Lockdown f-1

by Alexander Gordon Smith

  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. But 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 dow
n 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.

  The duty roster materialized on-screen, putting me and Donovan back in the kitchen but sending Zee to the laundry. I waited for Monty's name to appear but it had been stripped from the records as if the boy had never existed.

  Hard labor was hell that morning. Donovan acted like he couldn't stand the sight of me, posting himself in the canteen serving up mush and leaving the processing to me and another couple of inmates I'd never really spoken to before. I tried asking them questions about the wheezers as we stuffed crate after crate of leftovers into the industrial blender, but they just sent back one-word answers that meant nothing.

  To make things worse, Kevin Arnold had been assigned to the trough room too, and several times throughout the morning I was ambushed by flying chunks of rancid meat and mushy vegetables and barbed comments. I remembered the way he'd pushed Monty across the cell last night, sending him to his terrifying fate without a shred of remorse. I wanted to stuff his mouth full of rotten food until he choked, but instead I turned my back on him and suffered his abuse. What else could I do?

  Umpteen hours later, after washing the slop from my hair in the showers and donning a fresh uniform, I found myself standing alone in the yard. I didn't realize how much I had come to depend on Donovan. Without him by my side I felt completely lost, utterly vulnerable. I saw him make his way up the stairs to our cell without a backward glance but I didn't try to chase him. Instead I picked an empty table toward the back of the yard and cursed myself for not just curling up in bed last night and ignoring the blood watch like everybody else.

  Holding my head in my hands, I didn't hear Zee slide onto the bench opposite me until he coughed gently.

  "You look like battered crap," he said as I lifted my head.

  "You're no oil painting yourself, mate," I replied, wondering if I still had the ability to smile.

  "Where's Big D?" he went on. "You two are like Siamese twins, weird not seeing you joined at the hip."

  "I'm not in his good books," I replied after a humorless snort. "After last night. I wouldn't stay in bed, had to see what was going on. He thinks I drew one of them to our cell."

  "Seriously?" Zee asked, eyebrows practically leaping from his forehead. "You saw one up close?"

  I nodded, trying not to recall the experience in too much detail.

  "He'll be okay," Zee went on, cracking his knuckles. "He can be a moody lug, but I'm sure he'll come around."

  "I hope so. If he doesn't then I'm a dead man. He's pretty much the only thing standing between me and the Skulls."

  "Don't forget me," Zee said with a grin. He flexed his arms, but the satsuma-sized bumps beneath his uniform didn't exactly fill me with confidence. "Could take them all on single-handed with these muscles."

  For a moment it looked like we might break free of the gravity of the situation, but it quickly pulled us back in.

  "What the hell were they doing last night?" Zee asked, leaning across the table so that his low voice would reach me. "What are those things with the gas masks?" I shrugged and shook my head. "I mean, they look like Nazi storm troopers with those masks and coats. I've seen them on TV. My folks used to watch war documentaries all the time. But why would they be here? And why do they need help breathing? I mean, it's not like this place is full of Zyklon B."

  "They're attached to their faces," I told him. "The masks. I saw it last night. The metal is sewn into their skin."

  Zee looked like he was about to hurl.

  "No way," was all he managed, but I could tell he believed me.

  "Whatever they're doing, it's bad," I said. "Donovan told me they took prisoners to a fate worse than death."

  "Maybe they're using us as human guinea pigs," Zee suggested. I laughed at the idea but he was serious. "During the Second World War the Nazis a
nd the Japanese army used to perform all these sick experiments on innocent people, civilians and prisoners of war and stuff. They'd cut them up while they were still alive, infect them with all these diseases, biological weapons and gas, blow them up-"

  "Come on," I interrupted, but he held up his hand.

  "No, seriously. They used prisoners as test subjects. They'd just think of things they could do to them and then they'd do them. They claimed it was all about science, but they were just butchers. I saw this on TV too, but Dad made me go to bed halfway through because it was too gross."

  "But we're not in a war, Zee. I mean, this is one of the most advanced countries in the Western world; you can't even call somebody a pensioner now without it being politically incorrect. They're not just going to let somebody open a prison where a bunch of sick freaks do experiments on kids."

  "What about a prison where mutant dogs chew up the inmates?" he asked. I didn't have an answer. "Everything changed that summer, Alex, all those gangs on the rampage and all those people who died. People got scared of kids, that's why they got away with building a prison like this, that's why those freaks can take us and butcher us and nobody gives a crap. Did you see who they took, anyway?"

  "Monty," I replied. "They took Monty. I didn't see the others."

  Zee swore beneath his breath and stared out across the yard. I thought I saw his eyes filling up for a minute but then he wiped his hand across his face and was back to normal.

  "Do you think anyone on the outside has any idea?" he asked.

  "I don't think anyone on the outside cares. We did the crime, we're doing the time. In their eyes we're just as bad as the kids who went around killing everyone. What was it that blacksuit said? As far as the outside world is concerned, we're already dead."