Lifers

by M. A. Griffin

  Preston must have slept, sitting next to Ellwood, back to the wall, legs up, arms around his knees. He knew he’d been asleep because he woke suddenly. The chamber was still and silent. Preston waited a moment, watching the shapes of sleeping prisoners, working out what might have woken him. Then he heard it. Low breathing, nearby.

  When he turned, there was a shape up close, a kid at a crouch moving stealthy and steady. Preston froze, his skin suddenly cold. He could have reached out and touched the shape—the lad was moving across him toward the sleeping Ellwood. She was just beyond, curled up and senseless. Vulnerable.

  The figure was Fox.

  It took Preston a second to marshal his thoughts. Fox was light on the balls of his feet—delicate like an acrobat. One hand was on the floor, balancing him. In the other, Preston saw the shape of something curved. It was a knife. As Preston’s eyes got used to the fuzz of the dark, he could make out the shape of the kid’s face and the lenses of his glasses, the sheen of sweat on the back of his neck.

  Preston swallowed his fear and checked Ellwood without moving his head. As slowly as he could, he adjusted his position, feeling the dull ache of cramp in his calves as he readied himself. His stomach gnawed and grumbled as he made fists of his hands and held his breath.

  Fox was closer now, a liquid shape like a predatory animal.

  Somehow Preston knew. This was an assassination. If he didn’t move now, Ellwood would die silently, a cold hand over her mouth, a blade in her belly.

  Preston shifted position, biting his lip. No one else seemed to be awake out there in the dark. He moved quickly. Two quick strides were all he had to get some momentum going. He threw himself forward, hard and low, shoulder first. He struck Fox around the waist, bundling him over on top of Ellwood. She woke gasping and kicking, instinctively pushing them off. Preston went down, his arms around the attacker. He didn’t know where the knife was—he couldn’t make out the shape of the kid underneath him in the blackness. He pushed down on Fox’s back with all his weight, praying a hand wouldn’t wriggle free and a blade open him up.

  “Jesus!” Fox said through his teeth. “What you doing? What the hell you doing?”

  Ellwood was alert now. “Faulkner,” she said. “What the hell?”

  Preston loosened his grip and Fox kicked himself clear, rolling onto his butt and sitting, the knife gone. He was a practiced liar. “You get your hands off me, screb, or I’ll chop you up,” he hissed.

  Ellwood said, “Fox. What’s happening?”

  The kid gave a yellow grin. “New boy jumped me. All uptight and paranoid, man.”

  “What are you even doing here?”

  “Taking a walk.”

  Ellwood pulled her knees up toward her. “Walk somewhere else, yeah?”

  Fox shrugged. “Whatever.” He brushed the dust from his jeans and stood, then winked. “Nighty-night, ladies.” He gave Preston a leer so sour it made him shiver. Then he turned and picked his way into the darkness between the limbs of sleepers.

  Preston let out a trembling breath, watching the kid go. “He had a knife,” he said when Fox had vanished into the gloom. “He seriously looked like he was coming for you. What have you done to piss him off ?”

  Ellwood wrung her hands. They were shaking. “It’s been getting bad for a while,” she said. “I don’t want weapons. We can’t have blades. Fox and his boys wouldn’t give them up. Things got nasty.” Ellwood was spinning her father’s watch again, intense. “Gedge thought I handled it wrong. Maybe I did. But I figured we could force them to surrender.”

  “You’ve been keeping food from them?”

  Ellwood nodded slowly. “It was the only control we had. We need control.” She ran a hand through her hair and it stood up, tangled and brilliant. “Guess we’re losing it,” she said.

  They sat in silence for a long time after that.

  There was a hand on his shoulder. It tightened, shaking him. Preston blinked groggily and wiped his mouth. It could have been hours later, could have been minutes. Lewison was standing over him. Ellwood had gone.

  “Heads up,” Lewison said. He turned, indicating the far corner of the hall. There were figures in the mouth of the corridor, holding each other up. “Rabbit’s back,” said Lewison with a grin.

  Across the room, kids were up on their feet, crowding the returning figures. Preston craned his neck, his heart strong and hard under his ribs.

  Then he saw them.

  It was Ryan he recognized first, the older boy stooped with fatigue. And Alice was walking a few steps behind. Alice had her hat on, her hair in pigtails under it, her jeans with holes at the knees. The sight of her was like drinking adrenaline, a rush that made him want to run across the room and bear hug the breath out of her. He couldn’t stop smiling, but then his energy seeped. He had to tell her about the text message. He ran a palm across his dry lips and held his breath.

  He’d rehearsed it a hundred times over. I have something to say that you need to hear. Then, I made a terrible mistake. Then, We all make mistakes, right? Then maybe, Don’t punish me for this. Let me explain. But whenever he rehearsed it, the ending was bad. It didn’t matter how much he adjusted his words, it was always: How could you do this to me? I thought you were my friend. I hate you. I’ll never forgive you.

  Ellwood went forward to Ryan. There looked to be a moment of bungling reluctance, one that held the two figures apart. Then Ellwood put an arm around the taller boy’s shoulder and he stood stiffly, placing a hand on hers, pulling her toward him just a little. Alice folded her arms and hung back a bit. Then the awkward moment was over, and all around them, kids began to rise to their feet, leaning in, craving news. Preston felt a complicated knot in his chest. He tried to swallow it down but it persisted, partly a burn of bitter satisfaction at seeing Ryan and Alice so distant. It was clear there was something between Ellwood and Ryan—something young and awkward—and that Alice was bruised and seething, but that too tugged under his ribs, made him uneasy. He bit his thumbnail until it stung and bled. After a time, the conversation seemed to stop and there was movement. Ellwood was leaving the big open cave and heading back toward the corridor where they’d first arrived. Ryan was following, and so were the others now: Hoyle, Chowdhury, the big lad Gedge, and the rest of her close team of advisors. The kids in the cave, though, they dropped away, returned to their places. At the head of the delegation, Ellwood walked shoulder to shoulder with Ryan, Alice a few steps behind. Alice turned and saw him.

  Preston raised an open palm in greeting, straining every sinew to exude cool. He felt an involuntary grin split his face. Alice broke away, started toward him.

  When he held her she felt thin and frail, her cheekbones sharp against the side of his face, and her breath came in a rattle, as if she was ill. Preston had played and replayed this moment in his mind since Alice had gone missing. The real thing wasn’t what he’d expected. In his imagined versions, she’d even kissed him on the cheek. But the real thing was colder and sadder. Alice looked exhausted and cried quietly. “Press,” she said, holding him at arm’s length to look at him. “This whole thing is a nightmare. Some of them are only children. What are you doing here?”

  He wasn’t expecting the question. The answer seemed obvious. “I came looking for you,” he said.

  Alice laughed. It was a laugh that should’ve sounded joyous, but it carried a kind of pity in it.

  “What?” said Preston.

  “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

  Preston felt himself color up fiercely. She sounded ungrateful but he didn’t know why. “What’s happened?”

  She blinked tears from her eyes. “God,” she said quietly. “What hasn’t happened?”

  Preston suddenly felt as if they were two strangers. “Ryan okay?” he tried, immediately cursing his stupidity.

  Alice scowled. “Oh yeah,” she said darkly. “He’s been amusing himself.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Why not ask Miss High and Mighty,�
�� Alice said. Then she closed up, wrapping her hands around herself. “Sorry,” she said. Then, “I have to help some of the younger ones. They’re frightened.” She turned and walked back toward the group.

  Preston took an uncertain step to follow, but faltered and then stood, foolish and alone, feeling the whole room watching him. Lewison rescued him a moment later. “C’mon. It’s the meeting in the writing room. She wants you there.”

  They were gathered around the writing wall in a loose half circle; Ellwood was at the center, one hand in the pocket of her jeans, one hand open-palmed against the words on the wall, fingers touching ARMSTRONG. When she saw him she gave him a nod—a slight, almost imperceptible, signal of her approval.

  Ryan paused and gave Preston a look, a cold-eyed upward tip of the chin that was the only indication they’d ever even met. To Preston’s left, Lewison was jumpy and curious, eyes everywhere. Hoyle was standing opposite, his scowl a mask. Dwarfing him was Gedge. He gave a nod. “New boy,” he said by way of greeting. Alice had kept her distance from the group, Preston noticed, arms folded and gaze downward.

  Ryan was talking freely. “So we found another squad of madboxes,” he said, a tremor of excitement in his voice. “Seriously.” There was a collective yes, a silent fist-clenching moment of relief. Ryan grinned. “There’s maybe a dozen and they look alive.”

  “Seriously?” hissed Hoyle.

  Ryan nodded. “There are problems,” he said. “We need to get through another set of doors. But when we do—those madboxes … they’re lit up like Christmas lights.”

  An impromptu cheer went up, and the room echoed to swapped expressions of relief. Ellwood held a hand aloft and the discussions broke up again. She gave a smile, one that seemed to take in everybody. Preston liked that smile.

  “This is good news. And right now, we need good news,” she said. She paused, then added, “There’s been no more supplies through.” She’d addressed it mostly at Ryan and his group, but the effect was the same on everyone—a collective groan of despair.

  “There’s gonna be war for what’s left,” said Hoyle. Someone else swore loudly. Someone said, “We’re going to starve down here!”

  “This is the man responsible,” said Ellwood over the hum of voices, her hand on Armstrong’s name. “He’s shutting down the madboxes and we’re being left for dead. He’s the enemy, right? So when we get through, he’s the one we need to target.”

  “We’re closer than we’ve ever been,” said Ryan. Someone had handed him a bottle of water and he’d thrown back half and seemed revived; he stood taller and straighter. “We’ll need to go in groups. The journey’s a difficult one. There’s some strange stuff up there,” he said. “There’s no pipes so we couldn’t signal. It’s all very … ” He paused. “The building gets very different. But if we get through the doors, we could all be out in hours.”

  “The children need to go first.” It was Alice, biting her lip. “We need to get the younger ones out.”

  All out in hours? Children first? This wasn’t what Preston had expected. It was as if no one here knew that entering a valve without a databand was suicide. Preston felt the sweat prickle on his scalp. He was the only one who had the full story. He had to tell the group.

  Chowdhury was speaking now and Ryan was shaking his head, his lip curled in frustrated anger. “We’re here because we have committed crimes,” Chowdhury was saying, his voice soft and humble. “We have to accept that. We’ve sent six frontmen through and they promised they would be returning to help us. So why leave?” Voices clamored at this and Ellwood had to wave them down. “We must give them time,” Chowdhury continued. “They need our faith in them. They’ll be back.” There were murmurs of agreement; a skinny kid to Chowdhury’s right nodded his assent. Someone clapped him on the shoulder.

  In the end, Preston couldn’t stop himself. “They won’t,” he said, clear and calm. At first the group were taken aback—the new kid speaks—but then Ellwood, eyebrows curved high, gave a cautious nod. Preston broke the tension of the silence. “Your last two frontmen went through a few nights back. I know that cos I saw one come through the other side of the valve.” Ellwood’s face changed at this—the line of her jaw tightened as she checked the responses of the crowd. The writing room was silent. In the icy gray light, Preston could feel everyone’s eyes on him. “He didn’t make it. None of them made it.” He hadn’t thought ahead sufficiently to realize fully what the response would be. These were fellow prisoners—volunteer frontmen who’d taken a risk for the others. They’d never see them alive again. Heads dropped and feet shifted. Someone swore bitterly.

  Then Hoyle spoke through his grimy fingers. “How can you be sure?” he said. “You could be lying. To keep us here.”

  The idea seemed crazy, but the faces of the kids in the writing room told another story. Lewison frowned, looking across at Hoyle. “I’m not lying,” Preston said with feeling. “Why would I be lying? I’m trying to help. I saw one kid come through. The nightwardens had the other one too.”

  “Nightwardens,” said Ellwood. She turned to the wall, tracing the connections. Preston watched her, feeling the suspicion in the room. “Shade, right?” she said.

  Preston nodded.

  “I heard that name too,” said one of the kids.

  “There’s three of them,” Preston said. “One’s Shade, one’s an American woman called Esther. There was a third I didn’t meet. Shade’s brother, I think. But he wasn’t around.” Ellwood rolled a finger at him, encouraging more. “They guard the outside of the valves—the madboxes—but they don’t expect anyone to make it out. Not alive, anyway. You can’t.” Preston found himself having to raise his voice as he spoke; others were calling, jeering. He felt his face flush and a line of sweat travel the length of his spine.

  Ellwood said, “Hear him out!” She still had control, Preston reckoned, but it was tentative. Her voice was firm and objections petered out. “He knows things we don’t. It’s possible the valves were designed this way. It sounds like the kind of thing Armstrong would plan for.”

  Hoyle was playing with the zipper of his tracksuit top. “Here’s an alternative story,” he said. “Let’s say new boy’s one of them. One of these nightwarden people. They’re not happy that our frontmen have got out. They’ve sent this guy down to stop us.” Hoyle got a murmur of approval for this and pushed on, stabbing a yellowed finger at Preston as he did. “So just as we’re about to make an escape, you show up to tell us it can’t be done.” Ellwood tried to calm him, but Hoyle, wiry and exhausted, skeletal, was breathing deeper and thrusting his chest out. “You’re part of the problem, new boy. We’ve got a solution right here!” He thrust an arm out in Ryan’s direction. A cheer went up at this. An actual full-throated cheer.

  “Hang on,” Ellwood said, her voice sharp. But the feeling in the room was changing and Preston could sense it sharp and clear. It felt supercharged, flammable.

  There were upraised arms directing insults. Chowdhury almost had to shout to be heard. “This fighting gets us nowhere! We must wait here. There are enough supplies to keep us alive for days yet … ” But he was drowned out by jeers, opinions, and warnings.

  “Let’s go for the trapdoors!” someone yelled. It might have been Hoyle.

  “Let’s go through now!” came a shout. “Get the goggles!”

  Ellwood tried to get control again but the exchanges had gotten ugly and she was drowned out. When Chowdhury held up both arms and called for peace, someone hit him and he went down. There was a surge in the shape of the group. Preston tried to pull himself clear. Someone kicked him. He could hear Alice screaming something. There was a sort of scrum.

  Then Ryan was shouting something—yelling at Ellwood, his face close to hers, and she was shouting back, and the energy went out of the fight and the room stilled around the two of them. “We’re going!” Ryan was saying. “We’re going now! That’s what we need to do. For Christ’s sake, Chloe, don’t bloody overthink this like you do ev
erything else!”

  Ellwood straightened up. “Overthink?” she said, her voice high and taut. “Someone’s got to do the bloody thinking down here!” She stabbed a finger at him. “If I’d done a bit more thinking,” she said with furious sarcasm, “maybe I wouldn’t have ended up—”

  Ryan gave an indignant laugh. “Right. So it was all a mistake, was it?” He struck the flat of his hand against his chest. “Now I’ve done all the hard work, I get cast aside, do I? Who’s the new crush now, Chloe?” Ryan pointed at Preston. “Faulkner’s got the inside track and suddenly he’s God’s bloody gift, is he?” He spun around and paced.

  Preston looked at Alice. She was standing at the edge of the group, and she’d closed up, made herself small—her shoulders hunched, her head down. Her expression was one of studied devastation. She was working her jaw, biting back rage and tears.

  Ryan continued. “There’s a dozen madboxes up there and they’re alive! They’re working!” There were cheers from the assembly at this. Hoyle raised a fist in the air and roared his agreement.

  Ellwood had to blink tears from her eyes. She’d lost this one, it was clear. “Ryan, please. Wait. It’s not safe.” Ryan turned to the group. “I’m going,” he said, pushing back his hair with a pair of perched goggles. “I’ll check it’s safe. If it is, I’ll get word to you all. Who’s coming?” he said. “I need volunteers.”

  It was Alice who raised her hand first.

  When Ryan saw her, his expression changed. He seemed suddenly aware of what he’d said and done, and his eyes softened. He nodded his agreement. Hoyle volunteered too. Chowdhury nursed a cut on his forehead and glowered. Others wanted to be in the second wave—cowards who needed someone else to die for them. Some weaker kids just got turned away.

  The standoff lasted while Ryan’s little group rested and made preparations. The writing room had calmed, the crackle of violent energy dispersed. Ellwood sent Chowdhury over with three bottles of water and a couple of tins of food, which the three of them shared as they talked in low voices, Ryan laying out his plan, Alice listening silently, Hoyle asking questions. Preston watched from a distance, feeling stupid and helpless. Twice he began the walk over to their corner, ready for an argument. But twice he hesitated.