Lockdown

DOWNTIME

NOBODY IN FURNACE KNEW exactly how long work duty went on for. Donovan claimed that it was five or six hours-from breakfast to lunch-but that second day of hard labor felt more like a full twenty-four-hour stretch.

With no fuel to keep us going, we all quickly began to falter. The oppressive air of Furnace beat down on us like dragon's breath-hot, stale, and at times stripped of oxygen so we felt like we were choking. It was the lack of water that really took its toll, drying us out like prunes and forcing us to lay our picks down every couple of minutes to avoid blacking out. I even found myself eyeing the sweat on Donovan's forehead in the hope it would quench my thirst.

There were a couple of times I felt the world spin uncontrollably, the rush of vertigo like I'd just fallen off a cliff. I had to clamp my eyes shut and lean on my pick to avoid losing it completely. Other kids weren't so lucky. Two passed out that morning, the second midway through a swing. He fell forward like a dead weight, landing face-first on a jagged strip of rock. The sight of gushing blood usually would have turned my stomach, but I'd already seen far worse than that here in Furnace. His prone body was dragged from the room by a blacksuit, a slick crimson trail betraying his route.

By the time the siren sounded-half a lifetime later-the rhythm of picks against rock had dwindled to a sorry tapping from the couple of inmates who still had the strength to lift their tools. We were so desperate to leave that we all pushed our way through the door before the echoes of the siren had faded away, and in less than a minute we'd dumped our stuff and were waiting in the equipment room for the order to move through to the showers. Obviously another group had beaten us to them, as the blacksuit showed no sign of letting us pass.

To avoid the growing sense of frustration, which could explode into violence at any moment, Donovan, Zee, and I drifted to the back of the room. For some reason it seemed calmer here, cooler, but I couldn't work out why. The other guys felt it too; it seemed to relax them, loosen their tense limbs, and tease a smile from the corner of their lips. I found myself thinking of mountains, of all things, snow-tipped and windblown, as high above the world as we were below it, drenched in light and air.

All three of us took a deep, shuddering breath in unison, then laughed at the fact it had happened. Something about this spot was euphoric, and we all had to pinch our noses to avoid giggling helplessly. Fortunately at that point the blacksuit gave the order to move out, and the noise of our spluttered laughs was lost in the clomp of feet.

It was only as we made our way out of the room that I fathomed the source of our bizarre rapture. Looking back I saw the splintered black hole in the rock that led into Room Two. It was still sealed off with heavy wooden boards because of the cave-in, but there was no mistaking the nature of what was emanating from that portal.

It was fresh air.

AFTER THE HEAT and hardship of the chipping room the showers were like paradise. For once the cold water was a blessing, not a curse, and we all stood under the flow letting the icy blast cool and cleanse our bodies and gulping down as much liquid as we could. I swear more water went down our throats than down the drains that afternoon.

I thought the abundant supply of cool liquid might have kept things civil in the showers, but I've learned that in Furnace you can't have more than a few minutes without cruelty of some kind. Behind the roar of the flow I heard jeering again, wolf whistles and laughter that seemed to be both muffled and amplified by the vapor in the air.

I wiped the drips from my eyes and glanced across the shower room to see who was being persecuted this time, but I needn't have bothered. Monty was pressed up against the wall farther along the same row as me, while a pack of inmates sucked up water with their mouths and spat it at him. The poor kid was trying to cover something on his upper arm, and when he raised his hand to block a spout of spitwater I saw what it was-a brown birthmark the size of a grapefruit and the shape of a heart.

One of the kids stepped right up to Monty, cheeks full, and let loose a veritable torrent right into the kid's face.

"Nice tattoo, lover boy," he shouted through a twisted grin. I felt that familiar tug of anger, a beast inside me that wanted to be unleashed, but I fought it, reminding myself how Monty had reacted earlier. Besides, he spotted me staring at him and his green eyes narrowed in a way that once again made me feel like I was the one tormenting him. It was an expression of defiance, one that warned me not to help him. I didn't really understand it, but I respected it, and turned my back to let him know. I was glad I did, as the wet thump and cry that sounded from behind me would have been too much to witness.

Colder than glaciers, and dressed in clean new uniforms and paper shoes, we marched from the shower room into the courtyard. An armed blacksuit stood in front of the tunnel that led to the trough room, but I wasn't too upset about the thought of not going in there again after yesterday. Instead, Donovan led me and Zee across the yard toward the stairs.

"Things get heated down here when the trough room's out of bounds," he explained. "Hundreds of prisoners all starving and thirsty and bored is like dynamite waiting to go off. I don't think anything will happen, not with the warden's warning and all-no one's gonna blow if they've been promised a week in the hole-but best to stay clear just in case."

I wasn't going to argue with that. We reached the stairs and traipsed upward, but not before I noticed another door tucked beneath the stairwell, the gap in the rock so narrow that it was almost invisible. Two inmates stood outside, casually leaning on the wall. One was a Skull, the other had two black lines across each cheek-a mark I'd seen on another couple of prisoners.

"What's in there?" I asked, pointing. Donovan bent down to peer through the steps and nodded when he caught the eye of the inmate with the painted cheeks. The guy tilted his head in Donovan's direction in acknowledgment.

"That's the gym," he replied, continuing up the stairs. "But don't get your hopes up. That's private property, owned by the Skulls and the Fifty-niners-the guys with the lines on their faces."

"Why Fifty-niners?" Zee asked as we reached the second platform. Donovan snorted.

"Ask them, it's how many people they killed during the Summer of Slaughter, before they got sent down. There's fifteen of them so you do the math. They claim to have been one of the biggest gangs in the capital, east of the river. Don't believe it myself, though. They weren't big enough to take on the Skulls when they got here, just arranged some kiss-ass pact where they both control the gym. Ask me, fifty-nine is their combined IQ."

We reached the fourth platform with a series of huffs and puffs, each of us using the banister to pull ourselves up.

"They let a handful of people in to use the equipment, including yours truly," Donovan went on. "But nobody else gets in. They use it for cards and organized skirmishes. Floor in there is permanently red, if you follow me."

"Who wants to use the gym anyway," grumbled Zee as we hauled ourselves onto the fifth level. "Get worked hard enough in here without worrying about weights and rowing machines and all that crap."

"It's okay for you," Donovan replied, turning and flexing his arms at us. It looked for a minute like there were a couple of melons where his biceps should be. "You don't have a body like this to look after."

We laughed, but like all good moments in Furnace it was short-lived. As we neared our cell, two spotty faces emerged from behind the bars and blocked our way. It was Kevin Arnold and one of his lieutenants, a scar-faced kid called Bodie. Donovan seemed to expand when he saw them, his body swelling as he tensed his arms, and for a second the Skulls looked anxious.

"Don't have any beef with you, Donovan," Kevin said. I thought I could hear another sound from inside the cell, the noise of running water. "Just your jerkweed bunk buddy."

The Skulls turned their attention to me and I prepared to defend myself, nervously eyeing the six-story drop to my right and praying that I wouldn't end up flying over the railing. Donovan didn't say anything, but he didn't back down either.

"Got our man killed yesterday," Kevin went on. "Don't take that offense lightly. Gotta pay, blood for blood. You know the rules."

"Actually, I wasn't given a copy of the pirate handbook when I arrived, so I don't," I replied, cursing my voice, which trembled as I spoke.

Kevin smiled, and I noticed that he didn't have any of his front teeth.

"You funny now," he hissed. "But dead men don't laugh so loud."

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. It sounded like some terrible Sunday afternoon horror film, but I knew that Kevin would skewer me with a shank without thinking twice.

"Soon as the warden lifts his warning, we'll shut you up for good, new fish. You and your little girlfriend there."

Zee spluttered in shock at the comment but didn't say anything. Kevin and Bodie barged past us and started walking up the platform. They were followed by a third inmate, who strolled from our cell still buttoning up his fly.

"Sleep well tonight," he said as he followed his friends, and I suddenly realized what the noise of running water had been. I dashed into the cell to see a dark stain spreading across my sheet.

"No way!" I blustered. "They can't. I mean, what did they do that for? Where am I going to sleep?" I went on like that for the best part of a minute before recovering my senses and pulling the wet mess off my bed. From the way it dropped to the floor with a splat I was pretty sure that all three boys had relieved themselves on my bunk. I dragged the sheet out of the cell onto the platform, then looked up at Donovan and Zee.

"What am I supposed to do now?"

"Laundry's in a couple of days," Donovan answered with a shrug. "Till then, I guess you'll just be sleeping al dente."

"Al dente?" I asked, frowning. Zee chuckled.

"I think he means al fresco," he said. "Out in the open."

"What am I, Italian?" Donovan replied, raising his arm as if to whack Zee but giving him a gentle clip on the ear. "Al dente, al fresco, Al Pacino, it's all the same to me."

The sharp tang of urine was making our eyes water, so we walked a few steps along the landing and sat down, our feet dangling over the drop and our faces pressed through the railings. The inmates looked like toy soldiers below, separated into different units that occupied various sections of the courtyard. Like oil and water, each group seemed repelled from every other, never straying into enemy territory. Some milled around like packs of dogs, looking for any sign of weakness. Others sat at the scattered tables arm wrestling and playing cards.

There was even a group of younger inmates playing tag, yelling in excitement as they chased one another around the yard, avoiding the bigger boys. I don't know why, but the sight of them running brought a lump to my throat-they were kids who should have been tearing across the school playground between lessons, or on their way home to a hot meal and a loving family. Some looked like they were ten years old, for Christ's sake-they never even had a chance to enjoy being young.

"The warden's not going to lift his warning, is he?" asked Zee, taking my mind off events below.

"He'll lift it in time," explained Donovan. "This place is like a pressure cooker and he knows it. He'll leave the threat of the hole hanging over us for a few days, but he can't keep it up forever or he'll have a riot on his hands." He idly picked some rust from the bar and flicked it out into the void. "He won't announce that he's lifted it, there will just be a skirmish one day and all that will happen will be a lockdown. Like I said, you never really know what's gonna happen in this place."

"So what's the deal with the warden anyway?" Zee went on after a chorus of sighs. "He's a pretty scary guy. Those eyes."

"You saw it too?" I asked, remembering the way that the world had dissolved when I met the warden's stare. "I felt like he was stripping away my soul or something."

"Yeah," Donovan replied, "eyes like fingers, they go right into your brain. Did you notice that you can't meet his gaze when he's standing in front of you?" We both nodded. "Nobody here can. None of us get it, but then there's plenty of things in Furnace that none of us get."

"But what about when he was on the screen?" I said. "I mean, I thought I saw, well, planets or space or something." I couldn't quite remember what I'd seen, and talking about it now, it seemed ridiculous. "I saw death, I guess. Stuff like that."

"I just saw nothing," Zee added. "It was like looking into a space that had once been full of stuff but that was now just full of emptiness. I thought I was being sucked in."

"Just take it from me," Donovan said. "Stay well clear of the warden. Some here think he's the devil. I don't, I don't believe in that religious talk, but I know evil when I see it. He's something rotten they dragged up from the bowels of the earth, something they patched together from darkness and filth. He'll be the death of us all, every single one of us here in Furnace. Only question is when."

"I know one thing," I added. "The warden certainly brings out people's dramatic sides." Zee and Donovan both laughed through their noses.

"So does he own this place then?" Zee asked. Both Donovan and I shook our heads, but I let the big guy explain.

"There's a reason it's called Furnace, dumb-ass," he said. "It was built by some guy called Alfred Furnace. Businessman or something, rich enough to pay for this place anyway. Nobody really knows anything about him, he never visits. Probably just sits on a throne somewhere counting the money the government pays him to take lowlifes like us off the streets."

We sat in silence for a little while, listening to the noise filter up from below. I gazed at the distant ceiling, lost in shadow at least twenty more floors above, and wondered what the weather was like, but the thought was just too depressing.

"Well," I said eventually, "we've witnessed fights, giant mutant dogs, and a warden who may or may not be Satan himself. Surely there can't be much worse to see at Furnace?"

"Kid," said Donovan matter-of-factly, "you ain't seen nothing yet. You can't truly understand what a nightmare this place is until the wheezers come for you in the dead of night. You want horror? The sight of them outside your cell could scare you to death by itself."

I didn't believe him, of course. I mean, after what I'd seen already I couldn't imagine anything more terrifying. But I was wrong; the dogs and the warden, they were just a warm-up act for the sickest show in Furnace-a show that I would only have to wait another four days to witness.