School's Out Forever

by Scott K. Andrews

  Even though Ben didn’t much like Jack, and Jack didn’t much like Ben, they were both too scared to be alone, so they’d stuck together.

  Ben sat up quickly and rubbed his eyes. “What?” he whispered urgently, confused and still half asleep. “What’s going on?”

  Jack leaned in close and spoke quickly and quietly.

  “Ben,” he said, pressing his library card into his sleepy friend’s hand. “I need you to do me a favour.”

  ARTHUR’S INCIPIENT EUPHORIA was enough to make him forget the pain in his legs. Even this close to his destiny, he chided himself. His ascent to the throne wasn’t supposed to be easy, but he’d been so annoyed at the prospect of having to infiltrate the cultists that he’d felt himself to be unlucky. He realised that the wall had been a warning, a reminder not to be ungrateful. This was a test, he understood that, a baptism of sorts, and it was all to a purpose. Fate had plans for him, but it was not to be taken for granted.

  So he stood, chastened, and waited patiently for the boy king to emerge from the ice house. He caressed the revolver in his jacket pocket lovingly. Soon, now.

  He cocked his head to one side suddenly alert. The snap of a twig. Slowly, he spun through 360 degrees, scanning the surrounding woods, but saw no movement and heard no other sound. Must have been a deer.

  His suspicions were instantly forgotten as he saw two boys emerge from the small brick dome. The king, Jack, was smaller than Ben, but carried himself with a confidence sorely lacking in his friend. It was obvious which of the two was of royal blood. It showed in his bearing as clear as day. Arthur was sure that was how he must look to others and wondered how it could be that no one had ever noticed his inherent regalness while he was working at the council. He decided that people lowly enough to be working in such mindless jobs were too stupid to notice such things.

  The two boys stopped in front of him. The king stood slightly closer, his friend hanging back, timid.

  “Hi, yeah, I’m Jack,” said the boy, grinning as if he’d just said something incredibly clever or funny. “What can I do for you?”

  And Arthur froze.

  Here it was. The moment of his ascension. He stood there, transfixed by the enormity of what was about to happen.

  “You had a message for me, you said?” continued the boy, his brow creasing in puzzlement.

  Still Arthur couldn’t move or speak. Unconsciously, his eyes widened and his mouth shaped itself into an idiot grin.

  “Um, sir?” Now the king looked uncertain, and turned to his friend, pulling a funny face and shrugging.

  Arthur withdrew the gun from his pocket, still grinning, and shot the King of England, Jack Bedford, in the head, believing him to be a useless commoner.

  All the confidence of the boy standing before him evaporated into terror as he saw his friend fall to the ground, and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

  Arthur was about to pull the trigger again when he hesitated.

  “No,” he said to the cowering, whimpering child. “Let’s talk first.”

  THE MAN ARTHUR believed to be the King of England, Ben Wyman, sat on his hands on the soft forest ground and tried to control his bladder. The madman sat opposite him, cross legged, gun in hand, regarding him curiously.

  If he looked past the madman, Ben could see Jack’s body. He was lying with his eyes open, staring at him in silent reproach.

  “I never talked to any of the others, but there’s one thing I kept meaning to ask them. Did you feel it?” asked the madman. “The moment you ascended to the throne, I mean. It was about a week ago, at two in the afternoon.”

  Ben didn’t know what the correct answer might be, so he said nothing. Happily, the madman didn’t seem to mind.

  “I imagine you didn’t,” he continued. “It’s not really your throne. You’re not destined to remain king, you see. I am. I’ll feel the moment of destiny because I’ll make it happen. You were passive. Didn’t have the guts to go out and seize your power, not like me. I’ve proved myself, you understand? Not like you, cowering here in this dungeon, waiting for slaughter.”

  Still Ben said nothing. All those years in the care home had taught him the value of silence.

  Suddenly the madman tutted, as if annoyed with himself. “Why am I wasting time?” he muttered, and raised his gun.

  “Yeah, I felt it,” said Ben.

  The madman paused.

  “Kind of like a hot flush, sort of thing,” he elaborated.

  The gun stayed where it was, neither lowered nor raised.

  “Made me feel all kind of powerful and stuff,” he added, unsure whether this was what the madman wanted to hear.

  “And did you know?” asked the madman, his eyes narrowed, intensely focused on his answer.

  “Of course,” said Ben. “’Course I knew.”

  The madman nodded. “Interesting.” He stayed sitting there, gun half raised, nodding pensively.

  Beneath his right buttock, Ben made a fist, scooping up leaves and dirt, ready to throw them into the nutter’s face if the chance presented itself.

  “Did the other boys notice it, the change in you?”

  “Oh yeah, natch.”

  “That’s good. I’ll need that, I think.”

  Ben cursed inwardly. Why had he agreed to go along with Jack’s stupid plan to switch identities? It had seemed funny at the time. Jack was scared of his own shadow, and even though he resented Ben’s confidence, he wasn’t afraid to use it to his advantage. Just like a toff, thought Ben, not for the first time wondering why he’d thrown his lot in with these spoiled Harrow kids, refusing to admit to himself that he had been so scared of being alone that even a bunch of pampered prats had seemed like an attractive peer group. So he’d tried to adopt the accent and manners of the boys around him; he was good at blending in. He’d even begun to think maybe he’d found a home, until the cultists arrived.

  He wondered if there was any point in protesting that he wasn’t Jack. Probably not. The madman had killed Jack without a second’s thought. Ben knew the only reason he was still alive was because the madman thought he was someone else. If Ben told him the truth, and if he was believed, he’d end up just as dead. Better to play along, to try and find some advantage. That was another thing he’d learned in the care home - if silence doesn’t work, keep them talking, sometimes you can deflect them.

  “Tell me about the others,” asked Ben.

  The madman shook his head briefly, forcing his attention back to the here and now.

  “Oh, they were nothing, really,” he replied. “Spoilt brats. Trustafarians. I should have realised that the lower down the list I got, the better they’d be. You’re almost normal, like me. It’ll be good to have a normal king, don’t you think?”

  Ben nodded. “So, let me see if I’ve got this right,” he said cautiously. “I’m King of England, yeah? You’re next in line to the throne after me. And you’ve gone around killing everyone in line before me. Now you’ve just got to off me and you become king. That about it?”

  The madman’s eyes narrowed, suspicious again.

  “You know that,” he said.

  Ben nodded. “Oh yeah, just wanted to be absolutely sure we were on the same page.” He was gobsmacked; he knew Jack had been posh, but he’d had no idea he was bloody royalty. “So, how many kings have you killed?”

  Could he persuade the nutter of the truth - that he’d got the wrong person, that he’d already killed the king and was in fact already the monarch? He cursed himself for speaking without thinking; no, he couldn’t, because he’d gone and reinforced the madman’s belief that you felt the moment your predecessor died, that becoming king was some sort of massive supernatural head rush.

  There was nothing else to do. He was going to have to try and fight this guy. Ben knew he didn’t have much of a chance, but if he didn’t do something he was going to be shot dead at any moment. And he was damned if he was going down without a fight.

  He clenched his handful of d
irt and prepared to make his move.

  “Kings and queens,” corrected the madman. “Ten in all. You’ll be number eleven.”

  Ben ignored the nerves and the insistent pressure on his bladder, and rolled to his right, releasing his arms and flinging the forest mulch into the face of the madman.

  “Like fuck I will!” he yelled, and then he was up and running.

  ARTHUR WIPED THE muck from his eyes as he rose to his feet. The boy had already vanished into the undergrowth, but he was hardly stealthy and he could clearly hear him blundering away to his left. With a weary sigh, he gave chase. It was his own stupid fault. He should have just shot the boy when he had the chance. Then he would have fulfilled his destiny and ascended to invincibility. As it was, his legs hurt, his eyes stung, he had a stitch from running and he was starting to get really cheesed off. Time to kill the boy and be done with it.

  He held tight to his gun as he ran.

  BEN KNEW THE madman wasn’t far behind him, so he put his head down and concentrated on going as fast as he could. A bullet pinged off a tree right beside him, and he put on an extra burst of speed.

  He was so focused on his pursuer that he didn’t see the man who stepped out in front of him, only becoming aware of his presence when he ran smack into the heavy log the man was wielding.

  He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  ARTHUR SAW THE boy lying on the ground and stopped dead. Had he tripped, or hit his head on a tree? He was pretty sure his hopeful shot hadn’t found its mark.

  He approached the boy carefully. Maybe he was playing possum, waiting for him to get closer so he could spring some trap. Arthur told himself not to be paranoid; there were no traps here.

  Which was why he was so surprised when Mr Jolly stepped out from behind a tree and shot him in the gut.

  Arthur stood there for a moment, his face a mask of stunned surprise. Then his gun dropped from his hand and he fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. He remained kneeling as his supervisor from the camp walked towards him shaking his head ruefully.

  “And you were so close, Arthur,” said Mr Jolly as he approached. “So close.”

  Arthur didn’t understand. He was so shocked and confused that he couldn’t even form a question. He just stared, baffled, at the man who had shot him.

  Jolly knelt down as well, so he was facing Arthur.

  “Of all the people I showed that spreadsheet to, you were the unlikeliest candidate,” he said. “I’d almost given up.”

  Arthur registered that his accent had changed. The glottal stops of his Wandsworth accent had gone, replaced by round, plummy RP.

  “I really didn’t think you had it in you. The one before you, now he was a go getter. But when he saw his name on the list he just laughed. In all, you were the sixth person whose name I added to the spreadsheet, and by far the least promising. Or so I thought. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? You never can tell about people.”

  “I...” gasped Arthur. “I don’t...”

  “Understand. Yes, I know. You’ve gone quite round the twist, haven’t you? Poor love. I knew you’d finally lost the plot when you killed that reprehensible parasite Parker. Making him a paper crown, painting it gold, then setting him up in a tableau, in a big chair with a roll of silver foil as a sceptre... well, it was inventive, I’ll give you that. But a bit bonkers, don’t you think?”

  “What are you... doing here?” Arthur was beginning to feel lightheaded, as if the world was spinning around him. Gravity suddenly seemed to be on the blink. He saw spots before his eyes and found it hard to draw breath.

  “Oh do keep up, Arthur. I replaced my name on the line of succession with yours. Simple plan, really. Convince someone else that they’re the rightful heir, they traipse off and kill everyone who stands in their way, and I sit back, watch the show, then pick off the hapless patsy at the end. That way I only have to kill one idiot, rather than eleven.”

  Arthur’s head swam. Was this another test? Surely what Jolly was saying couldn’t be true. No, it had to be a test. It was his destiny to be king. He knew that, more certainly than he’d ever known anything in his life.

  “You used me?” he groaned.

  “Well of course I did, dear boy. First rule of being king – delegate the nastiest jobs to the most expendable serfs you can lay your hands on. And you, Arthur St John Smith, are the most entirely expendable person I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet. Plus: murderous, delusional and now, very dead indeed.”

  ARTHUR LAUGHED.

  “Funny,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “You see, I really am the king. I can feel it. You wouldn’t know what I mean, of course. But it’s in my blood. Don’t you realise who I am?”

  “Go on, surprise me.”

  “I’m the once and future king. Arthur, you see? My name isn’t a coincidence. My parents must have known. Don’t you realise? This is the moment of England’s greatest need and I am come again!”

  With that final pronouncement, Arthur’s eyes rolled back in his head, he toppled sideways and lay motionless.

  THE KING OF England, Jolyon Wakefield-Pugh, tutted affectionately.

  “Nutty as a fruitcake,” he laughed.

  He rose to his feet and turned to deal with the last bit of unfinished business.

  But the boy was nowhere to be seen.

  “Oh,” groaned Jolyon. “Oh bugger.”

  BEN WAS WOOZY and concussed but he still had enough presence of mind to slip away quietly the moment he regained semi-consciousness. Once he was out of earshot he increased his pace, half falling forwards with every frantic step. He made for the school buildings, which seemed to offer the best chance of cover and safety.

  The bump to his head had only made the events of the morning seem even more surreal and dreamlike. Had he really been attacked by two men who thought he was king? Had Jack really been shot down in cold blood right in front of his eyes? Could any of this be real?

  He broke cover at the tree-line and made for the ruins of the main building. There was a cellar there where he could hide.

  But when he made it to the bricks he lost his footing and fell, sprawling on the ruined masonry. As he lay there he could feel consciousness slipping away again. The fear of death overwhelmed him, and he whimpered “Mum” before succumbing to the darkness.

  LIEUTENANT SANDERS, LATE of the SAS, now barracked at Salisbury with the remnants of the British Army, had all but given up hope. Six months spent chasing royalty, and all he’d found were corpses. Each time he found a new one he’d contact his superior officer and break the bad news. And each time he was ordered to go find the next person on the list.

  Sanders wasn’t much of a monarchist, but he had to concede that a figurehead would be a useful rallying point for the scattered survivors of post-Cull Britain. A heroic king or a stern but comely queen would provide a focal point for patriotism and a sense of allegiance that could help rebuild the nation.

  It helped keep the army in line too, if they had someone they could swear an oath to.

  So he’d scoured the length and breadth of the British Isles with a list of names and last known addresses, trying to find the rightful monarch. And each time he arrived, they were dead. He wasn’t stupid, after the third body he’d realised that someone else was using the same list for a different agenda. A radical republican, maybe?

  He skipped to number five on the list, but was too late. Then seven. Again, too late, and the body too long cold. Now he’d jumped to eleven. He had to get ahead of this bastard, whoever he was.

  When he got to Harrow he went in cautiously, weapon at the ready. The school was still smoking, and he got a familiar sinking feeling. There was no-one alive here.

  But just as he was about to give up and go on to the next name, he caught an impression of movement through the wisps of smoke. Moving cautiously, he stalked his prey.

  JOLYON WAKEFIELD-PUGH STOOD over the unconscious body of the boy he believed to be king and considered his nex
t move.

  More specifically: knife, gun or brick?

  He eventually plumped for brick, reached down and grabbed one, enjoying its heft and solidity. He raised his right arm, ready to bring the brick crashing down on the boy’s skull, ready to seize his destiny.

  WITH HIS ARM raised, the man presented a perfect target. Sanders knew nothing of his grievance or motive in wanting the boy dead, but he knew a murderer when he saw one. Martial law gave him the right to take action, and he was not afraid to do so.

  He put three rounds into the chest of the King of England, killing him instantly, and he felt satisfied that he had done right.

  Then he ran to offer aid to the fallen boy.

  Sanders turned him over and felt for a pulse. Strong and steady. He was alive, but he had a nasty head wound that needed some attention. He had a medical kit in his jeep, so he leaned down and grabbed the boy’s hands, lifting him into a sitting position, ready to throw him over his shoulder. As he did so, something fell out of the boy’s pocket on to the ground.

  He let go of the boy’s right arm and reached down to pick up the library card.

  He read the name on the card.

  Then he looked down at the boy.

  Then he looked back at the card.

  “Well fuck me sideways, Your Majesty,” said Sanders, grinning fit to burst. “Pleased to meet you.”