It was the most I’d ever heard him say, and after his outburst the other morning I was shocked to see this side of him. All three of us stood in silence, letting him speak.
“Susan always got to do the chopping because she was older than me. But I stirred the pots. That was the important job, stirring. Too little and it burned, too much and it didn’t cook properly.”
Abruptly he let his mop fall to the ground and leaned over the crates. Rummaging through one he selected a few bruised peppers and held them out. Nobody moved, staring at the faded vegetables in his hands like they were a monster turd. We stood like that, a bizarre tableau, until Monty raised his head and studied us.
“I was never much good at anything, outside,” he said. “But I could always cook.” He shook the hand holding the peppers and I stepped forward to take them from him. He rooted through another couple of crates, selecting things that hadn’t deteriorated too badly in the heat, and we took them, placing them on the counter. Finally, he poked tentatively through a crate of meat until he found what looked like a brown steak. Walking to the counter, he studied his ingredients. Then, before our astonished eyes, he began to cook.
There were no knives or cutlery of any kind in the kitchen, so he hacked at the meat with the edge of a tray until it lay in rough cubes on the surface. He gave me and Zee instructions to heat up another pot, which we did with enthusiastic giggles while Donovan crushed some overripe tomatoes in a bowl.
It was amazing watching Monty work. Where practically every action had been clumsy and graceless until now, his plump fingers moved like lightning over the food, blending, mixing, seasoning, and shaking with expert skill until he’d turned the disparate ingredients into something actually resembling food. With a little flourish, performed with nervous embarrassment, he tipped the bowl into the second pan and slapped his hands together. Almost immediately the smell of simmering vegetables and meat rose from the cauldron, so good I started dribbling.
“Susan used to say that being a good chef isn’t about cooking a good meal,” he said, using a spoon to carefully stir his creation. “It’s about cooking for good people.”
“Monty,” I started, but he cut me off with a look that almost resembled the hate-filled expression I’d seen so many times before. It didn’t last, and he returned his attention to the pot.
“Just eat,” he said.
We let Monty serve up the dish without saying a word, but as soon as we wrapped our lips around his masterpiece we just couldn’t shut up. Donovan especially. It had been so long since he had last tasted anything but prison food that he shouted out gleeful comments between every spoonful, even telling Monty how much he loved him.
Eventually he couldn’t help himself and started crying, his shoulders rocking uncontrollably as he devoured each great mouthful. I almost joined him, the taste of salted beef and tomato sauce and gently cooked peppers making me feel like I was back at home. We were all transported out of Furnace for those few minutes. I’ll never forget that. Until the last morsel of meat spilled down our throats and the final splash of sauce was licked from our plastic bowls we were free.
Afterward we cleared up our mess with howls of laughter, delirious with excitement. We even had a food fight with cores and peels, ducking behind counters and deflecting incoming missiles with pot lids, filling up the rubber gloves with water and lobbing them across the kitchen. Monty didn’t join in, he didn’t laugh. But he watched us with a glint in his eye and a twitch of a smile and I felt like I could see right through that expression to happier times—a large kitchen and two kids cooking garden-gnome spaghetti with the same love and laughter that we were clinging to so furiously now.
I wanted that moment to last forever, we all did. But of course it had to end. And there was never another day like it. How could there be? That night they came. They crawled from the darkness and came for Monty.
THE BLOOD WATCH
THEY CAME WITHOUT WARNING. They came without mercy.
One minute I was asleep, embraced by blissful dreams of Sunday afternoon picnics, the next I was shunted back into Furnace by a siren that wouldn’t end—a continuous blast that wove itself around its own echo until the prison quaked and my ears stung. At first I thought it was the wake-up call, but it was still pitch-black and I knew from my internal clock that it was the dead of night.
As soon as I made that calculation I knew it was finally happening. They were coming. I shot up in bed, my heart beating so hard I was convinced it was trying to pound its way free from my chest. A wave of murmured wails and panicked cries circled the prison, ending with Donovan, who seemed to choke back a sob.
“Please, God, not tonight,” I heard him whisper above the klaxon. “And not me. Not me. Please, God.”
The darkness pressed against me like a coffin lining, and my light-starved eyes played tricks. Strange figures pulled themselves from the black cloth, always in the corner of my vision, stretching out for me with decaying fingers and hollow eyes. I expected to feel bony hands grab my arm any second, a cold embrace dragging me into the pit. I struck the air helplessly, and each time the phantoms dissolved only to form again, their pursuit relentless.
The wail of the siren cut out, and at the same time a thousand red lights embedded in the prison walls burst into life. I was plunged into a thick, choking silence, like someone had thrown me into a pool of blood. I saw the world in shades of red and black, and quickly found myself praying for night again. At least you can hide in the dark.
From the yard below came a hiss, then a bone-shattering boom as the vault door was unlocked. It swung open to reveal a procession of hunched forms who marched slowly from the gloom like they were heading a funeral procession. From my cell I couldn’t make out who they were, the red light turning them into vague phantoms who drifted out into the yard. From the sound of wheezing, however, I could guess. I craned my neck to get a better view, but as soon as I moved I heard Donovan cry out.
“Just keep your head down, you idiot,” he hissed. “Don’t draw attention to the cell.”
You could have heard a pin drop. Every single prisoner in Furnace had clamped his mouth shut, not even daring to take a breath for fear of alerting the twisted figures below. My own breaths sounded like hurricanes, my heartbeat like a drum punching out a rhythm that could probably be heard on the surface. Some perverse element of my brain started silently singing along to the twin beat—take me, take me, take me—and I had to bite my lip hard in order to make it shut up.
The five figures below stopped in the middle of the yard, wreathed in shadow. Then, as one, they screamed. The sound made my blood curdle. It was like a death cry from some wounded animal, like the noise a rabbit makes when it’s snared in a trap. But it was an angry noise too—the howl of somebody who has just seen a loved one die. The shriek grated up the prison walls, turning each of us to stone. Then the figures lifted their heads and I saw who they were.
It was the gas masks, the wheezers, piggy-eyed and pasty-fleshed.
The wet screech came again, this time from only one of the grotesque figures, and the group separated. Two turned and made for the staircases on the far side of the prison, taking long, distorted steps, while the other three came our way, eventually disappearing under the platform outside my cell. Seeing the freaks below was one thing, but not seeing them was far worse. It meant they were coming up the stairs.
“What are they doing?” I whispered. When there was no reply I started to repeat myself, only to be cut off by a hiss from above.
“If you don’t shut up I swear to God I’m gonna come down and kill you myself,” Donovan said, his harsh words barely audible. “This isn’t a joke. If they mark this cell, then you’re going somewhere that makes death look like a holiday.”
I opened my mouth to ask again but from the yard outside came a buzz, then with a sharp crack and a shower of sparks from the top of the prison the lights went out. Fear gripped me, the knowledge that those things could be right outside the cell. Bu
t seconds later the prison was plunged into a pool of bloodred color again as the electricity came back on.
“What the hell is happening?” I asked, but this time I had spoken too softly for even Donovan to hear. I chewed my lip furiously, desperate to know where the gas masks were. Finally, I could bear it no longer. As quietly as possible, I lifted the covers from my bed and climbed out. The squeak that the bunks made seemed as loud as the siren, and as soon as he heard it Donovan shot up in bed, his eyes like daggers.
“Back!” he spat, fear severing his sentences. “Get us both taken.” He glanced at the bars, his face a mask of panic. “Not too late, back!”
From somewhere below another unnatural shriek cut through the red night, this one followed by a mournful wail that was painfully human. The wail turned into a word, one spoken again and again and again like a mantra. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.”
The lights cut out again, the sparks that fell from above like a miserable fireworks show that did nothing to illuminate the prison. I took comfort in the darkness, getting onto my knees and crawling to the door. Donovan had given up trying to stop me. I heard a creak as he turned his back on the bars, and the rustle of his sheet as he pulled it over his head.
“Dead man,” came one last muffled comment from inside.
With an electronic hum the lights rebooted. It took my eyes a second to adjust before I saw movement on one of the levels on the other side of the prison. I counted upward, noting that one of the hideous wheezers was on level five. I watched it make its way slowly past the cells, no sign of life from any of them as their occupants shivered beneath their blankets.
The figure stalked like a bird, taking huge, sweeping steps forward, its legs lost in the tails of its leather coat. The body seemed to twitch and shake as it progressed, the head jerking upward every five or six steps, the gloved hands clawing at its own face as if trying to remove the ancient gas mask that hung there. There was something wrong with the way it moved its limbs, but the heavy crimson light stopped me working out what it was.
I was so busy studying the monster that I didn’t notice which cell it had stopped at until I saw movement from inside. There was a flurry of motion, then a plump figure flew forward and crashed against the bars. Monty collapsed in front of the gas mask, curling up in the corner of the cell and burrowing his head in his arms. Behind him I could make out Kevin clambering back into the top bunk, diving under his sheets.
The gas mask arched its back and screamed, causing Monty to curl even more tightly into himself, then it placed a hand into its trench coat. When it pulled it free again, it was smothered in what looked like tar, great gobs of it dripping to the metal platform. The freak wiped its filthy hand across the cell door twice, marking out an X on the bars, then it screamed again and froze, its dry wheeze the only sign it was still alive.
The prison went black for a third time and I squinted into the darkness in vain. From somewhere above me came another scream, another terrified protest. Then a fizz of static as the red lights struggled on again. My view of Monty’s cell was blocked, and it took me an instant to work out why. When I did, my heart actually skipped a beat as the horror sank in.
Right in front of me, in all its sick glory, was a gas mask. I only looked at it for an instant before staggering backward, but the image was seared onto my brain for a lifetime. The monster was standing directly outside the cell, staring at me with eyes so deeply embedded in its shriveled face that they looked like black marbles. The contraption that covered its mouth and nose was colored with rust and verdigris, and this close I could see that the ancient metal was stitched permanently into the skin.
It inhaled noisily, then raised its arms, the movement parting the filthy, bloodstained trench coat and revealing a leather bandolier slung diagonally across its chest. The strap held six or seven huge syringes that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned since the Second World War. I realized what it was about its limbs that was so unsettling. They were moving too fast, shaking by its sides as if they were being played in fast forward. Its head suddenly twitched with the same terrifying speed, shaking uncontrollably for a second before snapping back into place.
I hit the bunks and slid to the ground, feeling as if somebody had stripped the bones from my legs. As I met the stone the lights flicked out, the sparks silhouetting the monster outside the cell as it reached into its pocket. I heard somebody else crying out “no, no, no” at the top of his voice, but it was another few seconds before I accepted it was me.
The lights snapped back on, but they didn’t hold. For a few seconds they strobed on and off—red, black, red, black—while the wheezer stood outside the cell. The flashing lights made my head feel like it was going to explode, and I was forced to screw my eyes shut, burying my face into the crook of my arm as if that would protect me.
Then, with a hum, the power reasserted itself. I looked up, expecting to see the nightmare still standing outside my cell. But it was gone. I scrabbled to my feet and flung myself at the bars to see the gas mask continuing down the platform, eventually reaching the stairwell and heading up.
I hadn’t taken a breath for what seemed like hours, and sucked in lungfuls of air.
“Is there a mark?” came Donovan’s voice. “A cross, on the door?”
I ran my hands up the bars, but they were clean.
“Nothing,” I whispered. Donovan sighed loudly, muttering thanks to something or someone.
“Get your ass back in bed, Sawyer,” he went on. “You were lucky, but don’t push it. It ain’t over yet.”
I stared down at Monty’s cell. The gas mask hadn’t budged since it had marked the door.
“What are they doing?” I asked again.
“They’re not moving.”
There was another scream from above, and this time all of the gas masks echoed it. Seconds later the siren blasted out again and I saw more shapes emerge from the vault door below. There were seven blacksuits in total, two of whom held a mutant dog on a leash, struggling to control the animal as it thrashed against its restraints.
Darkness again, and howling. The sound of footsteps against stone, then metal. A fresh round of screams from the gas masks and the same endless cry of “no” from the cell below me.
When the lights came back on I saw that the guards had split up, and were making their way to the marked cells. I crouched down as low as I could get and followed the blacksuit heading toward Monty. When he reached the door he called out for it to be opened. He was almost twice as tall as the shriveled figure beside him, but he eyed the wheezer warily as he waited for the door to slide open, never getting too close.
Monty was still curled up tight inside the cell, but I had never seen anybody look more exposed. The blacksuit reached in and grabbed the boy by his elbow, dragging him onto the platform as if he weighed no more than a sack of feathers. As soon as he was out under the red light Monty uncurled himself, flailing against the guard’s iron grip. But the giant simply grabbed him by both wrists in a single mammoth hand and hoisted him into the air.
The gas mask screamed as if in delight. Then it snatched one of the syringes from its belt and thrust it at Monty like a knife. Right then I was grateful that the lights failed. But against the black canvas of darkness my imagination projected its own horrific conclusion to the story—the needle plunging into Monty’s arm or neck, filling him full of rot and decay, of dirty chemicals, contaminated blood.
The prison was illuminated once more—just long enough for me to see the blacksuit dragging Monty’s limp body toward the stairs, the gas mask right behind watching its prey like a hyena eyeing a corpse, the cell door sliding shut. On the yard below, the other blacksuits were slowly progressing toward the vault door—a sick procession of giants, freaks, and lost boys being dragged to a fate I couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Then the prison went dark again, although from the pounding in my chest, the ringing in my ears, and the rush of air as I collapsed to the floor I knew that this
time it had nothing to do with the lights.
AFTERMATH
I WOKE WHERE I’D FALLEN, bowed up like a baby on the hard stone beneath my bed. Opening my eyes, I saw Donovan on the toilet, but there were no jokes this time. He looked at me like I was something nasty he’d just expelled, then turned his attention to the toilet paper.
I hauled myself onto my bunk, my aching limbs protesting about a night spent on the freezing floor. My head was full of the horrors I’d seen during the blood watch, but due to an endless series of nightmares afterward I wasn’t sure which of the images were real and which imagined. The wheezers with their dirty coats and filthy needles and gas masks sewn into their faces seemed like something only possible in a twisted dream, but the memory of them was so sharp that I knew they’d really been out there.
With a painful churning in my gut I suddenly remembered Monty, strung up and stabbed with that filthy syringe. Where was he now? What were they doing to him? I put the questions to Donovan, but he simply fixed me with that look of fury again and I quickly shut up.
A couple of sirens later and we all drifted down to the yard. I had never seen so many dark, tired eyes and drawn faces, so many nervous twitches and tear-stained cheeks. That morning, for once, everybody in Furnace looked their age. All the hard stares and swaggers had been replaced by frightened expressions and anxious shuffles as the children huddled in groups for comfort.
Donovan still wasn’t talking to me, so I scanned the crowd for Zee. He was standing in a group that included his cellmate and a few others, but it took me a while to recognize him. The cocky smile had gone and his face had drawn in on itself, as if he’d lost half his body weight overnight. He saw me looking and walked over, meeting me halfway across the yard. We both opened our mouths to speak, but neither of us seemed to remember how to have a normal conversation.
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