Lifers

by M. A. Griffin

  “I’ll stay,” Ryan said eventually. His face was a smear of plaster dust and sweat, his hair white with it. “I can keep control of the food we’ve got left and … ”

  Preston shook his head. “The last of the food will already be out,” he said.

  Ryan licked his cracked lips and winced at the pain of it. “So how long would you be?”

  It was difficult to say. He’d come out at M.I.S.T., he’d find Shade and ask for help. Shade would know what to do. Then he could be collecting the databands and he could be straight back through for the big-time prison break. Except there was shutdown.

  What if the valves weren’t working anymore once he got home? What if he couldn’t get back at all, and everyone left behind was left behind forever? The thought was almost too much. Preston felt his heart do a weird flutter and he felt faint. If he didn’t eat soon …

  “How long would you be?” This time it was Alice asking.

  “I don’t know for sure. Maybe another day.” Assuming Armstrong hadn’t pulled the plug already.

  Alice knotted her fingers together, then said, “I’ll stay.”

  “No way,” said Preston.

  But Alice continued, “I can make sure the younger kids are kept safe. I’ll stay.”

  “It should be me, Al,” said Ryan. He looked at her with tenderness. “I screwed everything up for us down here. I’ll stay.” Alice held his gaze for a long time, her face unreadable.

  “This is stupid,” Preston said. “We haven’t even got the bloody databands yet.” He fought his way to his feet, groaning at the effort of it, legs and back aching, stomach gnawing. It was either Ellwood, Chowdhury, or Lewison. It had to be—they were the only ones who even knew the bands existed. When he showed them to Ellwood, he’d made damn sure he didn’t hand them over …

  Then it made sudden sense.

  Lewison—that’s who it was. What did he say about stealing bikes? I’m quick with my hands that way. Can’t resist it, sometimes. “It was Lewison, the bastard,” Preston spat. “He stole them. C’mon. If we find Lewison, we’ve still got a chance.”

  The final stretch of stinking corridor seemed to last an age. The hall was alive when they arrived back, a fever of bad panic in the air. The food and water had been set up in the center of the hall. Chowdhury was there now, unpacking the last of the tins and bottles, a couple of kids helping. Groups were making ragged lines, but they broke up when eyes turned to the corridor and the prisoners saw them returning.

  They could hardly carry Ellwood a step farther, and as they made it into the hall Preston felt his legs sway. He couldn’t lock them, they wouldn’t straighten, and he had to lower the girl’s limp shape. There was no strength left. Ryan set her down as crowds gathered, and questions came fast then. What had happened? Was she dead? Were there monsters? Did the madbox eat her? Was there a way out? Hoyle—where was Hoyle?

  They handled it between them in the end, sharing the story, their voices cracked and mostly crowded out. Someone passed a half-finished bottle of water and they shared it, talking slowly, picking their words carefully.

  “She’s still alive,” Preston said, sheltering Ellwood from the push of the crowds. “But we need to try and get her some help.”

  Ryan was giving an exhausted account of Hoyle’s disappearance. “He went through,” he finished. “I don’t think he’ll be coming back.”

  Preston asked, “Where’s Lewison? Anyone seen him?” He couldn’t get an answer. Shrugs and silence. Most kids stayed near the food in gaunt and defeated groups. “Where’s Lewison?” he said again.

  Then one set of kids suddenly broke away from the gathered groups and headed for the corridor. One of them had an armful of tins, another some water.

  “Hold up,” Ryan said when he saw them. “That’s not a good idea. We need to stay here.”

  The kid at the back turned. It was Fox, with his scratched glasses and his angular, bruised face. The Longsight lads. “You gonna stop us?” he said. Some of the others were watching now. This wouldn’t have happened yesterday, with Ellwood still around. There were rules and routines: places you could go, places off-limits.

  “You can’t go,” Ryan said.

  “You can’t get through the valves,” Preston shouted in support. They needed to control this. The group stopped again. All four turned, looking almost ready to listen.

  “He’s right,” said Ryan. “The valves nearly killed Ellwood. You can’t go through.”

  “I don’t remember anyone putting you in charge,” sneered Fox.

  “Wait … ” Preston started. He was going to say more, when he remembered—the door to the room of valves had locked behind them as they left. The card was in his pocket.

  But before he could tell them, there was something else.

  This time it was a commotion over by the food and water because Chowdhury—who had been talking, Preston realized, his voice steady and constant—started shouting. “Hey!” he was saying. “There’s a distribution model. Hey!” Preston knew what he was going to see before he turned around. Now the boss was gone, there was a fight starting.

  The Longsight lads took off, heading for the valves. Ryan started chasing, but then faltered and came back to protect Ellwood as the crowd began a feral surge.

  “Calm down!” Preston tried. “Just hang on a minute!” But he was swallowed by a sideways movement toward the supplies—all shoulders and sharp elbows, some pushing, others jostled helplessly along. He could hear Alice shouting something, Chowdhury saying, “Stand back!”

  Preston tried to find Lewison in the breaking and grouping. There was no sign of him. Someone nearby had gone down and someone else had fallen over them, legs knotted. There was a scream from somewhere near the ground; a kid was getting a boot in the face, clawing at the legs descending on him, trying to pull himself clear.

  By the time Preston had pushed his way to the edge of the scrum, it was chaos. The hall was nothing but a shifting mass of roaring groups. Across the center of the space, the place where Chowdhury and Alice had been, was a swollen smudge of spilled water, split and leaking plastic bottles cast about. There were fights at the edges of this dark gray stain, scuffles and brawls for the bottles. The same had happened with the food: Cans and packets of stuff had been torn open, tipped out. One group were tearing the plastic husk of wrapping from a tray of tins, shouting and shoving to get access to it.

  Civilization was only one meal deep.

  Alice emerged from the chaos, hair streaming, wiping the back of her hand across her bloody nose. “What do we do?” she said. “It’s crazy!”

  There were shifts and surges in the crowds. One group had started throwing empty cans to deter attackers. Another gang had backed off, dragging a haul of sealed bottles. A third lot were wearing goggles; they’d turned themselves inhuman. Ryan appeared, pulling Ellwood, hands looped under her armpits. They settled her in a quieter corner. Someone gave her water but she couldn’t drink. Her pulse was weaker again.

  “I need to find Lewison,” Preston said.

  “I’ll help,” said Ryan. Alice stayed with Ellwood.

  Preston picked his way through the chaos, checking faces. One group were sitting it out, watching with weary horror. Some small thin kids—lithe little rodent boys—were tracking the progress of fights and then scurrying in to swipe a bottle or a can. One lot were working as a team, with two or three of these runners bringing trophies back for a group who’d occupied a corner. The kid who’d been trampled earlier had gotten himself clear, his T-shirt soaked with spilled water, big black boot marks on his tiny rib cage.

  Lewison was nowhere to be seen.

  Preston scanned the hall and caught sight of Ryan, who gave him a hopeless shrug. Over by the corner where he’d sat with Ellwood and her gang just the previous night, Preston saw Chowdhury. He made his way across, picking a route that avoided a violent scuffle that had broken out over a couple of tins. His stomach tightened and ached at the sight and smell of the food—what lo
oked like cold soup and tinned potatoes. One kid was hunched eagerly over a can of it, shoveling in the contents with a trembling hand.

  Preston didn’t want to contemplate what some prisoners might do to survive once supplies were gone. But if he couldn’t find Lewison and talk him into giving the bands back, he’d be finding out. The thought made him twist with terror. He made a silent promise to himself there and then, circling the edge of the hall and staying away from the fighting, that if he ever had the chance to get Armstrong back for this, he would.

  Ryan had already reached Chowdhury when Preston arrived. The kid had taken a further beating since Preston had last seen him. He tried to smile but his lip split. He indicated his eye, which had puffed and closed up. “Some people won’t listen to reason,” he said by way of explanation. “There’s a simple mathematical way to divide it all. But I’ve yet to convince this lot,” he said, his face clouded. “Ryan was telling me about Ellwood. How is she?”

  “She needs a hospital.”

  Chowdhury put his head in his hands. “You know, she was right to be worried about the Longsight lads. They jumped me.” He wiped his good eye and paused. “What will we do without her?”

  “Chowdhury. Listen—this is important. Where’s Lewison?”

  He frowned. “He left just after you did.”

  Preston’s heart began a long, slow downward fall. “Left where?”

  “Ellwood gave me the supplies to sort out. I was busy dealing with it. Lewison went back to the food valve to see if anything else had come through, I think.”

  Ryan said, “And have you seen him since?”

  Chowdhury shook his head. “Soon after you came back it all kicked off,” he said. “I didn’t … ”

  Ryan closed his eyes and exhaled—a steady, exhausted outward breath. Then he asked the question Preston had felt creeping up behind him for some time, the question that had been nagging and gnawing at him as he carried Ellwood back. “Faulkner,” said Ryan. “Did Lewison know how the bands worked? The needles, the top of the arm—that stuff you told me?”

  Preston had been trying, but he couldn’t remember what he’d said. And he also couldn’t remember where Lewison had been when he said it. Preston’s chest felt suddenly empty. If Lewison knew how the bands worked, he might not be here at all anymore. He nodded reluctantly. “I think so,” he said.

  Chowdhury said, “What’s happened?”

  No one said anything in reply.

  The fighting subsided in the end and Preston made his way across the hall to the valve room. That was where the food valve was, Chowdhury had said. Lewison might be somewhere in there.

  Preston was the solitary standing figure. Like the riots—the ones on TV out in Birmingham and London and Paris and in Manchester too—there was a limit to the energy a crowd could expend; it didn’t matter how hungry or abused or desperate they were, eventually they couldn’t carry on. The center of the hall, around the spillage, was empty now. Debris littered the open space and around its edges, groups of frightened, starving kids huddled together for safety. Whatever was going on, Preston thought, this was its final stages.

  And now the databands were gone he was a prisoner too, just like all the others.

  He dragged himself across the hall toward the writing room. Beyond was the valve room where he’d first emerged, which felt like almost a day ago. It already felt as if he’d taken a lifetime of punishment.

  He made his way up the short corridor toward the writing room, and was making to turn right and head into the half darkness of the valve room and begin his pointless search for Lewison when the hallucinations started. It was the hunger and sleeplessness playing their tricks again. This time it was voices. Actually, a single voice pursued by a bunch of echoes. A familiar voice too, coming from the writing room.

  “I’m in a massive open-plan room with a big high ceiling,” it was saying. “Curious markings decorate the far wall, the desperate scrawl of abandoned prisoners. Literacy levels down here are low.”

  Despite everything, Preston felt his heart inflate and hope rise. He laughed; he couldn’t help it. He had to wipe his eyes. He walked to the archway of the writing room.

  And there, Elliot Mason was speaking into his phone and gazing starry-eyed at his surroundings.

  “Mace,” Preston said. Mace turned, and suddenly his face was all grin. He still had his goggles, pushed high up into his hair, and his databand already on. He was real. Preston’s knees nearly went, but his heart was full. “What are you doing here?”

  Mace, his phone at his chin, said, “My colleague Preston Faulkner also present.” Then, suddenly serious, added, “Shade sent me. Shutdown’s been started and accelerated. He told me to say that all the valves will definitely close down today. Even the food ones.” He dipped his head in the direction of the valve room. “Most of the ones in there are already dead. I came through the M.I.S.T. valve like you, but we’re seriously short on time, brotherman. He’s going to keep it open as long as he can, but it’s going offline any moment now.”

  So this was it. All valves closed. There wasn’t even any more food coming. Just as he’d thought. Armstrong had condemned a hundred kids to death. “Mace,” said Preston. “Tell me, please God, you brought some databands.”

  Mace shrugged a bag from his shoulder. “Sure,” he said.

  Preston nearly wept. “How many?” he said, hoping for fifty, a hundred.

  “I’ve got mine here,” said Mace, patting his right arm. “And there’s three more. You, Alice, and Ryan. Sorted. Where are they? We need to move.”

  Ah, dammit dammit. Preston ground his teeth. Ellwood needed one. Someone was going to have to stay. What was Shade up to? Why wasn’t he trusting them with more bands?

  “What’s up, Press?”

  Preston tried to swallow but his throat was sandpaper. “There’s someone else coming back with us,” he said. “It’s complicated.”

  Before anything else, he had to get Ellwood and Ryan and Alice across the hall without attracting attention. It was near impossible, hauling Ellwood between them as they were, the toecaps of her boots etching lines in the blood and water behind them. Suspicious eyes followed them. Soon, Preston knew, the Longsight lads would be back. They’d have found they couldn’t get through the final door to the valves. They’d be nursing a fury.

  In the writing room, Alice hugged Mace and cried. Mace stared wide-eyed at Ellwood as Preston lowered her against the wall where, only hours earlier, she’d spoken as the leader. Ryan shook Mace’s hand and there was an awkward telling of stories—brief, emotionless stories that fell far short of the horror. Mace spoke into his phone a lot while everyone else passed around his water and shared his chocolate with trembling reverence. Preston tried not to burn up with the fear of everything, rehearsing what he needed to do, how quickly he needed to do it. Databands and goggles. Back through the valves. Everyone out. It didn’t feel as if it were possible. But it had to be; he had to get them all clear and free. And then there was Armstrong.

  “I’m staying,” said Alice as they finished. “I’ve talked it over with Ryan and I’m staying.”

  Preston felt his heart seize up. She wouldn’t make it alone. “No,” he said. “Please.”

  Ryan cleared his throat. He was standing close to her. Close like he used to back at school. “I’m coming back for her.”

  “I’ll stick with Chowdhury until you do,” Alice said with a pale smile. “It’s decided.”

  Preston wanted to speak. But Alice didn’t look at him anymore. He’d forgone that friendship now, and he’d have to pay the price.

  Inside the valve room, it was dark. But one valve was breathing and its light was a low glow.

  Preston rode the relief, and Mace led them over, then turned his back to it and opened his bag. “Put them tight around the top of your arm,” he explained, handing out the databands. “There’s needles. It’ll probably hurt.”

  Ryan cursed, struggling with the Velcro straps, pulling it up o
ver his wrist and scowling. “It bit me.”

  “Yeah,” Mace said. “That’s good. I think you need to feel the bite.”

  Preston looped one up over Ellwood’s arm, lifting it clear of her body, pushing the band into place and tightening it. There was a catch in her breath as the needles punctured the skin of her upper arm, and that, Preston guessed, could be a good thing. He checked the band, his face close to hers, worked a pair of goggles carefully onto her forehead, then moved her toward the valve, her shape in his arms feeling both curious and familiar. Mace followed. Alice hung back, eyes wet with tears while Ryan held her close. Preston gave him a few moments. Then Ryan broke the embrace, held Alice’s hands in his, and spoke soft and low to her. He turned to face the line of boxes.

  The food valve was different from the M.I.S.T. one—it was older and smaller. The pattern of lights wasn’t like the others. Up there across the compound, those valves had big bright displays, all pyrotechnic flickers and blinks. This old beast, though, had a single dull yellow eye to the left of the door—an elliptical glow the solitary indication it was still alive. Alice was crying now. Preston checked his goggles and took a step forward, ready to enter the dark interior.