Furnace 3 - Death Sentence (3 page)

VOICES

I drifted in and out of consciousness while the endless film played on, unable to tell which of the horrors I’d seen on the screen and which had life only in my dreams. Once, when I woke, I could feel the warden standing beside me. I couldn’t turn to look at him, but I could sense the smile on his face as he watched a platoon of black-jacketed soldiers throw an emaciated corpse onto a pile of bodies.

‘The world has always worked this way,’ he said. ‘And it always will. Most people don’t get to choose whether they can take the side of the predators or the prey, but you can.’ He leant in closer, the stench of his breath the perfect accompaniment to the horror projected before my eyes. ‘I know you feel it. It’s impossible not to. For far too long now you’ve been the victim.’

Grainy footage in shades of grey showed a ghostly teenager, not much older than me, escorted in front of a firing squad. Even past the snowstorm of scratches and burns on screen I could see that he was terrified, and there was no hood to hide his screams as the
anonymous riflemen raised their weapons and fired.

‘I’m offering you the chance to be something so much more,’ the warden went on, his dry whisper against my ear. ‘You don’t have to let them trample all over you any longer. You can be in charge of your own destiny, too powerful to let anyone tell you what to do. Anyone but me, that is.’ His words hit home with the same horrible temptation, and by the time I remembered to open my mouth to fight him he was already gone.

Later, maybe much later, I woke to feel the needle slide out of my arm, replaced by a fresh one. I could hear the wheeze of the creature standing beside me, felt its filthy fingertips on my skin, and I cried out for as long as it took the nectar to flood my arteries again. It was as if I’d been injected with pure caffeine and all of a sudden the images on screen became even sharper, the poison like a living creature inside me that thrived on pain and suffering, that wanted to witness through my eyes as much death as possible.

I wasn’t sure when I fell asleep again, but the next time I stirred I was shocked to see that the film had finished, replaced by a blurred darkness. At least that’s what I thought until the darkness moved and I realised it had been a hand. Before me stood a blacksuit, and in his silver eyes I saw a reflection of my own, echoing each other into infinity. He grinned at me, but it showed none of the malice I was used to. Instead the smile was almost one of pity.

‘It’s hard to watch at first,’ the suit growled, the thunder of his voice echoing round the small room.
He lifted his hand again and bathed my eyes in the lightless warmth of its shadow. ‘But it’s not for much longer. We all went through this. It made us stronger, more powerful. I’ll give your eyes a rest but, when I go, don’t fight it.’

I tried to speak but my throat was as dry as sandpaper. I coughed, tried again.

‘You were like me once,’ I hissed, barely audible over the sound of the footage, the crack of breaking bones. ‘A kid. They turned you into a monster.’

‘I was never like you,’ the blacksuit said. ‘None of us were. We were born in Furnace, born from pain into power. And you will be too. Don’t fight it.’

And then he too was gone. With no hand to block it, the floodgates opened once again and the mayhem cascaded into my head. I fought it, fought to remember who I was and what had happened to me. But the film on screen was a tide of violence that consumed me, and as I drowned in the endless parade of blood and bruises I realised I could no longer remember what I looked like. All I saw in the charnel house of my mind was a blacksuit I knew was me, kicking and punching my enemies until there was nothing left of them.

And the true horror was that it felt great.

The pattern of violence from the film must have been burned onto my new retinas because, even though I could still see it played out in front of me, I realised I was lying in my bed back in the infirmary. I blinked, the
relief blasting through me as I realised I could close my eyes. When I opened them again the illusion was gone, and I found myself staring at the shadowed rock of the ceiling. The only movement was the lights, which swung gently as if buoyed by the gentle sobs that rose up from all around me.

I looked from side to side, wincing as my neck muscles cramped. Gritting my teeth, I eased my head in a gentle circle until the pain had gone. God knows how long I’d been strapped to that chair. It could have been hours, it could have been days, it could have been weeks. In the guts of Furnace, so deep beneath the ground, there was no way of telling how much time had passed. It might as well not have existed at all.

I tried to move my arms, knowing without looking that they were bound to my side by leather straps. I felt the frustration build up inside me and swore under my breath, hating myself for being so useless. When I got out, as soon as the straps were loosened, I’d tear the warden and his blacksuits to pieces.

The thought of it filled me with a kind of euphoria, one so powerful that it made my head spin. Adrenaline surged through me and I felt the poison alongside it, pumped with such force that every single muscle turned to fire. Beneath the thin sheet I could see them knotting, the leather straps creaking as my limbs swelled. It lasted only a couple of seconds before my strength abandoned me, leaving me an empty husk on the bed. But the exhilaration of it left me smiling.

Behind the drum roll of my heart I could hear a
wheezer somewhere in the infirmary, its clumsy steps accompanied by the clinking of glass syringes and the dry hiss of its breath. There was also a noise coming from somewhere to my left, a voice as faint and annoying as a dying fly. I ignored it, diving once again into the maelstrom of my thoughts.

Yes, as soon as I was free I would set about my vengeance. And it wouldn’t end with the freaks of Furnace. I’d kill them all, the inmates in gen pop who’d given me a hard time. The police who’d brought me in, accused me of a crime I hadn’t committed. A crime I
couldn’t
have committed, not back then, anyway. Now I’d have no trouble pulling the trigger if my enemies stood before me. I’d make them wish they’d never picked on me. They’d be screaming by the time I finished with them.

I pictured myself storming into the police station. They’d go for their weapons but they wouldn’t be quick enough. I’d have my hands around their throats before they could call for help, and they’d be dead before they hit the floor.

The noise from my left came again, distracting me from my fantasy. I ignored it, wanting to be back inside my head where I was no longer powerless, where I called all the shots. After I finished with the police I’d go after the jury who’d condemned me, and the judge who’d sent me here. Nobody would be safe. And lastly, my parents. They hadn’t been there for me when I’d needed them most, when my life was at stake. They hadn’t fought for me, they hadn’t even
believed my innocence. Well, they’d pay just like everyone else.

The voice came again, whispering a word I didn’t recognise.

‘Quiet,’ I said, my own speech little more than a growl. I liked the sound of it. It was no longer the whining mewl I’d known all my life. This was something greater, a voice that could strike terror into people. I uttered it again, a throbbing snarl that sounded like one of the warden’s dogs. It ended in a twisted laugh, behind which I could make out the strange word again.

‘I said quiet,’ I spat, feeling the power in the words even though they were slurred. ‘I’ll kill you.’

In my head my threats took on their own life and I watched myself tear free of my restraints, march into the next cubicle and stay true to my promise. It was just like in the warden’s film, only instead of the thugs and the police and the soldiers I saw myself as the predator, as the victor, and the whole world lying broken at my feet. My excitement rose from my stomach, bringing with it another burst of insane laughter.

But the voice next door wouldn’t give up. It repeated the word, then repeated it again, and again, until it was a constant barrage of whispered sound. Unable to return to my imagination I tried to focus on it, tried to make sense of what I was hearing. The word was familiar, but I couldn’t think from where. I opened my mouth, tried to wrap my mouth around it.

‘Al-ex,’ I said, feeling the syllables like lumps of chalk against my tongue. ‘A-lex. Alex. Alex.’

Each time I spat out the sound the darkness in my head grew softer. The image of myself as a blacksuit, as a killer, began to break apart. For an instant I saw my parents, cowering on the floor and bleeding from the wounds I had dreamed upon them. Nausea gripped my gut with iron fingers, followed almost instantly by a sense of shame that brought tears to my eyes. I shook my head wildly to clear the last of the waking nightmare, letting my sobs come freely.

‘Alex, you’ve got to keep fighting,’ said the voice. I thought I recognised the accent but I couldn’t think from where. I pictured a boy, saw us jumping into a river, saw us hugging each other outside the solitary cells, saw us climbing the incinerator chimney together, but the knowledge attached to those memories scattered into pieces like birds taking flight. ‘Alex Sawyer, don’t forget it. Okay? You can’t let them win, just remember Donovan, remember Monty.’

Names that should mean something but didn’t. But it wasn’t important. I had mine, Alex Sawyer, and so long as I did the warden and his army couldn’t reach me.

Not unless I wanted them to.

TRUTH

More darkness, more dreams.

An animal pound, row upon row of cages drenched in shadow. I moved amongst them, peering through the rusted bars to see the creatures inside cowering in the corners, shivering in clouds of their own breath. None of them turned to face me, but there was no mistaking them for the boys they were. Each was dressed in the same cloth uniform as before, marked with a ‘36’ above the twisted cross of the swastika.

A noise rose up from the other side of the room and a metal door swung open. Before I could find a place to hide two men marched in, decked in heavy leather jackets and gas masks and carrying a bundle of rags between them. They looked right at me but there was no trace of emotion in their eyes as they dumped the heavy rags onto a motionless pile on the floor.

The guards strolled along the row of cages, breathing loudly through the contraptions strapped to their faces. As they got nearer I was surprised to see that they were younger than I’d assumed, maybe in their twenties, but
there was something in the lines around their foreheads and the dull weight of their eyes that made me think their youth was a lie.

I felt something grab my leg and staggered back, staring into the cage beside me. Bony fingers led to a skeletal arm which in turn was connected by shadow to two white, round eyes. The boy glanced at the guards, who still marched this way, then fixed me in his terrified gaze.

You have to let us out of here
, he said.
There isn’t much time
.

The kid in the cage sniffed, wiping an emaciated hand under his nose. He leant forward into the light and this time I recognised my own face instantly, the shock of witnessing myself so weak making the bile rise in my throat. I hadn’t seen my reflection since I’d arrived in Furnace, but after everything I’d been through here I knew I looked more like this wraith than the healthy kid I remembered staring back at me from the mirror at home.

And I hated myself for it.

I looked at the guards, almost upon us. They walked with strength and with purpose, their eyes fixed in determination. There was no weakness there, only force, and more than anything I wanted to feel it.

Please, Alex
, my ghost said.
Don’t forget who you are.

‘I’m not Alex,’ I replied, and in my dream my voice thundered around the room like a bomb had been detonated. The guards reached the cage and unbolted it, the kid inside scrabbling back against the bars. ‘I’m not Alex, he never existed.
You
never existed.’

You do exist!
The kid screamed as the men dragged him from the cage, the wiry muscles in his arms powerless to root him in place.
You do, Alex, it’s not too late
.

Then he was out, just another bundle of rags held between the two guards as they strode from the room.

I rose from the dream to feel something cool against my eyes, a wet cloth that was pulled away as soon as I jerked into consciousness. My new eyes snapped into focus without hesitation, revealing the warden perched on the side of my bed. He laid the cloth gently across the heart monitor beside him then lifted a glass of water and held it to my lips. I drank greedily, relishing the fluid as it quenched the desert of my mouth.

‘Easy now,’ he said quietly, pulling the glass away. ‘It’s been a while since you’ve ingested anything. The body can’t process water for the first few days after the nectar has been introduced. And it can’t process food full stop.’

I slurred a few words which turned into growls as they hit the back of my throat. The warden’s face peeled open when he heard them, yellow teeth like tombstones behind the cadaverous smile.

‘You’re making excellent progress,’ he said, resting the glass on his knee and looking at me like a teacher might look at his favourite pupil. ‘You were dreaming again; tell me what you saw.’

I snatched out at the tornado of thoughts that spiralled around my waking mind, catching hold of a question.

‘Why does it matter? They’re only dreams.’

The warden laughed, offering me another sip of water which I swallowed too fast. I coughed half of it back up onto his outstretched arm, but instead of reprimanding me he reached around and patted my back until the spasms had subsided.

‘I told you to take it easy,’ he said. ‘Your body is changing, you can’t do things the way you used to.’

Somewhere deep inside me the warden’s words set off an alarm bell, but the poison in my veins quickly smothered it. He rested the glass on the floor and brushed the liquid from his sleeve, then he returned his attention to me. I could feel his eyes boring into my head the way I always had, but this time instead of the nausea it usually produced the sensation made me feel safe, protected.

‘They’re not just dreams,’ he went on. ‘They’re something more. Half memories, half nightmares, from a long time ago.’

‘Whose memories?’ I managed, the warden’s words getting caught up in the confusion in my head, their meaning torn apart before I could grasp it.

‘People like you,’ he explained. ‘People who sacrificed a life of weakness to become something much greater. The first of their kind, the creators of us all. You must have already felt their touch, up in the cells. Everybody has bad dreams in Furnace, but sometimes the nectar is so strong it seeps into the very air.’

I remembered the nightmares that had plagued me in general population, images of a prison with glass walls, and my reflection that of a wheezer.

‘But they are mere glimpses,’ the warden went on.
‘Fragments. Only when the nectar is in your blood do you see the whole picture. Tell me what you were dreaming just now. The trench?’

I shook my head, fighting to remember.

‘A room,’ I whispered. ‘Cages, and guards.’

‘Interesting,’ the warden said, nodding gravely. ‘The transformation is occurring more quickly than I thought. Do you remember who was in the cage?’

I thought back, probing the fog that had been the dream. There had been a boy in the cage, skinny to the point of starvation, too weak to stop himself being taken. I couldn’t picture his face, only the whites of his eyes.

‘A boy,’ I said eventually. ‘A weak boy. Nobody.’

This time the warden’s smile made him look like he’d been sliced open from ear to ear.

‘Good,’ he hissed. ‘Very good. You’re ready for the next stage of your treatment.’

He made to get up but I muttered a few more words and he lowered himself back onto the bed. For an instant his face fell and I saw past the façade, saw the monster lurking beneath the leathery skin, but then the black cloud of my mind shifted again and I found myself staring into his smile.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘The nectar,’ I said, stumbling over every word. ‘What is it?’

‘It isn’t important what it is,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘Only what it does. It frees you, frees your primal self. It shows you the truth. I think you’re beginning to understand what that truth is. Maybe you always knew.’

I thought about the film, about the never-ending parade of sadism, violence and force, and the nectar inside me seemed to pulse with dark energy. I felt a tight pain in my cheeks and it took me a moment to realise I was grinning.

‘Yes, you know,’ the warden said, as if sensing my excitement. ‘The nectar feeds on those emotions, and in doing so unleashes them. The more you hate the world, the more bitterness you feel at the way life has treated you, the more power the nectar will give you. The weaker you were, the stronger you will become.’ He stood, walking to the curtain that sealed off my cubicle from the rest of the infirmary. ‘Don’t question it, just accept it. The nectar will show you what really lies at your core.’

He had almost gone by the time I put together my next question.

‘But who are you?’ I said to his back. He paused, then turned to face me, the white curtain a shroud around him. For an instant I met his eyes, raw pits that seemed to have no end and which radiated power.

‘Who am I?’ he repeated, chewing on the question. ‘I am the man who made you. I am your father.’

Then the white fabric flapped and he was gone, leaving me alone with my smile.