Lockdown

BURIED ALIVE

I'M BETTING YOU'VE ALL seen some prison films, or watched cop shows where the bad guys get sent to jail. You know what they look like: miles of fences topped with razor wire so sharp it hurts just to look at it; sprawling grounds watched over at all times by million-watt spotlights and towers with guns; lifeless buildings that rise up from the ground like great gray tombstones; tiny windows from which ghostly faces stare at an outside world they can no longer know.

Not Furnace.

Our prison bus took us straight there. Me, the kid who'd been stunned, and two other teenage guys, all as pale as church candles and cowering back into our seats as if somehow we could avoid arriving at our inevitable destination. All the while the police guards shook their shotguns at us and jeered, asking us if we'd seen Furnace on the newscasts, if we knew what it looked like, if we had any idea of the horrors that lay ahead.

I knew. I'd seen Furnace on TV like everybody else. After that summer when so many kids had turned to murder, they made sure that everyone in the country got a good look at the prison. They thought it would make us too scared to break the law, too scared to carry knives and to cut people up for just looking at them the wrong way, too scared to take a human life. Looking around, I guessed they hadn't been too successful.

There had been protesters, of course, the human rights supporters who claimed that locking a child away for life was wrong. But you can only argue with the truth for so long, and that summer when the gangs ran wild and the streets ran red everything changed. Even in the eyes of the liberals we weren't kids anymore, we were killers. All of us.

I used to always think that the waiting was the worst part, but when we rounded a corner and Furnace finally came into sight, I knew I'd rather have stayed on that bus for an eternity than get any closer to the monstrosity ahead.

It was just like on the news: a towering sculpture of dark stone, bent and scarred like it had been burned into existence. The Black Fort, the way in. The windowless building stretched upward, its body merging with a crooked spire that resembled a finger beckoning us forward. Smoke rose from a chimney hidden behind the building, a cloud of poisoned breath waiting to engulf us. All in all it looked more like something from Mordor than a modern prison.

As we neared I could make out some of the details that the news crews had left out. Carved into the cold stone were vast sculptures designed to inspire fear into anybody who saw them-tortured statues, each five meters tall, showing prisoners on the gibbets, hanging from ropes, on guillotines, pleading to executioners, being dragged from loved ones, and, worst of all, a giant head on each corner impaled on a spike. The dead faces watched us, and if I didn't know better I could have sworn their expressions were of pity, their sorrowful eyes wet from the gentle rain that fell.

"Doesn't look so bad," said one of the other boys, his quivering voice betraying his true feelings.

"Well, that ain't the half of it, boyo," replied one of the guards, tapping his shotgun on the window. "That there is Furnace's better side. You know where you're going." He lowered his weapon so it was pointing at the floor. "Down."

He was right, of course. The building ahead was only the entrance, the gateway to the fiery pits below, the mouth that led to the sprawling guts of Furnace, which lay hundreds of meters beneath the ground. I remember when they started building it-I must have been six or seven, a different person-how they'd found a crevice in the rock that seemed to go on forever. They had built the prison inside the hole and plugged the only way out with a fortress. Anyone wanting to dig himself out of this mess only had a couple of miles of solid rock to get through before he was free.

I guess that's when it finally sank in. The thought of being down there, underground, for the rest of my life suddenly hit me like a hammer in the face. I couldn't breathe, my head started to swim, the bile rose in my throat. I sat forward in my seat and stared at the floor, desperately trying to think about something else, something good. But all I could see now were the stains of a hundred other prisoners who had thrown their guts up on confronting the reality of their fate.

I couldn't hold it back. I puked, the mess hitting the seat in front and causing the guard to leap away. I retched a couple more times, then looked up through blurry eyes, expecting a furious reaction. But they were laughing.

"Looks like you win again," said one, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a ten-quid note. "How do you always guess which one is gonna hurl first?"

"When you've been on the job as long as I have," came the reply, "you just know."

There was more, but I couldn't hear it over the sound of the retching and sobbing that echoed back at me from the stained upholstery.

WHEN THE BUS eventually stopped we were herded out like sheep. I felt like I'd thrown up a couple of vital organs as well as the contents of my stomach, and my legs were so wobbly that I thought I was going to collapse when I stood. But as soon as we were outside, the sensation of rain on my face perked me up a little. Well, it did until I remembered that this might be the last time I would ever stand in the rain.

We were right outside the main gate, in a giant cage that gave off a sinister hum and made my head throb whenever I got too close to the bars. I didn't have to know much about physics to guess that it took a hell of an electrical charge to have that effect. The entrance to Furnace was suitably terrifying-two enormous black gates topped with a plinth marked with the word GUILTY. As soon as we were lined up, the gates swung open with a sound not unlike fingernails running down a blackboard, revealing a gray room with nothing in it except two men dressed in black leaning casually against the walls and a nasty-looking gun mounted on the ceiling.

The men grinned at us and stepped forward. I felt my legs going weak again just at the sight of them, and I wasn't alone. The three other boys shuffled away in fear, and even the armed guards moved back toward the bus.

"They're all yours," said one of the guards, his voice little more than a whisper. He pulled a palmtop from his jacket and held it out with a shaking hand. "If you could just print here."

One of the giants in suits strode forward and snatched the device, pressing his thumb against the screen until it bleeped loudly. He watched the armed guards scramble into the bus, then turned his attention to us. I studied his face. With their glinting eyes and their menacing smiles the men in black all looked the same, but I recognized this one-the mole on his chin letting me know it was the man who had shot Toby.

"We told you," he said, placing his hand on the shoulder of the boy beside me but talking to us all. "You could run but you couldn't hide. And now here you are, guests of honor at Furnace Penitentiary."

The other man walked to the front of the line and grabbed the kid by the scruff of his shirt, pulling him forward.

"This way," he said, his voice like the sound of continents shifting.

We shuffled forward, our steps tiny in the hope that maybe we'd never reach the threshold. It was as the first boy passed through the doors that the second-the guy who'd been stunned at the court-suddenly made a break for it. He pounced to the side and stepped backward, all the while looking at the men guarding us.

"You framed me," he shouted, his face twisted into a mask of anger and fear. "I didn't kill anybody and now I'm spending the rest of my life in this nightmare. I won't let you do it."

The two men started laughing, their thunderous peals echoing off the stone walls. Then in the blink of an eye the one to the right of me burst across the dusty ground and with a mighty crack sent the boy flying toward the fence. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed the speed of the man. He had moved so fast he'd left traces in the air, like sparklers on a summer night. The boy hit the floor and rolled, ending in a crumpled heap perilously close to the electrified bars.

"You wouldn't be the first one to fry on that cage," said the man, walking until he stood over the boy. "But it's a shame to waste you on something as quick and painless as the Barbecue."

He reached down and picked the boy up by his collar, like a bear scooping up a rag doll, then carried him back to the line. The kid had a bloody lip and a dazed expression like he'd just been hit by a freight train, yet somehow he was managing to stand. He lowered his eyes to the floor, but I saw him flash the man a murderous look as soon as his back was turned.

"Now that little rebellion is out of the way I hope you realize just how serious this is," said the first man, walking to the front of the line and ushering us forward. "This is a private institution sanctioned by the government, which means that we now own you. You have been sentenced to life in prison with no possibility of parole. So, short of a revolution in the country or an act of God, you will die here. Not that God would ever mess with Furnace."

I faltered as I reached the threshold, staring at the line that separated the ground outside from the polished stone of the room ahead. It was just one more step, but it was the last one I would take as a free person. With a shuddering sigh I lifted my leg and planted my foot down on the other side of the wall. It might have just been my imagination, but the sound of that footstep seemed to reverberate around the room, a death knell mourning a lost life.

"As you can see, the manner of your death isn't important to us," the man continued, guiding our group through the featureless room toward a metal door in one wall. "Of course the state has no death penalty, but any attempt at escape will be dealt with using lethal force."

The door opened to reveal a long corridor ahead, as featureless as the room we'd just left. I cast one final look behind me, catching a glimpse of dark cloud through the main gates before they slammed shut. It was a fleeting image, but one I will never forget.

"There's no one you can cry to, no one you can beg to. The public have judged you and found you guilty. As far as they are concerned, you are already dead."

The corridor ended with another door, this one guarded by a third man, also in black. He nodded to his colleagues as he unlocked the gate, and winked a silver eye at us as he waited for it to slide open. We passed through, finding ourselves in a small room with a hole in one wall.

"Line up and take your prison uniforms," the man continued. "One each. Then go through that door for purging."

We obeyed. What choice did we have? One by one we walked by the hole in the wall, and from the shadows we were passed a pair of paper shoes, underwear that felt like sandpaper, and a hunk of stiff, striped cloth that was better suited to holding potatoes than wearing. The white uniform was branded with the Furnace symbol-three circles arranged in a triangle, a dot in the middle of each and thin lines joining them. I followed the boys in front through the door to find another room, this one full of tiny cubicles.

"Get in, strip, and wash," came the booming voice behind us. I picked a door, left my new uniform on a shelf outside, and entered. There were directions on the wall and I followed them, taking off my clothes and placing them into a chute where they vanished from sight. Shivering in the cold, I pressed a large red button in front of me and was instantly hit by a fist of freezing water. I doubled over, pressing myself against the wall to avoid the stream. But the cubicle was too small, and I had to endure it for what seemed like an eternity.

When the spray stopped, I followed the instructions again and held my breath while a cloud of gas was pumped in. It stung my eyes and my skin, and even after the directed thirty seconds when I took a gasping breath, the gas still flooded my lungs, making my chest feel like it was on fire.

Staggering out of the door, I put on my uncomfortable uniform and watched as the other three boys emerged from their cubicles-each one red-eyed, pale-skinned, and coughing. We looked like phantoms haunting the room where we'd died, which wasn't too far from the truth, I guess.

His malicious grin as wide as ever, the man steered us across the room to a set of elevator doors. He whispered something into his collar and seconds later the doors opened, revealing a machine gun on the ceiling of the elevator car which swung around to face us.

"This is where we part company, for now," he said. "This elevator will take you all to your cells. Don't try anything funny or you'll end up decorating the walls."

He pushed us forward with his massive hands and we entered the cabin, the remote turret following our every move.

"It's quite a ride down to the bowels of the earth," he said as the doors began to close. "So I hope none of you are claustrophobic."

Then he was gone, and with a deafening whir of gears the armored elevator began its descent to the darkness at the bottom of the world.