School's Out Forever (afterblight chronicles)

by Scott K. Andrews

  “He’s dead anyway.”

  “Not the fucking point and you know it,” he shouted. “You want me out of the way but you can’t pluck up the courage to challenge me like a man so you wait for someone else to take me out of the picture. And when that doesn’t happen you figure, screw it, what’ve I got to lose, and you just fucking shoot me. And then, to add insult to fucking injury, you shoot me in the bloody arms! What’s the matter, bullet to the head too fucking easy?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Oh, piss off. Like you’ve got the guts to finish me off.” He leaned forward. “Come on then,” he whispered. “Pick up the gun. It’s right there. Still loaded. One bullet and it’s all over. Come on. Finish what you started. Show me you’ve got the backbone to be leader. Prove it to me. Come on. Look me in the eye when you pull the trigger. Come on!”

  Without thinking about it I reached behind me, picked up the gun and pressed the muzzle against his forehead. I pressed hard. God, I wanted to kill him. I mean really, really wanted to kill him. I wanted to watch him die screaming. I wanted to laugh in his dying eyes and spit on his corpse. I actually smiled as I began to squeeze the trigger.

  And then I saw the look of triumph in his eyes.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe I am a coward, maybe I was afraid. But I wasn’t afraid of you, Mac. Not really. I was afraid of becoming like you.”

  I threw the gun aside. Mac laughed in my face, soundlessly.

  “Face it Lee, you’ll never be like me. You haven’t got the balls.”

  I heard a tiny metallic ping.

  “Lee!” shouted Norton in alarm.

  I felt something pressing itself against my stomach. I looked down and saw Mac’s left hand holding a grenade. The pin was on the floor beside us.

  I looked up. Mac was smiling.

  “I’m holding down the lever, Lee. When I let go the chemical fuse starts and then nothing can stop it exploding seven seconds later. Reckon you can wrestle the grenade off me and throw it out the window in that time?”

  I stared into his eyes as I reached down and wrapped my hand around his. There was little strength in his fingers; his shattered shoulder saw to that. As long as I kept squeezing he couldn’t release the lever. We were at an impasse.

  “You don’t have to die here, you know,” I said. “We can still get out of this, take you back to school, try and patch you up.”

  “And then what?”

  “You leave. Just go.”

  Again with the laughing.

  “Spineless wanker. You shot me in cold blood and there’s no fixing that. At least have the integrity to live with it. I’m never leaving this room and you know it. But I can make sure you never do either.”

  I don’t know how long we’d have sat there if Cheshire hadn’t intervened.

  He walked over to us, casual as can be, and then rammed his rifle butt into Mac’s shoulder wound. He screamed and jerked in agony, and I slipped the grenade from his grasp. I picked up the pin and re-inserted it.

  I think I’d been hyperventilating because I had a huge head rush as I stood up. Cheshire reached out to steady me until the world stopped spinning.

  When Mac stopped screaming he looked up at me and sneered.

  “What did I ever do to you, Nine Lives? What do you hate me so fucking much?”

  “You made me a killer, Mac.”

  “Oh, I see. So basically, I shot myself, yeah?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Jesus, you are fucked in the head.”

  “Can we focus, please,” said Norton, who had tied his arm tight into a sling and appeared to have stopped the bleeding. “Does anyone actually have a plan to get us out of here?”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “But the silence is bothering me. What can you see out the window?

  Cheshire poked his head outside and leapt backwards as bullets ripped into the glass.

  “Missed!” he shouted. He turned to me. “They’re covering the window from the tower.”

  I walked to the door and knocked on it.

  “Anyone out there?” I asked.

  There was a pause.

  “Um, yeah. Hi,” came the tentative reply. It was a young man’s voice.

  Norton sniggered and started me giggling. Borderline hysteria.

  “Hi yourself. So, you guarding this door to stop us escaping then, yeah?”

  “There’s three of us and we’ve got guns.”

  “Good to know. The others gone off to the morning sacrifice have they?”

  “Got to purify the moat.”

  “Great.” I turned back to Norton and Cheshire. “They’re all going to be on the tower for a while, so we’ve got some time to prepare.”

  “Any chance of a cuppa while I’m waiting to die?” said Mac, witheringly.

  The morning sacrifice was one of the Blood Hunters’ more disturbing rituals. The selected victim was brought to morning worship and blessed by David, then everybody processed up to the tower. David then slit the victim’s throat and two acolytes dangled the poor sod over the battlements so they bled into the moat. Fresh blood in the water every morning kept them safe, they reckoned.

  Serenaded by singing and screams from the tower I opened Mac’s backpack and we got to work. It took about ten minutes or so, but by the time the ritual was finished we were ready. Cheshire had picked Mac up and put him on the sofa. He was still conscious.

  “You haven’t got a cat in hell’s chance,” he said.

  I ignored him.

  “Hey, Norton,” he went on. “How long you been planning this little takeover?”

  “Since day one.”

  “Traitor.”

  “What you gonna do, slit my throat, like you did to Williams?”

  “Come over here and I’ll show you.”

  “Enough, already,” I said. “Does everyone know what they’re doing?”

  Norton and Cheshire nodded.

  “What shall I do, Nine Lives?” gasped Mac, sarcastically.

  “Fuck off and die.”

  We heard footsteps on the stairs. A group of people coming to talk. Then a voice I recognised.

  “Hello in there.” It was their leader, David.

  “Morning,” I replied, cheerily. “Lovely day for a blood sacrifice.”

  “Are any of you hurt?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “We have first class medical facilities. If you open the door I give you my word your wounded will be given the proper treatment.”

  “What, no bleeding?”

  He laughed. “Of course there’ll be bleeding. Got to be made safe. But we need fresh, clean, healthy blood. So we’ll make you better first. While there’s life there’s hope, isn’t that what they say?”

  “I’ve got a better idea. We want to convert. We want you to make us safe.”

  “Sorry. No initiations today.”

  “They’ve got a bomb,” yelled Mac. I punched him in the face as hard as I could. I felt the cartilage in his nose shatter. Felt good.

  “One more word and I’ll finish you now,” I hissed.

  “Like you’ve got the guts,” he replied, and spat in my face.

  So I took my Browning and I smashed him over the back of the head, knocking him out.

  “Everything all right in there?”

  “Fine. We’re just, um, conferring.”

  I gathered up the strings we had taken from the window blinds and backed towards the open windows, where Norton and Cheshire were already waiting.

  “Ready?”

  They nodded.

  “All right, we agree. Come and get us,” I shouted. Then we all three turned and leapt out through the windows.

  The gunmen on the tower opened fire. As I fell I took the string with me. I felt a slight resistance at the other end and then it came free and sailed out the window after me, with the pins of all our remaining grenades attached to it.

  We hit the bloodied water before any of the bullets could find their mark, and the room above
us exploded while we were still submerged. Stone, glass, wood and furniture crashed into the water all around us as we swam for safety.

  The fire, smoke and confusion that reigned in the building behind us masked our clumsy emergence from the water, using the rubble from the exploded bridge as a ramp. We made it to the tree-line safely. The other boys and the Hildenborough captives were long gone. I stood in the shadow of the trees and watched the conflagration take hold of the fragile wooden house.

  Mac was in there. The explosion had probably killed him, and if he’d miraculously survived the blast then his wounds would probably finish him off. Either way, he was gone for good. Everything had gone according to plan. I’d gained his trust, lulled him into a false sense of security, and betrayed him. I was a traitor, pure and simple. I hated myself for it. Mac had been right, I was a coward. I’d opposed him because I’d never accepted that the ends justified the means, and yet look at what I’d done. In order to get rid of Mac I’d betrayed every principle I’d ever held dear. I’d lied and cheated, betrayed trust and committed murder.

  But the school was free of him now, and with the Blood Hunters burning in front of me, and Hildenborough ravaged and leaderless, there was no-one around to threaten us. At least for a while.

  The means had been despicable, but the end had been achieved. Still, I wondered whether I hadn’t failed in one crucial thing: preventing myself from becoming the thing I hated. After everything I’d done I couldn’t help but feel that I was that little bit more like Mac than I’d ever wanted to be. I didn’t know how I was ever going to come to terms with any of this.

  I’d killed two people today and seen many more die. As I watched the fire I prayed that this was the last I would see of killing.

  Should’ve known better, really.

  LESSON THREE

  HOW TO BE A LEADER

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “WASN’T MY FAULT. They were bigger than we were.”

  Wylie was making excuses, but his heart wasn’t in it. Like all the best bullies he was a coward at heart. It turns out the boys hadn’t blown the bridges to get rid of Mac and me. The adults from Hildenborough, scared out of their wits, some of them armed (by us), had demanded that the boys blow the bridges immediately. Wylie, who’d been in charge of that part of the operation, had agreed.

  I was wet through, cold, tired and very, very pissed off.

  “You left us to die,” I said, through gritted teeth.

  “You look fine to me.” Cocky little shit.

  I raised the Browning and pointed it at his face. He hadn’t expected that.

  “Give me your gun,” I said.

  “You what?”

  I twitched the gun sideways an inch and fired a shot past his right ear. He jumped, yelled and backed away.

  “What the fuck are you doing, man?”

  “I won’t ask again.”

  He threw the rifle at me. I let it fall to the floor.

  “Here, have it you fucking psycho.” His shout was half whine, like a spoiled brat being told to give back the car keys.

  I didn’t lower my gun.

  “How old are you, Wylie?”

  He glanced left and right looking for support or a way of escape. I had him cornered.

  “Seventeen. Why?” he said. Half petulance, half defiance.

  “And how many men have you killed?”

  His eyes widened as he felt a jolt of genuine fear.

  “Just the one.”

  “One kneeling man with his hands tied. What, you didn’t off a few more when the Hildenborough men attacked?”

  “My… my gun jammed.”

  I laughed.

  “Not what I heard.”

  Rowles had found him cowering in the art room. He hadn’t told anyone but me because he was too afraid of what Wylie would do to him if he blabbed.

  “Fuck you! I’m a sixth-former! And a prefect!” He was starting to cry.

  “That’s right. And I’m only fifteen. But I’ve killed four people, two of them this morning. So who do you think is the scariest person in this room?”

  He sniffled.

  I chambered another round.

  “Who do you think is the scariest person in this room?”

  I fired a shot past his left ear.

  “You. You are, all right. You.” His lower lip was trembling.

  I nodded.

  “Right again. I am. I am the scariest person in this room.”

  I was having fun. I’d have been worried by that if I’d stopped to think about it. But I didn’t. I was enjoying myself too much.

  “You’re a bully, Wylie. And a coward. I don’t like cowards much. But I hate bullies.”

  His nose started to run.

  “But do you know what I hate even more than bullies, Wylie? Do you?”

  He shook his head. Mingled snot and tears dripped off his wobbling chin.

  I walked right up to him and pressed the gun against his temple. He let out a low moan of fear.

  “The one thing I hate more than bullies,” I said. “Is anyone who was in the room when Matron was raped.”

  He looked like he was about to shit himself.

  “It… it… it wasn’t my idea. It was Mac… he made us… he had a gun and everything.”

  “Don’t. Care.”

  “I had to! I didn’t enjoy it. Honest. I didn’t enjoy it all. Really.”

  “Not an excuse.”

  “What… what are you going to do to me?”

  “Haven’t decided yet. I reckon it’s a choice between shooting you in the back of the head or crucifying you. Do you have a preference?”

  His knees buckled and he fell to the floor, snivelling and moaning.

  I knelt down beside him and whispered in his ear.

  “I’m inclined to crucify you myself, but it’s time-consuming and a bit of a drag. Probably easier to just shoot you. What do you think?”

  “I’m sorry, all right?” he cried. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

  I yelled into his ear as loud as I could: “I don’t care!”

  He cowered against the wall.

  “Choose!”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Choose!”

  “Please, no, I’m sorry, please.” He buried his face in his hands and curled up into a foetal ball, wracked with sobs.

  “Fine,” I said. “A bullet it is.”

  I grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet. He made a half-hearted attempt to resist, so I kneed him in the balls. Then I herded him down the corridor and out the front door. He could barely walk for pain and terror.

  I kicked him down the steps and he sprawled in the gravel, clawing for purchase. He tried to get up, but the best he could manage was to crawl away on all fours. I sauntered after him. When he reached the grass I planted a foot in the small of his back and he collapsed onto the turf.

  “Kneel,” I said.

  He let out a cry of anguish and scratched at the dirt.

  “Kneel!”

  I bent down and grabbed him, pulling him up until he was kneeling in front of me. The second I let go he toppled sideways. I kicked him in the ribs as hard as I could.

  “Kneel, you pathetic little shit.”

  I pulled him up again and this time he stayed in position. He shuddered and shook, gasped and wept.

  “This is pretty much the spot where you executed that helpless, unarmed man, isn’t it? Kind of fitting you should die here too.”

  He started to beg.

  “Please, oh, God please don’t. Please don’t.”

  “Is that what she said, huh? Is that what Matron said?”

  I pressed the hot muzzle of the gun against the nape of his neck. He screamed.

  “Is it?”

  I let him sweat for a good minute or two before I pulled the trigger.

  After all, he didn’t know I’d used all my bullets.

  “Was that necessary?” asked Norton, as we watched Wylie limp out of the school gates. I gestured to
the faces pressed against the windows of the school behind us.

  “Yes.”

  I LOOKED AT the faces of the boys before me. They looked so tired. They hadn’t slept all night and they’d marched three miles expecting to go into battle. In the end they’d only been shot at from a distance before being threatened by a bunch of fear-crazed adults, but it must have been terrifying for them, especially the little ones.

  It wasn’t just the events of the past twenty-four hours, though. These were boys whose lives had been calm and orderly before The Cull. They’d lived every day according to a rigid timetable set down for them by distant, unapproachable grown-ups. They’d played games and sat in lessons, pretended to be soldiers on Fridays and occasional weekends. They’d eaten set meals at set times and known months in advance exactly what they’d be doing at any given day and time.

  Of course there had been bullies, beatings and detentions, but unless Mac was the bully in question it never went too far. And Matron had always been there to give them a hug and put a plaster on whatever cut or bruise they’d received.

  But for the past few months things had been very different. They’d seen their parents die and had run back to the one refuge they could think of. They’d hoped to find safety in the familiar routine of St Mark’s. Instead they’d killed men in combat, seen their teachers and friends die before them, been bullied and abused, subject to the whims of a gang of armed thugs who’d ordered them about day and night. They’d been trained for war and had learnt to live with the expectation of their own imminent deaths.

  I was looking at an entire room of young boys with post-traumatic stress disorder. And I was supposed to lead them.

  I didn’t have a clue where to begin.

  “Mac’s dead,” I told them. I had expected some response; a few cheers, perhaps. But all I could see were dead eyes and dull faces.

  “As his second-in-command I’m in charge and things are going to be different around here. Right now I want you all to get some sleep. Leave your guns at the door and go to bed. There’ll be cold food available in the dining room for anyone who wants it, but your time is your own until tomorrow morning. Just… relax, yeah?”

  I waited for them to leave, but they just sat there. I looked at Norton, confused.