Nightrise

Feather knelt down and pretended to examine his wound.
    "The camera can see us but it can't hear," he whispered. "They will expect me to use the telephone…to call the nurse. I will pretend to do that. You must take this…" Jamie felt something metallic being pressed into his hand. "This is the master key," Feather continued. "It opens the cells in all four units…
    North, South, East, and West. It should also open the cells in the Block. I can't be sure of that. If it doesn't, there's nothing more we can do."
    "How do I get to the Block?"
    "There is a door at the end of the corridor."
    Jamie glanced around, at the same time letting out a groan of pain for the sake of the camera. It was true.
    There was a single door just past the two clinics. And — of course, he should have been able to tell from the layout of the building — the corridor was a sort of tunnel, running directly through the outer wall.
    Meanwhile, Joe Feather had gone over to the telephone and tapped out a number. Somewhere inside the prison complex, other supervisors would be watching his every move. The first rule of prison life was that there should be no surprises. Every minute of the day had to be exactly the same as the day before.
    The fact that a boy had been hurt and needed medical aid was a break from routine and the other guards would be on full alert. Feather was pretending to talk to the nurse at the end of the line but in fact he hadn't been connected. He was actually talking to Jamie.
    "I've fixed the generator," Joe continued: "The electric generator in the yard. It has an override system.
    Sometimes we have to shut it down for repair. It will cut out very soon now and it will take them time to bring the emergency generator online. That will give us at least a minute with no cameras, no lights, and all the prison doors automatically set to manual. That is when you will deal with your friend. He's in cell fourteen."
    "Won't there be guards?"
    "There's only one supervisor on duty during the graveyard shift. Leave him to me."
    "Why are you doing all this?" Jamie asked.
    Joe looked up from the telephone and allowed himself a brief smile. "I already told you. You're one of the Five."
    ''Yes. But one of the five what? What does it mean?"

    Without any warning, the lights blinked out.
    "Move!" Joe commanded.
    He had a flashlight and flicked it on. Jamie followed him down the corridor and waited as he unlocked the door at the end with a key of his own. Everything was pitch-black, but the beam of the flashlight picked up a few details as Joe swung it from side to side: a unit almost identical to his own, a corridor lined with cell doors, a table bolted into the floor, a bank of monitors, a supervisor…already rising to his feet, reaching for the canister of CS gas attached to his belt.
    "What…?" the man began.
    Joe hit him with his flashlight. The light beam threw crazy shadows across the far wall. Jamie heard the supervisor grunt. He folded forward and collapsed.
    "Go!" Joe was already dragging the unconscious man back into his seat. There was a paperback book on the desk in front of him and Joe was arranging him so that when the lights came back on, it would look as if he was leaning forward, reading a page. Jamie looked around him, trying to find his way. Joe threw him the flashlight. He caught it and ran forward.
    The cell numbers were clearly printed beside each door. He had to move quickly. As soon as the emergency generator kicked in, he would be seen and — worse — the doors would be sealed electronically. He could hear shouting. It was coming from behind the locked doors. Some of the kids must have been awake and now found themselves in total darkness…a new experience for them. They were pounding their fists against the doors. He wondered if the same thing was happening in the units on the other side of the wall.
    He reached number 14 and, using the flashlight, eased the key into the lock and turned it. With a sense of relief, he felt the lock open. He slid the door aside and stepped inside.
    There was an eleven-year-old black boy lying on a bunk, wearing a T-shirt and shorts. He was small for his age but strong and wiry. He had short, curly hair and round, white eyes. There was a bandage on his wrist, just over the vein, and he was very thin. But otherwise he seemed unhurt. He was already awake and staring at the figure who had burst into his room. Jamie slid the door shut again — but not quite the whole way. He turned