The gates of St. Mary’s were old and imposing. For many years, they had been a symbol of care and treatment for those in society deemed too unstable to deal with reality. Austere yet welcoming, they never closed. Any man, woman or child could walk through those gates and take the long walk up to the hospital set on the hill, and be sure of help once they reached their destination.
It was calm, peaceful. Tranquil.
That silence shattered as military helicopters screamed through the air toward them, so low that the backwash from their blades whipped the vegetation on either side of the old iron gates into a frenzy. Spotlights snapped on, trained onto the hospital on the hill.
The trap was sprung. Clean-up had arrived.
Within seconds, the ground rumbled, the sound growing in strength until
