Zee started to say something—it sounded like it was going to be a witty comeback—but fortunately for him he was interrupted by the sound of a siren. It was deafening, cutting through my head and reverberating up the steep walls of the prison until the echoes died out near enough twenty seconds later. By that time the boys had backed away, joining the rest of the inmates who were flooding toward the center of the giant courtyard. I noticed a yellow ring painted onto the floor and wondered whether we should be heading toward it too.
But it was too late to move. The siren rang out again, and a metal door the size of a bus to the left of the elevator began to hiss and rumble, mechanisms inside grinding and turning as they released a series of locks. With a blast of steam the vault door swung open lazily on its enormous hinges, revealing a sight that I knew there and then I would take with me to my grave.
THE GUARDS CAME OUT FIRST, three of them all in black suits and all holding shotguns in their massive fists. They strolled from the steam-filled corridor beyond like they were going for a walk in the park, their silver eyes full of cold humor. They made me nervous, no doubt about it, but that wasn’t what filled me with terror.
Behind them came two more figures that looked horribly familiar—their stunted bodies covered by leather overcoats, their shriveled, pasty faces concealed by ancient gas masks that wheezed noisily. They were almost lost in the shadows of their guards as they twitched and shook their way out, but their black eyes—which looked as lifeless as the lumps of coal in a snowman’s face—never left us. I recalled the first time I’d met one of these monstrosities, the way it had picked Toby to die without the slightest trace of emotion. I felt anger well up inside me, but I was powerless to do anything about it.
Besides, it wasn’t even these freaks who made the scene ahead so horrific. It was the man who walked out after them. At first glance he seemed like an ordinary guy in his forties—pretty tall, very lean, dark hair, and a clean gray suit. But the more I studied him the more I realized there was something very wrong with the way he looked. His face was too angular, the skin pulled tight against the bone beneath like he was a skeleton dressed in someone else’s flesh—flesh that looked more like leather when it caught the light.
The weird thing was that I tried looking him in the eye but I simply couldn’t do it. My gaze just bounced off, like there was some kind of force field around his face. I know that sounds stupid, but I can’t think of any other way to describe it; whenever I looked him right in the eye, I found myself staring at something else instead—his chin, his suit, the wall. I mean, what the hell was that all about?
The cherries on the sick cake that lay before me—the sight that really struck fear into my heart—were the two creatures who trotted out after their master. If the devil had dogs, it would be these. They were huge, bigger than Irish wolfhounds, their heads easily level with my shoulders. The creatures glistened in the red light of the prison, and it took me a while to work out why. When I realized, I almost threw up my guts again.
They didn’t have any skin. Their slick bodies were made up of muscles and tendons that bulged in plain view, throbbing gently with the beating of their hearts. As they moved you could see their insides working, the muscles stretching then contracting, finally tensing when the group came to a halt. Their faces too were entirely devoid of fur, two silver eyes embedded into their flesh and glaring at our group like we were dinner.
I took an involuntary step back but stopped dead when the dogs started growling.
“It doesn’t take long to learn obedience in this place,” came a voice so gravelly and deep that for a second I thought it was being broadcast directly into my skull. But the man with the dogs was moving his mouth, so I assumed the words came from him.
“And obedience is the difference between life, death, and the other varieties of existence on offer here in Furnace.” The man stepped forward, his dogs trotting by his heels. “Obey my rules and you’ll do just fine. Disobey them and you’ll soon learn that here your nightmares exist on the same plane as you, they stalk the same corridors and haunt your cells. It’s only me that stands between you and insanity.
“Anyway, where are my manners? My name is Warden Cross, and I run this institution. I know who you are, and I know your crimes. But here everybody is guilty, so we do not judge you by the paths you took, only by the way you choose to live in this prison.”
He stopped a short distance before us and I could swear the temperature dropped several degrees. I don’t know why but I started to think of him as a black hole, like he sucked all the life and warmth and goodness from whatever was nearby. The closer he got the more it felt as though something was being wrenched out of my body. I squirmed in discomfort, beads of sweat forming on my forehead.
“You’ve already broken the first and most important rule of Furnace,” the warden went on. “But since you didn’t know it, I guess we’ll excuse you this once. When the siren sounds, you must be either in your cell or in the yellow circle in the yard. Anyone breaks that rule then I can’t guarantee their safety.” He gestured at the guns on the wall. “It’s a precautionary measure, you understand.” I didn’t, but I kept mum.
“If you hear one long blast on the siren, then you must get to your cells. That means lockdown, and that’s when things really turn nasty if you’re left outside.” This time he nodded at his dogs, which began to drool messily on the stone floor.
“There are, of course, other codes of conduct, and you will all have plenty of time to become acquainted with them. But let’s get you settled in. I mean, we’re not monsters.” His face erupted into a crooked smile. “Well, not all of us.”
One of the men in black handed the warden a sheet of paper, and he studied it for a moment.
“Zee Hatcher,” he read. “Prisoner number 2013832. Your cell is D24, fourth level. Cellmate Carlton Jones.” There was a shuffling from the crowd of inmates, and a small, redheaded boy stepped to the edge of the yellow circle. He nodded nervously in the direction of the warden, then motioned for Zee to approach him. I watched him go, feeling like I’d been robbed of my best friend even though we’d only just met.
“Montgomery Earl,” the warden continued, looking at the doughy kid. “Prisoner number 2013833. Cell number E15, fifth level. Cellmate Kevin Arnold.”
“Hell no,” came a voice from the crowd. It was the ugly kid dressed like a pirate. I felt my heart sink for poor Montgomery. I knew exactly what life would be like for him paired with that thug. The warden glared at Kevin and the boy stopped his protests, muttering something to the other Skulls who stood nearby.
“Better get moving,” the warden said. Montgomery trotted off toward the yellow circle but I couldn’t watch to see what happened.
“Alex Sawyer. Prisoner number 2013834. Cell number F11, sixth level. Cellmate Carl Donovan.”
I looked over at the crowd but nobody came forward.
“I said Carl Donovan,” the warden hissed, his leathery face creasing in displeasure. Gradually a tall, well-built kid a little older than me stepped forward, pushing past the people in front of him and staring at me like I was something his cat had coughed up. I ran a hand through my hair, then walked slowly across the uneven stone. The warden was dishing out a cell to Jimmy, but I wasn’t really listening.
“Hey,” I said meekly when I reached the boy who I’d be living with for God only knew how long. He looked down his nose at me and just snorted, then turned and started walking back through the crowd. Behind me I heard the warden shout out across the courtyard.
“Beneath heaven is hell, boys, and beneath hell is Furnace. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
SETTLING IN
THE KID CALLED CARL led me across to the back of the courtyard, never once turning to see if I was following. He bounded up a set of stairs and I ran to keep up with him—tripping on more than one step in my desperation not to be left behind. At one point I heard the siren again and completely missed my footing, scraping my shin on the sharp metal a
nd crying out in pain. I looked back out over the yard to see the massive vault door swing open and the macabre group vanish into the wall—all except for the men in black suits who stalked the floor with their shotguns.
Carl leaped up five more flights of stairs without so much as panting. By the time I’d caught up with him I was breathing like a broken vacuum cleaner and sweating like a sumo wrestler in a sauna. He was standing outside our cell looking impatient, and I apologized as I walked past him through the door.
I don’t really know what I’d been expecting. I knew it wouldn’t be the Hilton, or even a Travelodge, but when I’d thought about my cell I’d pictured something the same size as my old room, with a bed and a wardrobe and maybe even a plant or something. As it was, I had to stop short as soon as I entered the tiny room or else I’d have banged my nose on the far wall.
The cell was little bigger than our garden shed, and most of that was taken up by a set of metal bunk beds that looked better suited to eight-year-olds having a sleepover. Aside from a toilet wedged into one corner, the only other thing in there was a bad smell.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered under my breath. I felt another wave of panic wash over me as I pictured the rest of my life crammed into this tiny space, and I bit my lip hard to get it under control.
“It ain’t much, but it’s home,” said Carl, pushing me out of the way and leaping onto the top bunk. “And this one’s mine.”
I sat down on the lower bed and stared out of the bars, which made up one whole wall of the cell. All I could see, on the other side of the giant pit, were more cells and more prisoners, their gray faces a reflection of my own. I thought about just running out of the cell and jumping over the balcony ahead. Six floors up and hard rock below—three or four seconds and it would all be over. But there was no way, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not yet, anyway.
“Six floors isn’t enough,” came a voice above me, deep but surprisingly tuneful. I raised an eyebrow, wondering if he’d been reading my mind. “S’okay. It’s the first thing any of us think about. And I’ve seen people do it, too. Jump from pretty much every level. Well, the ones that are open, anyway. First couple of floors, you get sprained ankles and a few bruises. Levels three through six you get broken up pretty bad but you don’t die. Not unless you hit headfirst, which isn’t easy. You really wanna bite the dust, then you got to go up, level seven or eight. That ought to do it.”
I heard the bed creak and shake as he changed position.
“Funny thing is,” he went on, “you go any higher, then you don’t die either. I saw one kid go from the tenth floor, but he just bounced and screamed. Died a bit later, yeah, but I don’t wanna know what he went through first.”
I shuddered at the thought and promised myself I’d never jump, no matter how bad things got. The bed creaked again and a head appeared from over the top bunk. I was surprised to see it smiling.
“Name’s Donovan,” he said. “Always thought it sounded better than Carl. You’re Sawyer, right?”
“Alex,” I replied, not quite ready to abandon my first name.
“Alex, right.” He sprang from the bunk and landed gracefully on the cell floor before sitting next to me and looking me up and down. “You seem like a good kid, anyway. You have to be careful around here, you get some real nasty freaks. Killers, you know?” He laughed. “Well, we’re all killers, but there are two kinds—the ones who did it for fun and the ones who did it ’cause they had no choice.”
“And the ones who didn’t do it,” I added with a sad smile.
“Yeah, we been getting a few of them around here lately.”
I poked my flat pillow mournfully and lifted the sheet. It was so thin I could see right through it, like greaseproof paper. Not that I thought I’d get cold. The air in here was hot and heavy, like we were sitting in an oven.
“Have you been here long?” I asked. He gave a kind of spluttered laugh that had absolutely no humor in it.
“Five years, Alex. I’m first generation. I’d already been in prison for a couple of months, miles away from here. Jeez that place was nice—spacious cells, leisure facilities, rec room. It was like a country club compared to this. They transferred everyone under eighteen to Furnace as soon as it opened so that all you other kids could see what happened when you did bad things.”
“But you were framed, right? By the men in black?”
“Me, no.” He paused for a minute, looking out through the bars but obviously miles away. “The blacksuits have framed a lot of the people in here, but I’m as guilty as they come. I killed my mom’s boyfriend ’cause he was beating her up every night. Just couldn’t take it anymore. I snapped, hit him with a candlestick. Was a lucky hit, I guess, for an eleven-year-old. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it.”
“And they put you away?” I asked incredulously.
“New laws had just come in, the ones clamping down on youth crime. That was the year of all the murders, the Summer of Slaughter as everyone calls it. Even though I had nothing to do with the gangs, the government was using all cases of juvie murder as warnings, so they gave me life. The irony is my mom . . . Well, she couldn’t handle it. She . . .”
He stopped and looked away, and I swear I could feel his rage like some kind of force emanating from him.
“How do you tell the time in here anyway?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “No sun, no clocks.”
“You can’t,” he replied, obviously glad for the new topic of conversation. “You just go by the sirens and by lockdown at the end of the day. Rhythms here are completely different, but you get used to them.” He got up and walked to the cell door. “On that note, let me show you around. I could do with some grub and it’s trough time soon.”
I pushed myself up off the bed but not before noticing a series of gashes that ran along the wall—five lines etched into the rock from the bed to the door. He saw me looking at them and frowned.
“You’ll get to know all about that soon enough,” he whispered.
“What are they? They look like they were made by fingernails.” I was joking, but from the way his expression hardened I realized it was true.
“This place isn’t right,” he went on, leaning in toward me so close I could feel his spit on my face. “You’re never safe here because one day it will be your turn to be taken—maybe a week, maybe years, maybe tonight. Some go quietly, some don’t. Adam didn’t, he went screaming and clawing at the wall and fighting for his life.”
He ran his finger along one of the grooves, then he turned his attention back to me.
“In the dead of night they come for you, Alex,” he said. “Sooner or later they come for everyone.”
THE GOOSE BUMPS stayed on my arms all the way down the stairs as I fired question after question at Donovan’s back, but now that we were out of the cell his air of hard indifference had returned and he ignored me. He only started talking again as we were walking across the courtyard, but the smile was nowhere to be seen.
“Sorry about the Jekyll and Hyde act, kid,” he said through a mouth of stone, his eyes glaring hard at everyone we passed. “In this place you gotta act tough all the time or else they pick you off.” When I asked who “they” were, he nodded at the group of boys in the corner wearing the black bandannas. Kevin was there, but Montgomery, the fat kid, was nowhere to be seen.
“The pirates?” I asked. Donovan made a noise from his nose that I thought might have been a laugh.
“Yeah, the pirates. Otherwise known as the Skulls. They were one of the groups responsible for the Slaughter. They’re not the only gang here but they’re easily the worst. They all carry shanks.” He noticed my confusion. “Homemade knives. They make them out of anything and everything they can find. Rock, cutlery, even bone. Not afraid to use them either.”
We had crossed the courtyard and arrived at a large crack in the rock that led into a tunnel. Like everything else it blended into the red walls perfectly, which was why I hadn�
�t spotted it before. There were two more wall-mounted machine guns here, one pointing right at us and one directed through the opening. Ignoring them, Donovan strode forward.
“Give the gangs a wide berth if you want to stay in one piece,” he went on as we made our way through the tunnel. “Around here the guards don’t give a crap if we kill each other, and those kids don’t have anything to lose. It’s not like their sentence can get any longer if they kill anyone else, if you follow me.”
I did, although I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing.
“So is that who comes at night? The gangs?”
This time Donovan laughed out loud, the sound echoing off the walls and making me jump. He simply shook his head and walked on, leading me out into another chamber of bare rock. This one was full of tables and benches, most of which were currently empty. At the far end of the room was a deserted canteen, not unlike the one at school. The ceiling here was much lower, bearing down on me as we walked toward the nearest table. The fleshy walls made me feel like I was in the stomach of some giant monster—a place to get digested, not to eat.
“Welcome to the trough room,” he said. “This is where you get your three tasty, nutritious meals of the day. Steak, salmon, venison, champagne truffles. The works!”
“Seriously?” I asked, a flicker of hope igniting inside me like a drug.
“Sure, I guess. Trouble is you can never be too sure what you’re getting because it’s blended up with about a ton of sawdust and served as a paste. I like to think that what we’re eating used to be real food.”
The flicker died, along with my appetite. We took seats opposite one another as the prisoners slowly made their way into the canteen, where the food was served. A few minutes later two short bursts of the siren sounded and the crowd inside the canteen started to swell.
“How did you know what time it was?” I asked as a door behind the canteen opened and a sweaty inmate emerged struggling to hold a vast container.
Lockdown Page 5
