Alexander Smith - Lockdown

After hard labor Donovan, Zee, and I would hang out in the yard. Most of the time we just sat and chatted, but occasionally we'd nab a pack of cards and play pontoon or cheat or even snap. It was difficult to relax knowing you might feel a cold blade in your back at any moment, but we kept our eyes out for each other and just moved on if we saw the Skulls coming.

I learned that downtime in Furnace was like a strange dance where each group maneuvered around the others with surprising grace and timing. I also learned not to mention this insight to anybody in case they thought I was calling them a ballet dancer.

There wasn't too much violence in those few days. Every now and again tempers would fray and a skirmish would be on the verge of breaking out, but fear of the hole meant that it was always kept under control. There were a couple of punches thrown, a shank or two waved in somebody's face, and Monty and a few of the other kids suffered kicks and shoves and numerous humiliations, but I didn't see much blood. Occasionally somebody would stagger from the gym with various cuts and bruises, but they'd be grinning through their wounds. I guess organized fights didn't count as a breach of the warden's rules.

On day six Donovan and I traipsed down the stairs after the wake-up siren to see that we were on slopwork duty, along with Zee. I was actually a little excited to finally be able to see the inside of the kitchen, and when we pushed through the double doors at the back of the canteen I wasn't disappointed.

Unlike the rest of Furnace-which was all red rock and bruised shadows-the kitchen was a haven of brushed aluminum drenched in white light. The walls here had been plastered and painted, presumably for health and safety reasons. Not that Furnace was too concerned about the health and safety of its inmates, of course, but I guess even this hellhole must have had to pass a few inspections before being allowed to open. Walking through those doors into the illuminated interior was like walking from a garbage heap into a church, and I felt oddly uplifted.

It didn't last. As soon as I saw what we'd be doing, I realized that the kitchen was just a different sort of garbage heap. In one corner lay crates full of what I could only describe as leftovers-onion peels, chicken bones with scraps of meat clinging to them, bread with unmistakable green spores, cheese that was dripping from the bottom of the crates onto the floor, fruit that had already started to liquefy and rot, even a bag that looked like it was full of hair.

Worst of all were five or six boxes stuffed full of wet flesh. I swear I saw some things in those boxes that put me off meat for life-intestines, hooves, and even a bloody cow's eyeball staring up at the ceiling as if in deep thought. The glistening mess reminded me of the warden's dogs and I almost added my own guts to the mixture.

"Now you know why they call it slopwork," said Donovan, pulling on a paper apron and some sturdy rubber gloves from a box under the counter. "This is stuff from above that they wouldn't even give to pigs."

"Yeah but these are going out, aren't they?" Zee asked, picking an apron for himself and throwing one to me. "They're rubbish?"

"In a manner of speaking," was Donovan's reply. "If by 'out' you mean 'in' and by 'rubbish' you mean 'ingredients.' What do you think is in that gunk they feed us? Salmon souffle?"

The best thing about slopwork was that you only needed a few people to work a shift. Ten inmates were posted to the kitchen at a time-four went to serve the sty outside, and the rest mopped up the mess and prepared the next batch of gunk. That morning Donovan, Zee, and I gave ourselves the job of cooking up slop, and we retreated to the massive industrial stove at the far end of the kitchen. I noticed that Monty had been posted on slopwork duty too. He picked up a mop and kept his distance, but repeatedly glanced up at the stove as if it contained some hidden secret.

"Don't suppose either of you know how to cook?" Donovan asked, lifting one of the crates from the floor and dumping it down onto the counter beside the stove. With a tug he broke the crisscrossed strings that kept the vile contents inside. We both shook our heads. I could just about manage toast and cheese at home, but even then I tended to burn the bread.

"Well, it isn't exactly cordon bleu," he went on, making Zee snigger. "Grab one of those pots and put it on the burner."

I looked beneath the counter to see rows of giant pots, each resembling a witch's cauldron. It took both me and Zee to heft it onto the burner. Donovan grabbed a massive bottle of oil and poured about half of it into the pot, then he opened up a panel on the side of the stove and reached inside. I heard something pop gently, followed by the hiss of gas.

"Grab one of those safety lighters," he said, nodding to one of three long, thin lighters chained to the other side of the oven. Zee lifted it and held it beneath the pot, pressing the button to produce a pathetic flame. I noticed the pungent smell of gas hanging in the air and took a step back. "Gotta get this right or the whole prison will go kaboom," Donovan went on, fiddling with the gas supply inside. "Hold it closer."

"What, and lose my fingers? I don't think so," Zee retorted. But he inched the flame closer to the burner until, with a roar and a splutter, the gas ignited.

"And we have liftoff," said Donovan, getting to his feet. I glanced through the panel and saw three or four vast canisters of gas inside, bolted securely to the wall. Donovan wasn't kidding-if one of them were to explode then we'd all resemble the meat in those crates, only barbecued.

Donovan began pulling handfuls of leftover food from the crate and dropping them into a sink embedded in the counter beside the stove. He motioned for us to do the same, and after pulling on the uncomfortable rubber gloves Zee and I lifted a couple of crates and began chucking slops into the sink, trying to ignore the smell of rot and decay. When Donovan's crate was empty he threw it to the floor, picked up a stick, and began prodding the disgusting mixture down the drain.

"Stand back," he said, reaching across the counter and punching a switch. A sound not unlike a chain saw in mud rose up from the sink and the slop slowly began to disappear.

"Is that a garbage disposal?" I asked, speaking over a series of gargles and wheezes from the spinning blades down the drain.

"Nope, this is Furnace's patented flavor mixer," he replied, ramming the stick down the drain to clear a blockage. "Guaranteed to blend ingredients in just the right order to produce a scrumptious meal."

We forced a couple more crates of food into the sink, watching as it was sucked into the hole. Donovan even risked a carton of meat, holding it upside down until the flesh inside gave in to gravity and plummeted earthward like so much pink porridge. I thought I glimpsed a number of pale forms wriggling their way free of the rotting guts, but I put it down to my imagination. Surely even this place wouldn't feed us maggots.

Donovan switched off the machine and opened a door in the counter. Beneath the sink was a huge bucket, practically overflowing with the brown goo that dripped from the pipe above. Grunting, he picked it up and tipped it into the cauldron. There was a brutal hiss as the gunge met the boiling oil.

"Another couple of bucket loads and you'll have made your first batch of trough slop," he said as he repositioned the bucket. "Leave it to boil for an hour or so until it loses all taste and color, add in some filler and salt, and bingo, perfection on a plate."

"Doesn't seem so bad," I heard Zee mutter.

"Well, let's see if you're still saying that when you've made your thirtieth pot of the day," Donovan answered. "Got a lot of bellies to fill in here."