"Susan used to say that being a good chef isn't about cooking a good meal," he said, using a spoon to carefully stir his creation. "It's about cooking for good people."
"Monty," I started, but he cut me off with a look that almost resembled the hate-filled expression I'd seen so many times before. It didn't last, and he returned his attention to the pot.
"Just eat," he said.
We let Monty serve up the dish without saying a word, but as soon as we wrapped our lips around his masterpiece we just couldn't shut up. Donovan especially. It had been so long since he had last tasted anything but prison food that he shouted out gleeful comments between every spoonful, even telling Monty how much he loved him.
Eventually he couldn't help himself and started crying, his shoulders rocking uncontrollably as he devoured each great mouthful. I almost joined him, the taste of salted beef and tomato sauce and gently cooked peppers making me feel like I was back at home. We were all transported out of Furnace for those few minutes. I'll never forget that. Until the last morsel of meat spilled down our throats and the final splash of sauce was licked from our plastic bowls we were free.
Afterward we cleared up our mess with howls of laughter, delirious with excitement. We even had a food fight with cores and peels, ducking behind counters and deflecting incoming missiles with pot lids, filling up the rubber gloves with water and lobbing them across the kitchen. Monty didn't join in, he didn't laugh. But he watched us with a glint in his eye and a twitch of a smile and I felt like I could see right through that expression to happier times-a large kitchen and two kids cooking garden-gnome spaghetti with the same love and laughter that we were clinging to so furiously now.
I wanted that moment to last forever, we all did. But of course it had to end. And there was never another day like it. How could there be? That night they came. They crawled from the darkness and came for Monty.
THE BLOOD WATCH
THEY CAME WITHOUT WARNING. They came without mercy.
One minute I was asleep, embraced by blissful dreams of Sunday afternoon picnics, the next I was shunted back into Furnace by a siren that wouldn't end-a continuous blast that wove itself around its own echo until the prison quaked and my ears stung. At first I thought it was the wake-up call, but it was still pitch-black and I knew from my internal clock that it was the dead of night.
As soon as I made that calculation I knew it was finally happening. They were coming. I shot up in bed, my heart beating so hard I was convinced it was trying to pound its way free from my chest. A wave of murmured wails and panicked cries circled the prison, ending with Donovan, who seemed to choke back a sob.
"Please, God, not tonight," I heard him whisper above the klaxon. "And not me. Not me. Please, God."
The darkness pressed against me like a coffin lining, and my light-starved eyes played tricks. Strange figures pulled themselves from the black cloth, always in the corner of my vision, stretching out for me with decaying fingers and hollow eyes. I expected to feel bony hands grab my arm any second, a cold embrace dragging me into the pit. I struck the air helplessly, and each time the phantoms dissolved only to form again, their pursuit relentless.
The wail of the siren cut out, and at the same time a thousand red lights embedded in the prison walls burst into life. I was plunged into a thick, choking silence, like someone had thrown me into a pool of blood. I saw the world in shades of red and black, and quickly found myself praying for night again. At least you can hide in the dark.
From the yard below came a hiss, then a bone-shattering boom as the vault door was unlocked. It swung open to reveal a procession of hunched forms who marched slowly from the gloom like they were heading a funeral procession. From my cell I couldn't make out who they were, the red light turning them into vague phantoms who drifted out into the yard. From the sound of wheezing, however, I could guess. I craned my neck to get a better view, but as soon as I moved I heard Donovan cry out.
"Just keep your head down, you idiot," he hissed. "Don't draw attention to the cell."
You could have heard a pin drop. Every single prisoner in Furnace had clamped his mouth shut, not even daring to take a breath for fear of alerting the twisted figures below. My own breaths sounded like hurricanes, my heartbeat like a drum punching out a rhythm that could probably be heard on the surface. Some perverse element of my brain started silently singing along to the twin beat-take me, take me, take me-and I had to bite my lip hard in order to make it shut up.
The five figures below stopped in the middle of the yard, wreathed in shadow. Then, as one, they screamed. The sound made my blood curdle. It was like a death cry from some wounded animal, like the noise a rabbit makes when it's snared in a trap. But it was an angry noise too-the howl of somebody who has just seen a loved one die. The shriek grated up the prison walls, turning each of us to stone. Then the figures lifted their heads and I saw who they were.
It was the gas masks, the wheezers, piggy-eyed and pasty-fleshed.
The wet screech came again, this time from only one of the grotesque figures, and the group separated. Two turned and made for the staircases on the far side of the prison, taking long, distorted steps, while the other three came our way, eventually disappearing under the platform outside my cell. Seeing the freaks below was one thing, but not seeing them was far worse. It meant they were coming up the stairs.
"What are they doing?" I whispered. When there was no reply I started to repeat myself, only to be cut off by a hiss from above.
"If you don't shut up I swear to God I'm gonna come down and kill you myself," Donovan said, his harsh words barely audible. "This isn't a joke. If they mark this cell, then you're going somewhere that makes death look like a holiday."
I opened my mouth to ask again but from the yard outside came a buzz, then with a sharp crack and a shower of sparks from the top of the prison the lights went out. Fear gripped me, the knowledge that those things could be right outside the cell. But seconds later the prison was plunged into a pool of bloodred color again as the electricity came back on.
"What the hell is happening?" I asked, but this time I had spoken too softly for even Donovan to hear. I chewed my lip furiously, desperate to know where the gas masks were. Finally, I could bear it no longer. As quietly as possible, I lifted the covers from my bed and climbed out. The squeak that the bunks made seemed as loud as the siren, and as soon as he heard it Donovan shot up in bed, his eyes like daggers.
"Back!" he spat, fear severing his sentences. "Get us both taken." He glanced at the bars, his face a mask of panic. "Not too late, back!"
From somewhere below another unnatural shriek cut through the red night, this one followed by a mournful wail that was painfully human. The wail turned into a word, one spoken again and again and again like a mantra. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no."
The lights cut out again, the sparks that fell from above like a miserable fireworks show that did nothing to illuminate the prison. I took comfort in the darkness, getting onto my knees and crawling to the door. Donovan had given up trying to stop me. I heard a creak as he turned his back on the bars, and the rustle of his sheet as he pulled it over his head.
"Dead man," came one last muffled comment from inside.
With an electronic hum the lights rebooted. It took my eyes a second to adjust before I saw movement on one of the levels on the other side of the prison. I counted upward, noting that one of the hideous wheezers was on level five. I watched it make its way slowly past the cells, no sign of life from any of them as their occupants shivered beneath their blankets.