Lockdown

THE WARDEN'S WARNING

WHEN I WOKE UP the next morning I actually thought I was on fire. Every single fiber in my body was in agony. I had pains in every muscle, pains in muscles I didn't know existed, pains in muscles in places I didn't even know I had. My head was drumming some sort of ancient tribal dance, my throat felt like I'd swallowed a cheese grater, and my eyes were watering as if I was wearing contact lenses soaked in vinegar. I uttered what must have been a pretty pathetic groan, then tried to swing my useless legs out of bed.

"Kill me now," I whispered. My spine sounded like a bowl of Rice Krispies as I stood, all snaps, crackles, and pops, but after hobbling round the cell a couple of times like an old man I felt the pain start to subside. On my second round I saw Donovan leaning up in bed looking at me sympathetically.

"First time anybody does chipping they ache the morning after," he mumbled through a yawn. "But I can't imagine how you feel after chipping, fighting, and trying to escape the dogs."

"I feel like every nerve in my body is being pricked with a redhot needle," I replied, making Donovan wince. "I feel like someone has skinned me alive and is now toasting my internal organs with a blowtorch." He actually turned a little pale at that one. "I feel like I've been bathed in acid-"

"Okay, enough," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm about to eat breakfast."

We chatted while we waited for the morning siren to sound, which it did as I was using the toilet, leading to a number of "pardon you" jokes from Donovan. I didn't know why we were both in such good spirits, considering the events of the previous day. Being locked up does strange things to your state of mind, I guess. You're so relieved to have made it through each day and night that the simple act of waking up makes you euphoric-even when you do feel like you've just wrestled an elephant.

Our moods soon changed when the cells opened. We traipsed down to the yard with sour faces, each marked with a hint of fear, scanning the crowds for any sign of attack. I spotted a number of painted bandannas-lifeless black eyes daubed above lifeless gray faces-but aside from a handful of scowls aimed in my direction they seemed to ignore me. I kept my arms tensed by my sides, ready to lash out, just in case.

For some reason, things this morning were a little different from the day before. Two blacksuits stood by the elevator, beneath the massive screen, and were herding us in front of it like cattle. I almost made a mooing sound, but it was more from fear than from an attempt at humor. I managed to keep my mouth shut as we reached the courtyard and moved to the back of the group. It took a few minutes for everybody to make it down the stairs, but eventually every inmate in the prison was shuffling nervously beneath the flickering screen. It felt like we were waiting for our execution.

One of the blacksuits raised his shotgun in the air and fired a single shot. Behind the deafening report I heard the ammunition pinging off bars above my head, and hoped that everybody was on the ground floor. Anyone left upstairs could have some ugly holes in them. The yard instantly fell quiet, the prisoners clamping their mouths shut to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

"Looks like you've made quite an impression," Donovan risked whispering in my ear. I hoped this didn't have anything to do with the previous day's events, but judging by the way people were staring at me I knew it was a pretty pointless wish.

Eventually the screen exploded into static, a fizzing snowstorm that settled into a fuzzy image of a dark figure. The man was sitting in the shadows, but a single slice of light illuminated a flash of teeth and a crooked nose that I knew belonged to the warden. He sat forward and suddenly his whole face came into view. Unlike when he was standing in front of me, I was able to look into his eyes. But I wished I hadn't. They were like black pools inside his head, vortices that seemed to suck me in. It was like staring into an abyss. I thought I could see planets in those eyes, galaxies of stars. I saw madness and chaos, I saw eternity. I saw my own death.

Then I blinked, and they were just eyes. Dark, yes, but normal. I realized I was drenched with sweat. It sat on my skin like a damp towel and I shivered in its grip. The entire room was cowering before the image of the warden, who resembled a giant staring down at his prey from the vast monitor.

"Obedience is the difference between life, death, and the other varieties of existence on offer here in Furnace," the image spoke, the voice amplified through hidden speakers to a volume that made the ground vibrate. It was the same thing he had said on the day I arrived, and I don't know why but I felt like he was speaking to me personally. After everything that had happened, I guess he probably was.

"Yesterday was a disgrace. Fighting in the canteen, a flagrant breach of lockdown rules, and one of my dogs had to be relieved of its pitiful existence because of two broken legs."

I felt a sudden and surprising pang of guilt that the dog had been put down. They were monsters, but the whimper it made as it tried to stand up after the fall was still fresh in my mind.

"I know who was responsible, and so do you. But you are a colony of pests, you no longer have individual personalities. A crime committed by a few is a crime committed by you all, and therefore you are all subject to reprisal." There was an audible groan in the yard. "So today, the trough room is out of bounds. No meals, no water. If you animals want to fight over your food, then you don't deserve to eat."

He smiled, and for a moment I felt myself sucked back into the pits of his eyes. It was like the world around me was unpeeling, dropping away, leaving blackness and madness in its place. I wrenched my head down, my stomach churning the same way it does on a roller coaster.

"For the moment I'll forget about yesterday's other incident," the warden went on, sitting back so that his face was once again shrouded in shadow. "But pay heed. Any more infractions, any more fights, and the perpetrator will go to the hole for a week." This time there were actual shouts of distress from inside the crowd of inmates. "And a week down there is as good as the electric chair. I hope I make myself clear."

The screen fizzed again, then the static gave way to the rotating list of names for work duty. But nobody was paying attention. Something was building up from the center of the crowd, a wave of tension that threatened to break at any minute. It was cut short by another warning shot from the same guard, who stepped menacingly toward the unhappy inmates and aimed his smoking weapon at the nearest prisoner.

"You heard the boss," he growled. "Shut up and get to work. If you ask me, you all got off lightly."

Somehow the prisoners managed to batten down their tempers, and one by one they drifted off toward their stations. I was dismayed to see that Donovan and I were chippers again. My body didn't feel up to lifting a pretzel, let alone a pickax, and the thought of being in a room full of people who hated me, all armed with mining equipment, didn't really make me feel any better. There wasn't even going to be any breakfast. I felt like my stomach had been surgically removed, leaving a gaping hole in my torso, and the thought of a day without food or water-even the gunk they served up here-was frightening.

We set off across the yard, but it was a good few seconds before either of us opened our mouths.

"Don't worry," said Donovan, speaking loudly over the shouts and insults that were being fired at me. "Not the first time the canteen's been shut down for a day and it won't be the last. We're used to it. Got sealed off for three days when the Skulls took on the Leopards. That was a full-blown riot though."

What little measure of relief I felt was quickly snatched away when a kid I had never seen before ran up to me and shouted, "Nice going, moron." I found myself pulling closer to Donovan as if his mere presence would somehow protect me, although I hadn't forgotten the way he had walked off yesterday when I had been getting pounded. I sensed someone else running toward me and I flinched, but I recognized Zee's accent and straightened myself, trying to pretend that I'd just tripped on the stone.

"Hostile crowd," he said. "Why do I feel like today's my last day on earth?"

"You'll be fine, for now," said Donovan as Zee fell into line with us. "Nobody will start a skirmish knowing it'll get them a week in the hole. Never been a survivor after that long. The record is four days, and he was a hollow man afterward."

There was a distinct rumbling of stomachs but I couldn't tell whether it came from Donovan, Zee, or my own gut, which was still churning. It probably emanated from all three of us, a chorus of protest at a day without sustenance.

We marched in silence through the hole in the wall, past a blacksuit whose silver eyes promised a world of pain if we stepped out of line. It was only my second day, but I felt like an old hand at chipping, donning my visor with a world-weary sigh, flicking on my helmet lamp, and hefting the pick onto my shoulder to avoid piercing anybody's foot. My muscles complained at the effort, but it was only a halfhearted gripe. They knew what had to be done.

Zee had been put with us today, and he stuck close by, following my lead and selecting his own tools. The blacksuit split us into teams, and once again we marched into the third room. Donovan and I staked out the same spot at the far end of the half-finished cavern, and I filled Zee in on the job description.

"Pound and clear, that's it. Oh, and watch your head!"

The steady percussion of metal and rock began again in earnest. At times the noise sounded exactly like what it was-a load of kids smashing a rock wall. But occasionally a rhythm would start up, some mysterious force of coincidence turning the relentless plinks into a staccato tune. It would only last for a few seconds before once again fading out of sync, but it always brought a smile to my face.

It was only after ten minutes or so of painful chipping that I felt like I was being watched. I put the sensation down to the fact that people were still scowling at me, but it was so powerful it felt like something boring into the back of my neck. I swung around and scanned the inmates before me. Most were hidden behind visors and a layer of red dust, but there was one familiar face that turned away as soon as I saw it. It was Montgomery.

I laid my pick down on the ground and walked over, weaving my way carefully around the wooden posts holding up the ceiling. He tried to back away, then stopped, then turned, then lifted his pick as though to start work, then let it drop. Finally, he slumped his shoulders and acknowledged me with a nod. Behind the shine on his visor I made out bruised cheeks and a swollen lip, but his expression was as hard as ever.

"How are you?" I asked softly. He fixed me with a glare that caught me by surprise, like I'd been the one beating him up.

"I guess you want me to thank you," he spat. I raised my eyebrows and opened my mouth, but I had absolutely no idea how to respond. "I didn't ask you to help me. I'm not some charity case. What? You want a big reward for rescuing helpless little Monty? Well, you're not getting one." Flecks of foam dotted the plastic screen in front of him. "Now we're not even allowed any food. A whole day. It's your fault."

He lifted his pick and waved it at me. It reminded me of an old man shaking his cane at a group of kids. I held up my hands in surrender, my eyebrows refusing to return to their normal position.

"Jeez," was all I could manage. I felt the familiar burn of anger flare up inside my chest, but I swallowed hard and it faded. Monty's face was creased in hostile determination, but I could tell that it was fear making him react this way. I hoped it was, anyway, otherwise he was an ungrateful little wretch.

I opened my mouth to try to reason with him, then thought better of it, turning my back on him and returning to my pick.

"He didn't look like he was bursting with gratitude," said Zee, pulling up his visor and wiping a gloved hand across his brow. The move left a trail of wet dust on his forehead that looked like blood in the half-light of the room. "Did he even say thanks?"

I shook my head and Zee scowled over at Monty.

"That's so out of order. We could have died yesterday saving his fat ass. We should have just left him."

"Told you so," said Donovan between swings. I ignored him, but they were both right. It had been a stupid thing to do. I'm no hero, no action star. I'm a villain, not a saint. I should have abandoned Monty to lick up after the Skulls, then we'd never have got on the warden's bad side and we'd all have had breakfast. I took one last look at him-standing by himself, still holding his pick up like a weapon and staring at the floor-then started pummeling the wall again. I'm a little ashamed to say that this time, when I saw faces in the rock, I imagined they were his.