behind him and I couldn't help be reminded of old footage from war documentaries. I think he deliberately waited until he was back in the Recreation Room before speaking again.

Without directing his instruction to any one particular person, he said:

"Bury him where he landed."

There was no sound in the room already when he walked in. At that, even the air seemed to not want to be in the vicinity of the doctor. It felt as if my heart had paused in shock. The Baptist's moans had petered out to a pained yet stifled whimper.

Bury him...?

Red had been running. He'd stopped when told, knelt on command, but there'd been only... only the snap of Connors' fingers.

You know what you can and cannot do, and I expect you to do or not do exactly that.

What sort of control did the doctor have over Red? Over any of us? Had he really just killed the man with a snap of his fingers? How? I knew hypnosis could be a strong persuader, and Connors was persuasive, however could it be used to take a life?

Red's death was explained away by a cardiac arrest. His heart had stopped during the terrible events surrounding his attempted escape. Stress or excitement or simply his volatile nature was to blame. It was a shame. He'd shown so much promise.

Yes, I was sure he had shown promise. The promise of control. With that sort of power over residents, Connors would again never have issues from us. We'd become robots, waiting to do his bidding. Would he stop there? I doubted it. His reputation and station gave him immense opportunities to meet influential people. Could he, eventually, take over the world?

Maybe our master didn't want to dominate the world. Being able to hold us to the sway of his voice was enough. It would help with our rehabilitation, helping to facilitate the cures needed to enable us to re-enter the world, complete once more.

Yeah...

No.

Outside, seen through the window, was the black stump. The charred remnant of a once proud oak marked the edge of our world. Whenever we were allowed out, mainly to pick up the odd dead animal or clear litter that had blown across from the awfully polluted world (Connors said), rather than exercise, the black stump was the limit of where we could go. The punishment of transgressing this rule would apparently be severe, but its details hadn't been shared with us. They didn't need to be. The threat, coming from the doctor himself, was enough.

There was now another feature out there. Another marker. Red had broken the rule when he broke the wall and started to run. He'd passed the black stump.

I didn't believe the punishment he received was the same one we'd been warned about. It was far too extreme. Still, the mound of earth, left raised and bare, where his body had so unceremoniously been buried, only made the black stump seem more imposing.

You cross this line, you die.

You cross any line, you die.

Had Connors crossed the line?

This is the final chapter of Red, inspired by the fabulous sseasaltss! I hope you enjoyed it. Has Connors crossed the line? What should be done about him, if anything can be?

If you'd like to give Sin someone to meet in the asylum, throw me an opening starter sentence and we'll see where it goes!