The figure stalked like a bird, taking huge, sweeping steps forward, its legs lost in the tails of its leather coat. The body seemed to twitch and shake as it progressed, the head jerking upward every five or six steps, the gloved hands clawing at its own face as if trying to remove the ancient gas mask that hung there. There was something wrong with the way it moved its limbs, but the heavy crimson light stopped me working out what it was.
I was so busy studying the monster that I didn't notice which cell it had stopped at until I saw movement from inside. There was a flurry of motion, then a plump figure flew forward and crashed against the bars. Monty collapsed in front of the gas mask, curling up in the corner of the cell and burrowing his head in his arms. Behind him I could make out Kevin clambering back into the top bunk, diving under his sheets.
The gas mask arched its back and screamed, causing Monty to curl even more tightly into himself, then it placed a hand into its trench coat. When it pulled it free again, it was smothered in what looked like tar, great gobs of it dripping to the metal platform. The freak wiped its filthy hand across the cell door twice, marking out an X on the bars, then it screamed again and froze, its dry wheeze the only sign it was still alive.
The prison went black for a third time and I squinted into the darkness in vain. From somewhere above me came another scream, another terrified protest. Then a fizz of static as the red lights struggled on again. My view of Monty's cell was blocked, and it took me an instant to work out why. When I did, my heart actually skipped a beat as the horror sank in.
Right in front of me, in all its sick glory, was a gas mask. I only looked at it for an instant before staggering backward, but the image was seared onto my brain for a lifetime. The monster was standing directly outside the cell, staring at me with eyes so deeply embedded in its shriveled face that they looked like black marbles. The contraption that covered its mouth and nose was colored with rust and verdigris, and this close I could see that the ancient metal was stitched permanently into the skin.
It inhaled noisily, then raised its arms, the movement parting the filthy, bloodstained trench coat and revealing a leather bandolier slung diagonally across its chest. The strap held six or seven huge syringes that looked like they hadn't been cleaned since the Second World War. I realized what it was about its limbs that was so unsettling. They were moving too fast, shaking by its sides as if they were being played in fast forward. Its head suddenly twitched with the same terrifying speed, shaking uncontrollably for a second before snapping back into place.
I hit the bunks and slid to the ground, feeling as if somebody had stripped the bones from my legs. As I met the stone the lights flicked out, the sparks silhouetting the monster outside the cell as it reached into its pocket. I heard somebody else crying out "no, no, no" at the top of his voice, but it was another few seconds before I accepted it was me.
The lights snapped back on, but they didn't hold. For a few seconds they strobed on and off-red, black, red, black-while the wheezer stood outside the cell. The flashing lights made my head feel like it was going to explode, and I was forced to screw my eyes shut, burying my face into the crook of my arm as if that would protect me.
Then, with a hum, the power reasserted itself. I looked up, expecting to see the nightmare still standing outside my cell. But it was gone. I scrabbled to my feet and flung myself at the bars to see the gas mask continuing down the platform, eventually reaching the stairwell and heading up.
I hadn't taken a breath for what seemed like hours, and sucked in lungfuls of air.
"Is there a mark?" came Donovan's voice. "A cross, on the door?"
I ran my hands up the bars, but they were clean.
"Nothing," I whispered. Donovan sighed loudly, muttering thanks to something or someone.
"Get your ass back in bed, Sawyer," he went on. "You were lucky, but don't push it. It ain't over yet."
I stared down at Monty's cell. The gas mask hadn't budged since it had marked the door.
"What are they doing?" I asked again.
"They're not moving."
There was another scream from above, and this time all of the gas masks echoed it. Seconds later the siren blasted out again and I saw more shapes emerge from the vault door below. There were seven blacksuits in total, two of whom held a mutant dog on a leash, struggling to control the animal as it thrashed against its restraints.
Darkness again, and howling. The sound of footsteps against stone, then metal. A fresh round of screams from the gas masks and the same endless cry of "no" from the cell below me.
When the lights came back on I saw that the guards had split up, and were making their way to the marked cells. I crouched down as low as I could get and followed the blacksuit heading toward Monty. When he reached the door he called out for it to be opened. He was almost twice as tall as the shriveled figure beside him, but he eyed the wheezer warily as he waited for the door to slide open, never getting too close.
Monty was still curled up tight inside the cell, but I had never seen anybody look more exposed. The blacksuit reached in and grabbed the boy by his elbow, dragging him onto the platform as if he weighed no more than a sack of feathers. As soon as he was out under the red light Monty uncurled himself, flailing against the guard's iron grip. But the giant simply grabbed him by both wrists in a single mammoth hand and hoisted him into the air.
The gas mask screamed as if in delight. Then it snatched one of the syringes from its belt and thrust it at Monty like a knife. Right then I was grateful that the lights failed. But against the black canvas of darkness my imagination projected its own horrific conclusion to the story-the needle plunging into Monty's arm or neck, filling him full of rot and decay, of dirty chemicals, contaminated blood.
The prison was illuminated once more-just long enough for me to see the blacksuit dragging Monty's limp body toward the stairs, the gas mask right behind watching its prey like a hyena eyeing a corpse, the cell door sliding shut. On the yard below, the other blacksuits were slowly progressing toward the vault door-a sick procession of giants, freaks, and lost boys being dragged to a fate I couldn't even begin to imagine.
Then the prison went dark again, although from the pounding in my chest, the ringing in my ears, and the rush of air as I collapsed to the floor I knew that this time it had nothing to do with the lights.
AFTERMATH
I WOKE WHERE I'D FALLEN, bowed up like a baby on the hard stone beneath my bed. Opening my eyes, I saw Donovan on the toilet, but there were no jokes this time. He looked at me like I was something nasty he'd just expelled, then turned his attention to the toilet paper.
I hauled myself onto my bunk, my aching limbs protesting about a night spent on the freezing floor. My head was full of the horrors I'd seen during the blood watch, but due to an endless series of nightmares afterward I wasn't sure which of the images were real and which imagined. The wheezers with their dirty coats and filthy needles and gas masks sewn into their faces seemed like something only possible in a twisted dream, but the memory of them was so sharp that I knew they'd really been out there.
With a painful churning in my gut I suddenly remembered Monty, strung up and stabbed with that filthy syringe. Where was he now? What were they doing to him? I put the questions to Donovan, but he simply fixed me with that look of fury again and I quickly shut up.
A couple of sirens later and we all drifted down to the yard. I had never seen so many dark, tired eyes and drawn faces, so many nervous twitches and tear-stained cheeks. That morning, for once, everybody in Furnace looked their age. All the hard stares and swaggers had been replaced by frightened expressions and anxious shuffles as the children huddled in groups for comfort.