School_s Out ac-3

by Scott Andrews

  Mac seemed unsatisfied by the spectacle. I think he'd expected some wailing and moaning, begging and pleading. He'd been looking forward to this moment and now it had arrived his subject wasn't delivering the goods. Where was the catharsis? Where was the triumph? How could he gloat over a man so rag-doll limp that he was barely even present at his own execution?

  I felt a tiny glow of satisfaction. The sedative that I'd taken from the San was doing its work. Norton had ensured that he was chosen to take the condemned man his final meal. He'd relayed my promise to find Bates' family and inform them of his death, before offering him a syringe. Bates had obviously accepted the escape route we'd offered him, and had injected himself. If I'd judged the dosage right he would lapse into a coma and die within a couple of hours and no-one would be any the wiser. Mac would think the crucifixion had been quicker than expected, probably assuming heart failure and shock, while Bates surfed out of this life on a warm wave of drug-induced bliss.

  It was the only mercy we could offer him.

  The boys were dismissed and they marched away in silence.

  Mac took one last look at Bates and then walked over to me and began to wheel me towards Castle, leaving his one-time mentor to what he believed would be a slow and agonising death.

  I took some satisfaction in knowing that I'd cheated Mac of that, at least. It was not much of a victory, but it was something, some small scintilla of compassion.

  Now that I was his second-in-command I needed to find a way of talking to Mac, of being his mate. It was difficult to know which tack to take but I decided to brazen it out and be chummy and sarcastic and hope he went with it and didn't take offence. I gulped and took the plunge.

  "You," I said witheringly, "have seen Pulp Fiction way too many times."

  He chuckled and replied "I got pre-medieval on his ass."

  And then Bates began to scream.

  "At last," said Mac, with satisfaction. But he kept wheeling me onwards and he never looked back.

  The scream of a dying man is a terrible thing to hear. It cuts right through you, strips you of all your illusions of immortality, removes any comfort you take in your own existence and reminds you, in the starkest way possible, that we all survive the day at the merest whim of fate and happenstance. It's humbling and horrifying and once you've heard it you never forget it. But at least it's normally over quite quickly.

  I lay in the San listening to Bates scream for about an hour before I decided that I could stand it no longer. Either I'd got the dosage wrong and he had come around, or he was suffering the worst trip imaginable. Whatever. I'd either not helped or, perhaps, had made things worse. I wasn't prepared to live with that. Time for Plan B.

  I levered myself off the bed and hopped across to the medicine cabinet. My leg was so bad now that even hopping was almost unbearable. But what did my pain compare with that of the man outside screaming into the face of inevitable death? I opened the cabinet and sorted through the little bottles until I found the right one. I grabbed a syringe, filled it, and jammed it straight into my wound. For a moment there were two men screaming, but then the sweet morphine did its work and my leg felt warm and clumsy and twice its normal size. But at least it bore my weight. I had no idea how long it would take for the drug to affect my senses, but I knew I had to be fast. I limped to the door and checked the corridor. Empty. Thank heaven for small blessings. My rifle stood against the wall in one of the corners, untouched since I'd put it there when I was brought into the San wounded, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  I picked it up and limped to the back stairwell. Again, no-one around. I hit the stairs and climbed. I was starting to get dizzy. I held tight to the railing as I made my way up to the locked door that gave out onto the roof. Two hard blows from my rifle butt took care of the lock, and I was out, underneath the low grey clouds.

  I made my way to the edge of the roof, which felt springy underneath me, like I was walking on a duvet. The sky above me began to spin and I felt a hot flush rise up my body and face, like a cartoon character who's just eaten a hot chilli. I walked right to the edge and looked down, swayed unsteadily and leapt back. Carefully.

  I lay down, assumed firing position and sighted my rifle on the chest of the man so far below me, who screamed and screamed and screamed.

  I tried to focus on my task but the roof felt as if it was swallowing me up, engulfing me like quicksand. My head felt tight, my vision swam, my hands shook.

  I grasped the rifle tight and closed my eyes. I steadied my breathing and opened them again. The madness scampered around the periphery of my vision, but I found that I had, for a moment at least, clarity.

  Maybe it was the recklessness of drugged-up mania, or perhaps I was simply so far gone that I had ceased to worry about the consequences of my actions; whichever it was, I didn't hesitate for an instant. In a heartbeat I did the one thing I had been trying so hard to avoid these long months since The Cull had made each man, woman and child the sole guardian of their own morality; the one thing I had feared the most because of what it would say about where my choices had brought me and what I was truly capable of.

  I squeezed the trigger and ended a man's life.

  Finally, I was a killer.

  LESSON TWO: How To Be A Traitor

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Before The Cull, back when St Mark's was just another boy's school and I was just a fourth-former trying to pass my exams, I got on the wrong side of Mac once.

  It was Friday lunchtime and I had cycled into town to buy myself a bag of chips and pick up a magazine. Popping out at lunchtime wasn't forbidden but it was tight, time-wise, and if you dawdled you ran the risk of missing the start of afternoon lessons.

  That day I bumped into a girl from the high school who I had met at one of the formal social events that the two schools collaborated on every now and then. I was awkward around girls. I had been in single-sex education since I was barely able to walk, and I didn't have sisters. It wasn't that I didn't know what to talk to girls about; I didn't know how to talk to them at all.

  So while I was browsing the shelves in the newsagents this girl came up, said "hi" and we chatted for a few minutes. Her name was Michelle and I liked her. I can't really remember what I said; it's a bit of a blur. I was just concentrating on not spitting, swearing or belching. But it seemed to go off okay and she smiled as she said goodbye. She was pretty, I was blushing beetroot red, and I dawdled and daydreamed all the way back to school where I cycled straight into Mac, lying in wait at the school gates for waifs and strays.

  "What the fuck time do you call this?" he asked.

  "Sorry, I just, um…" Nope, no way out, caught bang to rights.

  He grabbed the magazine.

  "Hey, hey, what's this? SEX?"

  "Um, no, it's SFX. It just looks like that 'cause the picture's covering the bottom of the F."

  "So you say. But all I can see is a magazine with a woman in a bikini on the cover and SEX written across the top of it."

  "It's Princess Leia."

  He rolled up the magazine and whacked me round the head with it as hard as he could.

  "I don't care if it's Princess bloody Diana, it's confiscated."

  There was no point protesting.

  "So you a geek then, eh? Little spoddy sci-fi fan? Wank off over pictures of Daleks do you?"

  So many cutting responses came to mind but I wasn't stupid enough to deliver any of them. I just stood there, head down, silent.

  His punishment was typically creative. I had to stand in a corridor and hold the magazine against the wall with my nose. Simple enough, you might think. But he made me keep my feet a metre away from the wall, with my hands behind my back. I was leaning forward at an angle of about 45 degrees, and all my weight was pushed down onto my nose. Within a minute the pain was excruciating. He made me stand like that for half an hour. I never crossed him again, and he soon forgot who I was.

  I was still in junior school when I learnt the secret to dealing
with bullies: hit them as hard as you possibly can and make their noses bleed. Always worked for me. But when the bullies were officially sanctioned, when they were prefects (or teachers, come to think of it), then the more you protested, challenged them, fought back, or answered their rhetorical questions, the worse things got. They had authority on their side and any argument, reason or excuse you offered could just be ignored.

  So I learned to swallow my pride, to bite back the retorts, to clench my fists but not let them fly. Keep your head down, don't draw attention to yourself, fly under the radar. Secret to a quiet life; secret to survival.

  That instinct was deep ingrained in me by the time The Cull came around. I suppose that's why I didn't challenge Mac at the start, why I motioned to Norton to keep quiet when Hammond needed our help, why I decided to try and bring Mac down by infiltration and subterfuge. A lifetime of learning how to survive institutional bullying had taught me how to be sneaky, but I no longer understood the rules of open confrontation.

  Mac still had the authority, although now it came from the muzzle of a gun and a cadre of lackeys rather than a fancy blue blazer braid, and I was still locked into the role of submissive victim, seething with resentment but staying silent, fighting the injustice indirectly, with plots and schemes.

  But I still remembered the satisfaction of bloodying a bully's nose, and longed to feel Mac's cartilage crack beneath my fists.

  My mouth felt dry and sandy, my eyes were gummed shut, and my leg was just a distant ache. I could hear someone moving around in the room, but I couldn't speak or move for a minute or so. Eventually I was able to manage a croak, and I heard a squeal and what sounded like a glass hitting the floor. I'd made somebody jump.

  Then the sound of someone filling a glass of water from a jug, and a hand behind my head lifting it and putting the glass to my lips. I gulped down the liquid gratefully.

  "Thanks," I rasped.

  "You're welcome." The Dinner Lady.

  "What's… where…"

  "Don't try and speak, just rest your head a minute."

  I heard her dabbing something in water and then a cool flannel wiped my eyes clear of sleep and I cracked them open, wincing at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. I was still in the San.

  "How long?"

  "You've been unconscious for a week. We weren't sure you were going to survive, to be honest. Your leg was pretty bad. But your fever broke last night, and the infection seems to have burnt itself out. You are a very, very lucky boy."

  I squinted up at her. My head felt like it was full of rocks.

  The San door opened and Green poked his head inside.

  "He awake?" he asked.

  "Just about."

  "Great, I'll go get Mac." He closed the door and I heard him walk off down the corridor.

  The Dinner Lady leaned in closer, conspiratorially.

  "Now listen, before he gets here, I've got a message for you from Matron."

  She saw my agitation and shushed me.

  "I stayed behind deliberately that night. What, you thought she'd left me behind? Someone needs to be here to keep an eye on you boys and I thought it might as well be me. But we've got a little system and we leave notes for each other. I'm not telling you where; she trusts you but I'm not so sure. Anyway, she's been telling me what drugs to give you, so it's thanks to her that you're still breathing. She wants you to know that she and the girls are all right. They're not too far away but the place they're hiding has already been searched by one of Mac's hunting parties, and they didn't find them. They're unlikely to search it again so we think they're safe for now."

  I breathed a sigh of relief, which probably sounded more like the gasp of a dying man, because she offered me more water. I drank thirstily.

  "Mac? Bates?"

  She hesitated and looked at me with deep suspicion.

  "Mr Bates is dead and buried, God rest his soul. Mac's spent most of the time searching the area for the girls, and training the boys in drill. He's had an assault course built down by the river and he makes them do it every day for an hour. You should see the way he treats them. Scandalous. Says he's preparing them for war. Mad fool will get us all killed, mark my words.

  "He's been very interested in you, though. Thinks highly of you, he does. Wants you fighting fit. Says he doesn't want to start a fight without you there. So you just take your time getting better. The longer you laze around here feeling sorry for yourself the better off we are."

  She fell silent as we heard Mac and Green arriving outside.

  "All right, thank you Limpdick, stay on guard, there's a good boy," said Mac, as he entered. He dismissed Mrs Atkins with a glance. She made her exit and Mac took her vacated seat.

  "Hi," I said weakly.

  "Hi yourself." He sniffed and considered my leg. "How's it feel?"

  "Throbbing."

  He nodded.

  "Well, I'm told you're a lucky laddie and you're gonna be fine. You rest up 'til you're fit, but don't take too long coz I'm gonna need you."

  "Why, what's been going on?" I was barely conscious, disorientated, croaking like a frog, and I was being bombarded with information my brain wasn't quite ready to process. But I needed to know how things stood.

  "We've got a traitor. Some fucker shot Batesy. Put him out of his misery and spoiled all our fun. I would've had you down for it, but you was semi-conscious and raving here in the San when I came to see where you were. So don't worry, we know it wasn't you. But we dunno who it was and that makes me… jumpy. Either one of my officers is going behind my back, or some junior's got a gun hidden away that we don't know about. I don't like either of those possibilities.

  "Anyway, the fat lady'll get you some nosh and we can start sorting you out. I'll fill you in on my plans when you're more with it."

  I was grateful; I was having trouble keeping my eyes open.

  "You rest up, mate," said Mac. But I was already half asleep.

  During my convalescence I had plenty of time to assess the situation.

  The school was now a fortified camp. There were patrols of the perimeter twenty-four hours a day, and permanent manned guard posts at the main gate and the school's front door. As a rule there was one officer in each patrol or guard detail, to keep the boys in line.

  The day began with parade and inspection at 8am, followed by breakfast, then drill and exercises all morning. The afternoons were taken up with sports and scavenging hunts. Mac had kept the evening movies going for as long as there was fuel, but it was all gone now, so we had to live without electricity. The only technological toys we had left were battery-powered stereos and torches; we'd scavenged enough batteries to keep us going for a while, so we could at least listen to music. When Mac wasn't running a night exercise the evenings were free time. Boys played board games; Green organized a theatre group and started rehearsing a production of Our Town; a third-former called Lill started up a band.

  Heathcote and Williams had expanded their farm and we now had a few fields of livestock. Petts' market garden was coming along well. Everywhere there was business, activity and purpose.

  But there was no disguising the tension that hung in the air at all times. The officers, united by their shared crime, had become a coherent unit, a tight, loyal gang who held absolute power and weren't afraid to use it. We were lucky that only one of them, Wylie, was an outright bastard. The others bossed and bullied and threw their weight around but things never threatened to get as violent as I had feared they would. Mac seemed to be restraining himself a bit, and I didn't know why. I had expected that by now he'd be using thumbscrews on a daily basis, but he mostly just shouted and threw the occasional punch. His punishment of choice was getting miscreants to run laps of the pitches before breakfast.

  I think maybe he'd shocked even himself with how he'd behaved towards Bates.

  He had stopped searching for Matron and the girls. With all the fuel gone our minibuses were now useless and so our search area was limited to a few
miles in every direction. Horses were collected when and wherever they could be found, and a Haycox was running riding classes for the officers. I could already ride but it was not until very late in my healing that I could bear the pain of being bounced up and down on top of a galloping quadraped.

  All Mac's efforts seemed to be going into securing our position and training the boys. But training them for what? I asked him and all the cryptic bastard would say was "You'll see". I was supposed to be his second-in-command but he wasn't taking me into his confidence.

  And as he made his plans and preparations, so I made mine.

  Norton's attitude towards me changed after I shot Bates. Although he was still jokey and conspiratorial I could sense a wariness about him. He didn't quite know what to make of me any more. I think my actions had surprised him almost as much as they'd surprised me. I didn't blame him. I was wary of myself.

  My father used to wake screaming at night sometimes. I know something awful happened to him during a tour of duty in Bosnia, but he would never tell me what it was. Now I too was waking up sweating and shouting. In my nightmares Bates would scream into my face from his crucifix and Mac would stand by, applauding, as I carved our old teacher into tiny pieces, all of which grew mouths and joined the chorus of agony.

  I had never had nightmares before. All the horror and death I had witnessed during The Cull, all the violence that had been done to me physically and psychologically, had never caused me a single night's sleeplessness. But the violence I had visited upon others was tormenting me. I had always believed that something awful had been done to my father; now I knew it was something awful that he had done to someone else. I realised that I hardly knew my father at all, or what he was capable of.

  I was starting to realise what I was capable of, though. And it terrified me.

  Nonetheless I remained focused on my objectives – gain Mac's trust, find an opportunity to betray him, find Matron and the girls, make the school the sanctuary it should always have been. I was willing to do almost anything to achieve my goals, but I couldn't do it alone.