School's Out Forever (afterblight chronicles)

by Scott K. Andrews

  “Plenty, but I can only take them one or two at a time. Don’t want to get caught. The villagers might not take kindly to me pinching their kiddies.”

  “Can’t imagine why, little runts.”

  “But you’ll be moving them soon, won’t you? ’Cause they might come looking for these two.” I tried to sound conversational, barely interested, but I knew immediately that I’d made a mistake. He looked across at me, suspicious and threatening.

  “What do you care?” he demanded.

  I pretended to think about this, then shrugged and rose to my feet. “I don’t. Just curious. Jonny, yeah?”

  “Jonny. Yeah.”

  “See you around, Olly.” I didn’t look back at the two children as I left.

  I crossed to the farmhouse door, which was still hanging open, and casually glanced back at the gates. The high brick wall was solid, so they felt secure in here. Apart from Blackteeth who was outside the metal doors, now closed, there was a guy on a ramshackle scaffold inside, looking out over the flood plain to the south. He had a shotgun over his shoulder. A third man lounged on a damp sofa inside the doors reading Oliver Twist. He also had a shotgun, but his was sawn off.

  Two inside the doors, one outside. Then Olly in the stable and Jonny in the house. Might be more, though. But where?

  I walked into the farmhouse kitchen. The smell was appalling. In the centre of the large flagstone floor was a wooden table, around it six children of varying ages. All of them had ropes looped around their necks, binding them together in one long chain. They sat there, eyes dead, faces white, most with black eyes or thick lips, dressed in clothes either too big or small, mechanically eating porridge from bowls. I doubted any of them had seen soap and water for at least a month.

  Again, Kate’s gran came to mind. I had a sudden flash of her cooing “Poor dears”, spitting on to her hankie, and wiping all their faces clean with saliva. Kate used to hate it when she did that. God, she used to squirm. Looking back, it seems like the gentlest act of kindness imaginable. Small acts of kindness, that was what the world was missing these days.

  I forced my attention back to my situation. I was distancing myself from it, retreating into my head, rambling. It’s a trick I learned the first time things got bad, back before The Cull. It had come in handy once or twice since.

  But I couldn’t afford to absent myself now. I needed to stay sharp. Anyway, I wasn’t the one in danger, not really. I wondered where these children had gone to in their heads. I was pretty certain none of them were entirely present any more. I looked into their eyes and I thought that this was how I must look when I zone out. Like a victim. That made me sad and angry to my core. I held on to the anger, focused it, concentrated, brought myself back.

  I am nobody’s victim. Not any more.

  An interior door swung open and a scrawny teenage boy walked in. His face was a battlefield of acne and bum fluff and he dragged a young blonde girl behind him on a rope. Thirteen at the oldest, her face was streaked with tears and snot. His belt was still unbuckled.

  I didn’t give him time to react to my presence. I was around the table and my arm was around his neck so quickly he didn’t know what was happening. He was unconscious before he had a chance to open his mouth. It took all my willpower to relax my grip — it was so tempting to squeeze the life out of the sorry bastard. I wanted to kill him, I felt justified in killing him, even righteous.

  But I hadn’t let the horror overwhelm me, so I wouldn’t let the fury take me either. If I succumbed to either I’d lose myself, and there were children here who needed me.

  The boy stopped struggling and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. I relaxed my grip and gently laid his head on the floor. I ran back around the crowded table and closed the door into the courtyard. No-one had raised the alarm, so the struggle hadn’t been seen.

  I turned back and found six pairs of eyes staring at me with distant curiosity. One boy was still eating, so far gone that he didn’t even register what was happening around him. The young girl who had just entered was staring down at the boy who lay unconscious at her feet. I opened my mouth to speak but before I could utter a sound the girl raised her foot and stamped it down, as hard as she could, on the boy’s neck. There was a dreadful crunch, the boy spasmed and twitched, gasped, sighed, then lay still. A trickle of blood leaked from his mouth. The girl looked up at me and wiped the back of her hand across her face, smearing away the tears and snot. Then she cocked her head to one side, and said: “Now what?” She spoke primly, with the self-possession of monied privilege.

  It took me a few seconds to respond.

  “Is there anybody else in here with you?” I asked.

  “Just Tim,” said the girl. “He’s upstairs. He’s sick.”

  “No more guards?”

  She shook her head.

  “All right. Can you open the front door for me? Walk outside and wave. My friends will see you.”

  She looped the rope over her neck and let it drop to the floor, then she nodded, turned and left.

  I looked down at the seated children. One boy seemed more present than the others. He looked about ten. I leant down so we were eye to eye.

  “When my friends arrive can you show them where Tim is and help them get everyone out the front door?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “Thank you. Now, could you all just keep quiet for a moment? I have one more thing to do then we can get you out of here.”

  A few small nods. One girl went back to her porridge.

  I avoided looking at the dead teenager, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, fixed a smile on my face and opened the door to the courtyard again. I strode out confidently, but I was painfully aware that I was unarmed. It wouldn’t have helped anyway; my hands were shaking too much to use a gun even if I’d had one. I couldn’t tell you whether they shook from fear or fury — probably an equal measure of both. I took a deep breath and tried to relax; I’d need steady hands for the next bit.

  As I walked past the stables, I saw Rowles and Caroline, still sitting on the floor in Olly’s office. I caught Rowles’ eye and inclined my head. He nodded back and rose to his feet. I kept walking past the doorway, towards the bookworm. He lay his book aside as I approached, carefully inserting a bookmark to keep his place.

  “I thought you were getting paid?” he asked as he swung his legs over the side of the sofa.

  The plan had been to find a bag and fill it with stuff, make it look like I’d been paid. I’d been distracted, lost my concentration, and forgotten. Stupid mistake.

  “Nothing left,” I improvised. “Jonny told me to come back tomorrow. He reckons you’ll be flush once you’ve offloaded this consignment.”

  The man looked confused.

  “Yeah, we will be. But we won’t be back for a week.”

  So wherever they took the children was much further away than I’d thought.

  The guard smiled. “Jonny probably just wants you to come and visit him while we’re away. Dirty bastard.”

  The gun was on the sofa beside him. Bookworm stood up and walked past me to yell at the farmhouse. “Oi! Jonny! You dirty fucker. Your dick making you tell porkies again?”

  He obviously expected a comeback. But Jonny wasn’t saying anything. He stood there, smiling, waiting for a sarcastic reply. Then the smile gradually changed to puzzlement. “Oi! Jonny! You in there?” He took another step forwards. Suddenly he realised something was wrong, and he spun around to face me. I couldn’t go for his gun because the guard at the top of the scaffolding was watching us. He’d have picked me off if I’d made a move. But I was standing between the bookworm and his sofa, blocking access to his gun. I silently urged everyone to get a move on.

  “Last I saw Jonny, he was dragging some girl upstairs by a rope,” I said, shrugging.

  Bookworm eyed me suspiciously.

  “Probably can’t hear you for her groans of ecstasy,” I added. Then I flashed my eyes at him knowingly, pretending to be one of th
e lads, laughing at the teenage rapist.

  I felt sick.

  “So not tomorrow, next week, yeah?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully.

  We stood there facing each other as he see-sawed between amusement and suspicion. Amusement eventually won.

  “He’s a dirty little bastard, Jonny,” he laughed. “You want to watch him.”

  “Will do. See you next week then?”

  He nodded and walked to the gate, unshackling the chains and pulling hard. The guard on the tower returned his attention to the flood plain as the door swung open. I leaned down and grabbed the sawn-off shotgun from the sofa, and walked up behind Bookworm. I buried the muzzle in the small of his back. He stiffened and froze. I pushed him forward so that the metal door shielded us from the man on the scaffolding.

  The guard outside the door looked puzzled for an instant and then raised his gun to his hip.

  “Drop it,” I whispered to the black-toothed lech. “Or the bookworm dies.”

  He considered this for a moment.

  “I don’t really like him that much,” he replied.

  “Fred!” protested Bookworm.

  “Shut up, you speccy twat,” said Blackteeth. “Always got your nose buried in a book. Think you’re better than the rest of us. Threatening him ain’t gonna stop me, love. Oi, Mike, we’ve got a situation down here. Wanna lend a hand or you just gonna sit up there staring into space all afternoon?”

  I heard the metal clang of the other guard climbing down the scaffolding.

  All the plan required was that I disarm the door guards. It should have been easy. Instead I had two barrels ready to fire, two armed men coming at me from two sides, and one unarmed but still dangerous guy stuck in the middle with me. Lee would have known what to do.

  I just had to stall. What was keeping everyone?

  “What about you, Mike?” I shouted. “You want to see your mate’s guts blown out?” I had my free hand on Bookworm’s shoulder, and I began backing us away from Blackteeth, back inside the courtyard, towards the sofa. When Mike finally hit the ground and rounded the gate we were far enough back that I could see him and Blackteeth without dividing my attention. At least I’d avoided being caught between the two of them — now they were all in front of me.

  “Not really,” said Mike. He was tall and lean, bald, about forty. He wore a Barbour jacket, blue jeans and green wellies, and he had the shotgun held up to his shoulder, aimed steadily at us. Something about his poise made me very nervous. He wasn’t a thug like Blackteeth, or a novice like Bookworm — he was experienced and deliberate. He was the real threat here.

  I remembered the briefing that morning. “Nobody gets hurt,” I’d insisted. “Whatever happens, no-one gets killed. All right?” I looked pointedly at Rowles as I said this. He smirked, then nodded. “Yes, Matron.”

  One dumb teenage bastard was already going cold twenty metres to my right. I didn’t want anyone else to join him. Not even these guys.

  “Olly!” Mike shouted. “Get out here, boss.”

  “Olly’s not available right now,” came the reply. “Can I help at all?” It was Rowles; all five foot nothing of him. He was standing outside the stables, muddy and bedraggled, legs apart, arms raised, with a pistol in his hands. His face and hair dripped fresh blood.

  “Dammit Rowles,” I shouted. “I told you not to kill him.”

  “He’s not dead, Matron,” replied the boy quietly. “I can’t guarantee he’ll ever be the same again, but he’s not dead.”

  Mike’s aim didn’t waver for a second, but his eyes widened as he calculated the odds. He was square in Rowles’ sights.

  “Fuck me,” said Blackteeth.

  “It’s just a kid, Fred,” said Mike. “Get a grip.”

  “Caroline, you got a minute?” said Rowles.

  Caroline walked out of the stable to join him. Taller than Rowles, one year older, solidly built, her ginger hair cut brutally short, Caroline also held a pistol. She bit her lip thoughtfully, concentrating, as she took careful aim at Blackteeth.

  “Actually, he is dead,” she said, quite matter of fact. Rowles looked at her, surprised.

  “Really?”

  “You hit him over the head with an iron bar. Twice. Of course he’s dead. Idiot.” She said ‘idiot’ indulgently, with love, as if talking to a silly toddler or sullen boyfriend. My very own pre-pubescent Bonnie and Clyde.

  “Oh,” said Rowles, nonplussed. “Sorry, Matron.” He blinked back his surprise and refocused his attention on Mike.

  “Shall we shoot them, Jane?” asked Caroline.

  Mike looked into my eyes as I pretended to consider Caroline’s question. That made his mind up. He began backing away slowly, heading for the gate.

  “I think we’ll be leaving,” he said. “Coming, Fred?”

  Blackteeth nodded and joined his mate, walking backwards, gun raised. As soon as they were clear of the wall they ran left, out of sight.

  The farm was ours.

  The children were safe.

  WE WERE TOO late to help Tim. He had pneumonia and didn’t survive the day.

  I had Rowles bury Olly, Jonny and Tim as punishment for his overzealous retribution. He didn’t complain. He might go overboard at times, but he had never once questioned any order I’d given him, which is partly why I relied on him so much.

  A team of older boys and girls from the school joined us, and we loaded the rescued children into the back of the lorry then set out for home. We left Rowles burying the dead. He could walk back to the school. That was another part of his punishment. It was only ten miles, and I wasn’t worried about him. I was far more afraid for anyone that tried to cross him.

  Bookworm came with us, too. I reassured him that no harm would come to him, but I still tied him up and put a sack over his head. I had questions I wanted to ask.

  Half an hour later I swung the lorry into the driveway of the school and hit the brakes as hard as I could. The lorry skidded and ended up diagonally across the tarmac. I heard protests from the cabin behind me, but I couldn’t worry about that now.

  There was a roadblock ahead of us, flanked by armed men in combat uniforms.

  I reached down, grasped the sidearm that I’d taken from Caroline, and considered what to do. One of the men was approaching the lorry, rifle raised. He didn’t look like the usual rabble. None of the local wannabe soldiers wore uniform that convincing.

  I thought about throwing the lorry into reverse and running, but it would require a three-point turn, and he’d be here long before we could escape. If he opened fire the children could be hit. I wouldn’t put them at risk.

  Charge the checkpoint, then? I seriously considered it for a moment, but eventually decided against it. I had to follow the rules I’d set down for myself: never shoot first and prepare for the worst but assume friendly intent until proven wrong.

  I kept the engine running and the lorry in first, with my foot on the clutch. I had no idea who this guy was or which group he represented. They could be friendlies. I forced myself to stay calm and wait for him to show his hand.

  But he and his mates had obviously taken control of the school. My school. That made me angry. I tried not to imagine what could be going on in there right now.

  I cocked the pistol and rested it on my lap, then I rolled down the window.

  The man stopped about ten metres from me, rifle raised.

  “Are you armed?” he shouted.

  “Yes, thanks,” I replied, politely.

  “Throw down your weapon and step out of the cab. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m asking nicely, ma’am. I don’t want to shoot you.”

  “That’s good. I don’t want you to shoot me either. We have something in common. Now do you mind telling me who the fuck you are and what you’re doing in my school?”

  “Not your school any more, ma’am, I’m afraid. You’d be Jane Crowther, yes?”


  “That’s right.”

  “Then it’s my duty to inform you that in accordance with emergency provisions, and Royal decree, this estate is now under the control of the British Army. And you are under arrest for looting, kidnap and suspected murder.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  KATE’S BROTHER HAD a thing for soldiers.

  If I close my eyes and concentrate I can almost see those bright eyes, that cheeky grin, and hear him saying: “Imagine, all that time in uniform, being butch, sharing showers and never even copping a snog. I mean, talk about repressed. I tell you, Sis, a closeted soldier on a night out is my idea of heaven. So gloriously dirty!” Then he’d tell that unrepeatable anecdote about a captain from Aldershot, a rubber hose and a camcorder, and Kate and her friends would all be wetting themselves by the time he got to the bit where the lube tube exploded.

  “Something funny, miss?”

  I put my hand over my mouth and forced myself to concentrate. “No, Captain, nothing at all. Just… wind.”

  I was sitting in my office on the ground floor at Groombridge Place, but I was on the wrong side of the old mahogany desk. I loved that desk. It’s amazing the sense of power and confidence just sitting behind a big desk can give you. Props like that help when you’re making it all up as you go along, like I’d been. But today I was sat on a hard plastic chair with my hands cuffed behind my back while the man who had introduced himself as Captain Jim Jones sat in my comfy leather swivel chair, facing me across my desk. He pouted sourly and rubbed the back of his neck. He kept doing that. As nervous tics go it wasn’t the worst, but it was starting to irritate me.

  The captain was thirtyish, six feet tall, slightly built, with thin sandy hair and big teeth that looked like they were trying to escape from his face. Pretty rather than attractive. He seemed comfortable in his uniform, though, and when I’d been brought in here his men had followed his orders efficiently and without question. Command came easily to him, it seemed. Whoever these guys were, they were well disciplined.