School's Out Forever

by Scott K. Andrews

  “And Lee, if things go badly, send word if you can,” he said. “If it’s at all possible, I’ll come.”

  Then he opened the door and left.

  I sat in that chair watching the candle flicker against the darkness until the first hint of light crept across the horizon. Then I wiped my eyes and made ready for war.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TARIQ FELT THE frost crunching beneath his feet as he walked across the grass towards the school. The air was crisp and cold but the sky was clear and the sun shone strong but heatless.

  He loved this place. All his life he had dreamed of escaping from Basra, of never again seeing dust or sand or dun coloured buildings. This place, with all its rain and greenery, its tall palladian columns and huge windows, was as far away from his birthplace as he could imagine. When he had lain in his bed at night as a boy, this was what he had dreamed of. Another man might have felt a twinge of guilt when he realised that, in some ways, The Cull was the best thing that ever happened to him. But not Tariq. He rarely dwelt on the past and seldom paused to examine his motives or feelings. He lived in the moment and he liked it there right well, thank you very much.

  As a teenager he had pictured his future as a journalist in the UK, lobbing perfectly formed gobbets of vitriolic prose at Saddam and the Ba’athists over the internet. But he didn’t mourn the loss of his dreams and ambitions. He was a teacher now, and a member of a community that had taken him in and made him part of a family. He would settle for that and count himself lucky.

  He’d fight for it, too. Fighting seemed as natural to him as breathing. He had stood in opposition to someone or something his entire life – Saddam, the militants, the Americans. It was only in the last two years that he’d had nothing to fight. Peace had brought its own challenges, though, not least the loss of his lower left arm after the Salisbury explosion. The pain had gone now but he still felt occasional flashes of feeling in his missing fingers, and the stump itched like hell if he wore his hook on hot days.

  He raised the artificial limb and flexed the metal claw. It made a soft clicking sound as he did so. The younger kids called him Captain Hook, but he didn’t mind that. He’d even play along sometimes, bellowing a piratical “ARRRR!” and chasing them down the corridors as they screamed with terrified delight.

  The thought of anyone taking them away and making them slaves caused an old familiar anger to rise inside him. He’d almost missed it.

  He pushed open the doors and walked inside. The first person he met was Green. Tariq thought Green was a bit odd. Gawky, with acne scars and floppy blond hair, he was very quiet and reserved in company. But give him a classroom of students or, better still, a gang of people wanting to put on a play or a musical, and he was driven, focused, funny and inspirational; a natural performer. Tariq had assumed he was gay, but recent rumours suggested otherwise. The oddest thing, though, was that he didn’t take part in any of the military training exercises. Matron had exempted him, and only him, from all such activities. She’d never told Tariq why. She’d just said: “He’s earned it.”

  Green nodded a greeting as Tariq entered, then smiled in relief as the four kids he’d brought back with him shuffled past in search of baths and bed. But his face fell as he realised no-one else was following on.

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  “Call an assembly, ten minutes, dining hall,” replied the Iraqi. “All kids of ten and up. I need to get some food in me first.”

  He hurried off to the kitchen and left Green to round everyone up.

  TARIQ HAD BEEN a leader before, in Basra. Giving orders came easily to him, and he felt no nerves as he stood in front of over forty children and twelve adults.

  “Hands up everyone who was at the original school during the battle with the Blood Hunters,” he said.

  About twenty hands went up.

  “And how many were here when we moved from Groombridge?”

  About thirty.

  “And how many of you want to move again?”

  There was a murmur of disquiet.

  “Because there’s a chance we’re going to come under attack. And I, for one, am not running and hiding this time!”

  He was hoping for a chorus of “Damn straight!” but instead Mrs Armstrong spoke up from the back.

  “Why not start at the beginning, eh, love?” she asked. “Tell us where the others are.”

  Tariq looked down at his audience and shook his head in wonder at his own stupidity. These weren’t his fellow rebels from Basra, these were bloody kids, and he had started off like he was a sports coach gearing his team up for a big match. What was he thinking?

  So he told them, honestly, without sugar coating it or hiding anything, exactly what had happened and what they had learnt at Thetford.

  “We’ve prepared for a siege, over and over,” he said in conclusion. “You all know your roles and positions. My job is to make sure that this place stands firm, no matter what. And with the defences we’ve got and the strategies we’ve drilled, anyone who attacks this place is going to find they’ve bitten off more than they can chew.”

  He fell silent then, waiting for some kind of response.

  “No,” came a voice after a moment’s silence. It was not shouted, but it was spoken forcefully. It took Tariq a second to realise that it was Green speaking.

  “You want to say something?” asked Tariq.

  Green got to his feet and gestured to the podium where Tariq stood, asking permission to address the room. Tariq nodded and stepped aside, surprised.

  Green cleared his throat and looked at his feet as he prepared to speak. Then he looked up and addressed the room.

  “Somewhere in London there’s an army of kids fighting a war,” he said. “Kids like you and me. Kids who should be here, with us. We’ve been looking for allies recently, building trade relationships with the Steamies and the rest, and trying to arrange mutual defence pacts with Hood and Hildenborough. We know some of the people we encounter may be hostile or dangerous, but we keep looking for allies who can help us.

  “These kids in London don’t know it, but they are already our allies. Because they’re us. They’re you and me and her and them, if we’d never found this place. If Matron hadn’t stuck her neck out and fought for us. If Lee hadn’t seen off Mac. If Rowles hadn’t sacrificed himself to keep us safe.

  “If not for their efforts, we would be those kids. Scared, alone, fighting a war against kidnappers. Or worse – shipped to America already, where God knows what would have happened to us.

  “And how do we repay the sacrifices our friends have made to keep us safe? We hide here and hope the bad guys don’t come looking for us? Well, yeah. Of course Matron and Lee want us to do that. It’s natural. They’ve fought hard to keep us from harm, to create this place for us. They don’t want to risk it or lose it. Of course they want us to stay here and protect this perfect haven they’ve built.

  “But the thing is, they’ve also taught us by their example. And their example teaches us a different lesson.

  “It tells us that the only safety worth having is the kind you fight for.

  “It tells us that sitting around waiting for other people to look after you is asking for destruction.

  “It tells us that protecting people weaker than ourselves is the most important thing we can possibly do with our lives.

  “They’re out there now, fighting for us. God knows where Matron is, or what’s happening to her. Lee’s dad has gone to London to try and lead a gang of kids against an army that will almost certainly kick their ass. Lee’s gone riding off into potentially hostile territory with a bunch of men who we don’t know he can trust.

  “And we’re supposed to sit here and let them do all this for us because it’s what they would want us to do?

  “Fuck that.

  “Fuck hiding.

  “Fuck defences.

  “Fuck keeping a low profile.

  “If we want to justify what they’ve done for us, we
don’t do it by staying here and letting them risk their lives for us again.

  “We do it by joining them.

  “We do it by fighting for ourselves.

  “We do it by going to war.

  “We’ve spent all this time looking for allies to help us, and now we’ve found some. But they need our help instead.

  “So tomorrow, instead of running all the drills we’ve rehearsed a thousand times, I say we get kitted up, arm ourselves, and take the fight to the enemy. We go to London, we meet up with John and this resistance army in Hammersmith, and we shut these motherfucking nutjobs down and bring those kids here, to safety, where they belong.

  “Who’s with me?”

  Tariq stood, mouth gaping open in astonishment, as the whole room rose as one and began cheering. Green stepped down from the podium and walked across to him.

  “They’re all yours,” he said with a smile.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CAROLINE RUBBED THE sleep from her eyes and sat up.

  “What?” she mumbled.

  “There’s a man,” said the young boy who had just shaken her awake.

  “What kind of man?” she asked, reaching for her jumper.

  “Soldier,” said the boy.

  Caroline was instantly awake. She pulled the jumper over her head, grabbed her jeans and got to her feet.

  “Where?”

  “He was at the market just now.”

  “Just now? What time is it?”

  “I dunno,” shrugged the boy. “Sun’s up.”

  “You know the rules about going to the market on your own,” she scolded.

  “Didn’t go on my own,” he pouted. “Went with Jimmy and Emma.”

  “Who are how old?” she asked, rhetorically. But the boy had stuck out his lower lip and refused to make eye contact.

  Caroline shook her head wearily, wondering when she ended up a mother.

  “Okay,” she said. “So this soldier, why come tell me?”

  The boy sulked a little bit more then finally muttered, petulantly: “He was asking about us.”

  “Did anyone tell him anything?”

  The boy shook his head.

  Caroline reached down and began secreting her arsenal of knives about her person, then she grabbed her shotgun and ran for the door.

  THE MAN WAS not very subtle.

  It was not uncommon to see people dressed in combat gear, especially these days. But something about the way he wore it told you that it was more than just an affectation. This man was a soldier born and bred; his bearing and body language proclaimed it like a loudhailer. It was something about the way he looked at things. You could see him scanning the environment, calculating routes of ingress and egress, assessing the potential threat of everyone who passed his eye line, turning his body every now and then to make sure his awareness was 360 degrees. He was armed, too, with a machine gun strapped across his chest; his hand was always on it, ready for action.

  This man was alert and dangerous.

  And looking for her.

  She thanked Tom, the potato seller, for allowing her to shelter under his awning as she observed the man, then stepped out into the open square.

  The man clocked her instantly, as she’d expected he would. She stood there and deliberately met his gaze, then nodded right, indicating a side street down which she then walked. He followed her a moment later.

  They met in the quiet street, surrounded by burned-out cars and looted shops. She had the shotgun raised and ready to fire as he stepped into view.

  “Hands down,” Caroline said.

  He let go of his gun and let his hands fall to his side. Caroline considered shooting him there and then. Even talking to this man was a risk, but after a long moment she decided to let him speak.

  “Who are you and why are you looking for me?” she asked.

  “My name’s John. I heard there was an army of kids here, fighting the snatchers. Is that you?”

  He had a Midlands accent, and something about his tone of voice made Caroline feel that perhaps he wasn’t the villain she’d been expecting.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Good. I have news for you. And an offer.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “At dawn tomorrow you are going to be attacked by the church. They know where you are and they’ve decided to finish you off.”

  “How the fuck do you know that?”

  “My friends and I captured a bunch of them two days ago. One of them was very talkative.”

  Caroline digested this information for a moment, then asked: “Offer?”

  “I want to help.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve got a lot of experience of fighting in urban environments. I can help you, teach you how to give them a very memorable welcome.”

  “My mum always warned me to be careful of things that seem to good to be true,” said Caroline. “Why would you do this?”

  He shrugged. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  Caroline snorted derisively.

  “I represent a place, a safe place,” said the man, undeterred. “A school actually, where a bunch of us look after kids.”

  Caroline sneered. “Right,” she said. “And that doesn’t sound at all creepy.” She stared hard at this man, trying to work out if he was telling the truth. Despite her sarcasm, she was surprised to find that her initial instinct was to trust him.

  “This school have a name?” she asked.

  “St Mark’s.”

  Caroline suddenly felt sick. First Matron and now this guy? This was too much of a coincidence. Matron had gone looking for Spider only yesterday. They must have captured her and tortured her until she told them where Caroline and her kids were hiding.

  This guy, Caroline realised, was a church infiltrator.

  And she knew how to deal with infiltrators.

  “You don’t say,” said Caroline. “And you run this school, do you?”

  “Me and some others.”

  “What’s the name of your Matron?” she asked.

  He narrowed his eyes, curious at this unexpected question. “Jane,” he said eventually. “Jane Crowther.”

  “And you are?”

  “I told you, I’m John.”

  “John Keegan?”

  The man’s face betrayed his surprise and he nodded. Caroline walked forward, ’til the barrel of her shotgun was less than an inch from the soldier’s chest.

  “Where is she?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Where are you holding her?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t...”

  “Guys!”

  Ten teenaged boys stepped out of doorways and from behind cars, carrying their weapons in plain sight, encircling Caroline and the man.

  “Take the gun off,” she barked.

  “Listen, lets rewind a bit, I don’t think we...”

  “Take. It. OFF!”

  He did so, letting it clatter to the tarmac from where it was retrieved by one of the boys, who gripped it excitedly. Caroline saw the realisation flash across the man’s face – that he had miscalculated, was outnumbered and surrounded. She followed his eyes as they darted left and right, assessing which of the boys he should go for and which route of escape he should take back to the market. She saw his posture change ever so slightly as he prepared to make a move.

  So she stepped forward and brought her knee up hard into the man’s bollocks, doubling him over with a whoosh of escaping breath. ‘Let’s see you make a run for it now,’ she thought smugly.

  “Jane left here yesterday, heading straight for you bastards,” she said.

  “No, wait...”

  “She told you where we were, didn’t she? Jesus, I don’t know what you did to her to make her give us up, but I know her. She’d have to be half dead before she told you anything that would lead you to me.”

  “You’ve got it wrong...” the man gasped through his pain.

  A
tall boy stepped forward and cracked the man hard across the head with a truncheon. He crumpled to the ground.

  “Don’t answer her back, fuckhead,” the boy shouted.

  “Luke,” said Caroline, addressing the boy. “Get back to the others, tell them to pack up and move out. We’re not waiting, we’re going now.”

  The boy nodded and ran off down the street.

  Caroline knelt down beside the man.

  “What was the plan, eh?” she asked. “Infiltrate us, let us think you’d help us fight the church and then lead us into a trap? Box us up and ship us out, problem solved?”

  The man looked up at her. “I’m telling you the truth, I just want to help,” he said, his voice rough with pain. “How do you know Jane? When was she here?”

  “I know her, you bastard, because she’s my friend. And she tricked you. That’s the best bit. She may have led you right to us, but she fucked you up at the same time.”

  “I don’t...”

  “John Keegan’s dead, motherfucker. She told me herself.” Caroline laughed, but there was no real humour in it. “She told you to pretend to be a dead man because she knew it would tip us off. So you lose, asshole. She was too clever for you.”

  “No, wait, I see what’s happened here...”

  Caroline stood up, levelled the shotgun at the man’s head, and blew his brains all over the street even as he tried desperately to cling to the cover story she’d so easily seen through.

  “Back home, now,” she ordered, and the boys took off down the street.

  Caroline stayed for a moment, looking at the corpse of the man who’d tried to win her trust. She had a moment’s doubt. What if...?

  But she shook her head. No.

  “Joke’s on you, churchman,” she said, and then she ran after her friends.

  JOHN KEEGAN’S BODY lay in the street until nightfall, when the foxes and the dogs fought over it.

  The foxes won, and dragged it hungrily away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I ALWAYS THOUGHT you kind of fancied me, Kate,” says Cooper, after swilling down the last mouthful of turkey with a swig of Chablis. It’s the first thing he’s said since I entered the room, escorted by two guards, and sat down to dinner.