Alexander Smith - Lockdown

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."