Lockdown by Alexander Gordon Smith
Several armored men were climbing out of the vehicles, most equipped with rifles and flashlights and one holding what looked like a bolt cutter. They walked to the gates, the cop with the cutters using them to snap through the heavy chain before kicking them open. He pointed at the school building, and two of the police with flashlights started running toward it. Then he scanned the playing field, his eyes coming to rest on my jungle gym. He gestured my way.
I ducked behind the rail as two beams of light struck the metal frame, seeking me out. There wasn’t much cover, but the police were too far away to see me. Not for long, though. As I watched, the two men started jogging across the grass in my direction. I shuffled backward across the platform until I reached the rear edge, ready to drop down to the ground.
But before I could, my eye caught a piece of graffiti that I swear had never been there before. Carved into the soft wood of the platform, in large, even letters, were three words that made my blood freeze.
Keep running, Alex.
I traced my fingers across the markings to make sure they were real, but the sensation of splinters in my skin let me know that this was no dream. The men, whoever they were, had known what I’d do before I did.
The sound of footsteps pounding the wet grass reminded me that the police were getting closer. I shoved myself off the rear of the frame, landing awkwardly on the soft ground and backing into the darkness. Turning, I sprinted toward the fence, forcing my tired legs to work. Scrambling out into the overgrown garden, I scanned the street to make sure it was empty, then turned left and started walking toward Brandon’s house.
I hadn’t spoken to Brandon much since Toby and I had started robbing houses instead of students. It was as if he could see that invisible tattoo too, and it was pretty clear from the way he acted now that he was scared of us, of what we’d become. But we’d been close friends once, and even when you’ve been to hell and back your friends stick by you.
I cut up Edwards Avenue, taking another left at the top of the hill and making my way toward Bessemer Road. The houses in this part of town were all huge, their four stories staring out across the tract housing below like they were laughing at them. I guess that’s one of the reasons Brandon had backed out—even though his parents only owned an apartment up here, they weren’t exactly poor. Not that I was stealing bread so that I could stay alive. I’m no Oliver Twist.
I spotted the building that Brandon’s apartment was in and crossed the road, trying to stick to the blanket of shadows that kept most of the street in darkness. All the lights were off, which wasn’t surprising given that it was long after midnight, but I knew which room was his. Sneaking in through the front gate, I picked up a couple of small stones from the graveled path and pulled back my arm to launch them at the second-floor window.
Before I could, something grabbed my wrist—a vise-like grip that felt like it could have torn the whole limb off. I yelped, as much from the shock as the pain, and spun around to see a horribly familiar face standing right behind me, his silver eyes glinting, the same tiny mole on his chin and his soulless smile beaming at me like the Cheshire Cat’s. It was impossible—he hadn’t been there seconds before, and nobody could move that quickly, that quietly.
“Didn’t your mother tell you never to throw stones?” the man in the suit asked, his voice so powerful that it felt as if it was being transmitted right into the center of my brain. I couldn’t respond, my whole body felt numb. The man tightened his grip on my arm, bending down until his face was almost touching mine. “Not long till sunrise, Alex,” he said, the scent of his breath like sour milk. “And now you’ve got these guys to deal with.”
He twisted my wrist, spinning me around and giving me a shove that propelled me back out of the gate. I tripped on my own feet, staggering backward off the curb and landing in a heap in the road. I glanced up just in time to see a police car slam on its brakes, squealing to a stop seconds before its front bumper made friends with my forehead. I looked back to Brandon’s garden, but it was empty—the man in black had vanished just as quickly as he had appeared.
I heard the sound of the car doors opening and I leaped to my feet, backing away from the vehicle. A policeman in beetle-black body armor was making his way toward me, his expression one of concern. A policewoman held back, one hand on her radio, the other on the nasty-looking nightstick that hung from her belt.
“You okay?” the man asked, stepping closer. “You just came out of nowhere. Did we hit you?”
I kept on retreating, my eyes flitting back and forth from the man to the woman. Her radio bleeped, the sound filling the whole street, before a voice spoke from the static. I couldn’t make out what it said, but I knew from the way she looked at me that it wasn’t good.
“It’s him!” she shouted, wrenching the stick from her belt and advancing. Her partner’s expression instantly morphed into one of anger, and he pounced, leaping toward me.
Up until tonight, I’d have thought he was a big guy, and quick too. But compared with the men in black the cop looked tiny, and his move was sluggish. I darted to my left, angling my body so that his hands missed me, then swiveled, pushing him square in the back and sending him sprawling onto the wet road. His partner shrieked at me to stop, vaulting over the car’s hood with her nightstick held high, ready to knock me into next week.
I don’t know how I did it, but somehow I managed to start running again. You must remember how your legs feel after running laps in gym class, when they’re so exhausted that it seems like you’re running underwater. That was how it felt—leaping back onto the pavement and hurtling down that road, trying to hold off the sobs so I could breathe. When I look back, remembering that policewoman, who only chased me to the end of the street before returning to her car, it doesn’t seem too bad. I mean, I’ve run screaming from far worse things since that night, creatures that never stop chasing you.
There was only one place left to go, and I headed there at full pelt. I don’t remember the journey, it was as if my brain had shut down so that all my energy could be directed to my feet. And I couldn’t stop running, even when I reached my house. If I kept moving, then nobody could catch me—not the police who were gathered outside, not the men in black suits who were waiting in the shadows, watching everything through silver eyes. If I could just make it inside, then all the bad things would go away.
So I didn’t stop. Not when the police started shouting, not when officers in black masks and bulletproof vests ran into the street with rifles, not when my mom came racing out of the front door dressed in her pink nightie and slippers, screaming at me to give myself up. I just put my head down and cried to her with all my strength.
I don’t know how I even managed to stay upright, the world was spinning so fast, but I made it past the first policeman, my sheer momentum sending him flying. The second backed out of my way, his expression of shock almost comical. I could see my mom, tears streaming down her face, being held back by two policewomen. I could see the open door behind her, the warm glow of the kitchen. If I could just make it, ten more steps, then maybe all this could end. Maybe I could find Daniel Richards, give him his money back. It was only twenty quid!
I hit the third policeman square on. He was built like a fireplug—all chest and shoulders—and I bounced off, the wind knocked out of me. I charged forward again but it was too much. My legs cramped and I dropped to my knees for the second time that night. I reached out to my mom, and she reached out to me, but the air between us was instantly flooded with black uniforms, blotting her out like flies. Then I was on the ground, strangers’ knees in my back, their nightsticks against my skull, and sharp metal around my wrists.
“I didn’t do it!” I sobbed. “I didn’t do it!”
But I couldn’t even lift my head from the sidewalk, and with the weight of the world on my shoulders only the cold, wet concrete beneath me heard my denial.
DENIAL AND DAMNATION
“I DIDN’T DO IT.”
It seeme
“How could you do it?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“He was your friend.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Well, you’re gonna pay, kid.”
“I didn’t do it.”
Next it was the detectives. They started nice, like they always do in the movies, offering deals and leniency if I just confessed. But the more I denied it the harder they got, their questions so relentless that by the third day when they were kicking over my chair and blowing cigarette smoke in my face I barely knew whether I was guilty or not.
Then came Toby’s parents, who sat on the other side of a table clutching each other and screaming at me, their eyes burning with more hatred than I had ever seen in anyone, their anger only held in check by the cops who rested hands on their quivering shoulders and told them I’d get what was coming to me. By this time my mantra was a whisper, little more than a breath, but I kept saying it because, like a breath, it was the only thing keeping me alive.
The worst questions came from the people I loved, my mom and dad. I was separated from them by a dirty plastic window, but there was a far greater barrier between us. I could tell by the way my mom couldn’t meet my eye that she thought I was guilty, and she refused to listen to my pleas just like everybody else. There may as well have been a gorge between us, or a mountain, and by the time she was guided out of the room by my dad’s unsteady hands I couldn’t even find the energy to whisper my denials.
For three weeks I endured an interrogation every day and was thrown into a cell each night. Of course, I told them everything that had happened—the men in the black suits, the sinister figure in the gas mask, the way they had shot Toby in cold blood—but even as I was talking the words seemed ludicrous, hollow. I didn’t blame them for laughing at me, I’d never have believed my story either if I hadn’t lived the nightmare myself.
MY TRIAL WAS an extension of the same empty process. I was marched into court with an armed escort, and chained inside a cage—the kind better suited to serial killers and military generals accused of war crimes, not terrified kids. The heavy bars didn’t stop the hatred directed at me when the hearing began. It poured through like ice water from a judge who was already convinced I was a killer, from a jury that had made up its mind about this case as soon as it started, and from the crowd in the public gallery who bayed for my punishment like hyenas. I felt like I was drowning in their contempt, and just prayed for it to be over, even if it meant sinking without a trace.
My spirits were lifted only once, when midway through the second day the doors of the courtroom opened and two men strode through. Dressed in black and larger than life, they were instantly recognizable—the men who had sent me here. The room fell silent as soon as they entered, even the judge lowering his voice from respect, or maybe fear.
“That’s them!” I shouted as they took their seats. “They’re the men who framed me. They killed Toby!”
But the judge simply banged his gavel and fixed me with a contemptuous stare.
“Of course they are,” he said, his voice oily with sarcasm. “These men are representatives from Furnace Penitentiary. Is this what your defense has come to? Accusing anybody of your crimes. Was I there? Did I have a disagreement with your accomplice and pull the trigger too?”
The jury laughed, and the men in black suits unveiled their shark grins and flashed their silver eyes at me. I was like a fish on the end of a line, waiting to be reeled in.
It took the jury less than forty minutes to decide my fate. Twelve men and women in a room with my life in their hands, and they condemned me in less time than the first half of a soccer match. Not that I’m trying to pass the buck. I hadn’t killed Toby, but his blood was on my hands just like my blood was on his. If we hadn’t been so stupid, then none of this would have happened. We’d both have been at school just like any other day, tormenting teachers, chasing girls, and being kids.
I’ll never forget the judge’s closing speech when the jury announced the guilty verdict. He stood, his walnut desk like a pulpit and his booming voice and thrashing limbs like those of a preacher damning the devil.
“Your crimes are heinous and unforgivable,” he shouted, the flecks of foam around his mouth visible even from where I was standing. “Like so many of today’s youth you have taken your life and squandered it, turning to crime instead of honor, sickness instead of decency. You have killed in cold blood, you are a coward and a thief and a murderer, and like all the other festering waste of society who come through this court I am happy to sentence you without remorse and without pity.”
He leaned forward, never taking his eyes off me.
“You knew very well when you pulled that trigger what your punishment would be,” he hissed. “There is no longer any leniency for child offenders, not since the Summer of Slaughter. And like those murderous teenagers you will never again see the light of day. If it was up to me, I would see you hanged by the neck until you were dead. But alas I must settle for this.” He paused again, smiling wickedly to himself. “Or perhaps settle is the wrong word. Perhaps this is a fate even worse.”
I knew what was coming. I clenched my fingers around the bars, praying one last time that something would happen to end this sick and twisted dream. But it was too late. It was over.
“Alex Sawyer, I hereby sentence you to life imprisonment at the Furnace Penitentiary with no possibility of parole. You will be taken from here this afternoon and incarcerated for the remainder of your days.”
The resulting wave of cheers and shouts, the banging of the gavel and the roaring in my ears as the truth sank in drowned out the only thing I could think of to say.
“I didn’t do it.”
I DON’T REMEMBER much else about that day. I have a vague recollection of being dragged from the courtroom by the armed guards, the men in black holding open the door and telling me once again that they’d see me very soon. I couldn’t quite remember how to use my legs, so they literally pulled me along the marble-clad corridors, past the crowds with their expressions of hatred and disgust, past my own parents, whose faces I could not make out because they turned away.
I recall only one thing with any clarity. As I was passing a second courtroom the doors flew open to reveal another boy, a similar age to me, being hauled kicking and screaming from inside. He was giving the bailiffs a hard time, his flailing body sending one crashing to the floor and causing the other to reach for his taser. With a flash fifty thousand volts sent the boy hurtling across the corridor, leaving him in a groaning, smoking pile. But even then I could make out his protests and they sent a chill down my spine.
“It wasn’t me,” he whispered as the men picked him up. “It wasn’t me.”
For the briefest of seconds our eyes met. It was like looking into a mirror—the fear, the panic, the defiance. I knew instantly that what had happened to me had also happened to him. Our dark fates entwined by the same men, our lives broken by an identical deception.
And then he was gone. I was carried down the corridor, my memories of the moment lessening with each step and fading away completely as I climbed into the truck that would take me to my new home. To the place I would spend the rest of my life. To my own personal hell.
To Furnace.
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
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.