School's Out Forever

by Scott K. Andrews

  “Two of the Rangers are down.”

  “Wilkes?”

  “No, he’s fine.”

  “What about captives?”

  “Two. Wilkes is just getting started on them. Thought you might want to come along.”

  Caroline thought about this for a moment and decided that no, she really just wanted to sit here drinking this nice wine she’d found in the galley.

  “Drinking before noon?” asked Tariq.

  “Unless you have any other painkillers to hand, I’ll stick with tried and tested if that’s okay with you.”

  The Iraqi reached out and took the bottle from her. She glared at him, eyes narrowed.

  “No, it’s not okay,” he said sternly. “The only thing worse than a sixteen-year-old girl with a gun and an itchy trigger finger is a drunk sixteen-year-old girl with a gun and an itchy trigger finger.”

  “Jesus,” said Caroline as she stood. “Listen to Jeremy fucking Kyle. Fine, I’ll lend a hand.”

  She limped past him and climbed the staircase to the luxury cabins that sat on the floor above.

  She pushed open the cabin door and found Wilkes and Green standing over two men sat on the double bed, hands tied behind their backs.

  “Have they agreed to help yet?” she asked.

  Wilkes shook his head. “Not yet, but they...”

  Caroline pulled a kitchen knife from her belt and before the Ranger could stop her, she leaned forward and thrust it deep into the heart of the captive nearest to her. His mouth formed an O of surprise and he let out a strangled gasp, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped against the wall, stone dead.

  Caroline pulled out the knife, wiped it on the sleeve of her coat and turned to the other man on the bed.

  “We can do this without you, you know,” she said calmly. “Your only chance to live another minute is to agree to help us. Otherwise we’ll go to plan B. What do you say?”

  He nodded in mute horror. Caroline patted his cheek chummily.

  “Good man.”

  As she withdrew her hand she noticed that she’d smeared his face with blood. She pointed to her cheek. “You’ve got a little spot there,” she said, helpfully. Then she walked out, passing Tariq who stood in the doorway, slack jawed.

  “Fucking hell. That girl scares me,” said Green once he’d got his breath back.

  “Oh, I dunno,” said Tariq. “I kind of like her.”

  CAROLINE LIMPED DOWN the stairs. When she reached the bottom she heard heavy footsteps following behind her.

  Wilkes emerged and grabbed her arm, pulling her through business class and into the cockpit. He slammed the door and stood before it, arms folded, face red with fury.

  Caroline remained composed.

  “The last time an adult locked himself in a room with me, I cut out his heart with this knife,” she said. “So be aware, if your hand goes anywhere near your zip, you’ll lose it. And I don’t mean your hand.”

  Having dragged her in here to give her a piece of his mind, Wilkes found himself momentarily speechless.

  “Did you see the body count out there?” he eventually asked.

  Caroline nodded.

  “Those were children,” said the Ranger. “Children! They should never have been put in that position. A battlefield is no place for a child. We can’t go forward with this plan, not after this. I’m calling it off. I’m only sorry I didn’t do this sooner, then maybe some of those kids would still be alive. But this ends. Now.”

  “Oh really,” replied Caroline, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well that’s good to know. Pass that message on to the snatchers, would you? Give them a good talking to about it. I’m sure they’ll stop the kidnapping then.”

  “Fighting them is a job for men,” said Wilkes.

  “No, you sanctimonious fucker, it’s a job for boys and girls,” yelled Caroline. “It’s not grown ups they’re kidnapping. It’s kids. This is our fight, their fight. Not yours. You’re the outsider here.” She stabbed him the chest with her index finger, jutting her chin out and shouting in his face. “Since The Cull I’ve met one – ONE! – adult who hasn’t tried to fuck me over. Every other predatory bastard out there thinks I’m either cattle to be bartered for food or a warm body to use and toss away. So don’t you fucking dare, Mr High-And-Mighty-Grown-Up-Man, tell me that children have no place in the front line. Because it’s you lot who’ve bloody put us there. And believe me: every adult we meet is going to regret standing by and letting that happen. What does the bible say – the children shall inherit? Well that starts right now and you’re either with me or against me. So shut up and help or fuck off out of my way. Because I promise you, if you try and stop me I will kill you dead.”

  She was breathing hard and furious when she finished her tirade, staring into Wilkes’ eyes, all challenge and fire.

  He stepped to one side and let her pass without saying a word.

  THEY GOT ALL the children off the plane and gathered them together on the hangar floor. Green had done a head count and taken note of all their ages, so again they divided them by age. There were 132 kids under 13 amongst the 298 surviving captives. Green wanted to give one of his rousing speeches, but Tariq shook his head.

  “Just let them choose,” he said.

  So the 166 remaining kids were given a choice to join the fight or leave with the youngsters. 45 of them chose to leave, too traumatised by the massacre they’d just witnessed. They joined the younger kids in two lorries and were sent back to St Mark’s, driven to safety by the two surviving Rangers.

  A third lorry, driven by one of the older kids, carried the corpses back for burial.

  That left 121 new recruits who were again divided by age. 52 of them were over 16, and they were each given a firearm and an hour’s group training in the hangar. The rest were set loose in the airport on a mad scavenger hunt for weapons; they returned with an impressive array of metal bars, chains and knives.

  The sun was setting when they gathered by the lorries that were painted with the red circles. Wilkes stepped forward and shot the lorries up a bit, making it look as if they’d survived an attack. Then the army of children hid their weapons under their clothes, piled into the containers and got ready for war.

  As Tariq watched the kids climb into the containers her felt a tug at his jacket and turned to find a familiar face looking up at him.

  “They won’t give me a gun,” pouted Jenni.

  Tariq smiled, glad to see she was still alive. “That’s because you’re still only thirteen.”

  “But you gave me a gun before and I managed not to accidentally shoot anybody with it,” she said. “Please, Tariq. Pretty please.”

  He reached into his kit bag and handed her a Browning. “Okay, but don’t tell the guy with the bow and arrow, all right?”

  The girl went up on tiptoes and kissed Tariq on the cheek. “You’re a sweetheart,” she said.

  The Iraqi was surprised to find himself blushing. Jenni secreted the gun inside her coat, but didn’t move to join the other kids in the lorry. She glanced around furtively, as if looking for someone, then pulled him down the side of the lorry, out of sight.

  “Listen,” she said. “There’s something you should know about John Keegan...”

  THE SURVIVING SNATCHER was installed behind the driver’s seat of the lead vehicle. He was in his mid-thirties, solid and capable looking, dressed in combats. Tariq thought that if he’d had to kill one of the captives, this was the one he’d have killed; the one Caroline stabbed had been snivelling and broken. This one was more composed. The Iraqi sat beside him, knife in his lap.

  “Here’s what you have to do,” he said. “You lead the convoy to Parliament. If we’re challenged when we arrive, you say Heathrow came under attack by unknown forces and you managed to escape. All we want to do is get inside the perimeter fence. Once we’re in, I swear you’ll be free to go. Understand?”

  The snatcher nodded and turned the ignition.

  They dro
ve through the night, making slow progress down roads clogged with vehicles abandoned by the fleeing masses during The Culling Year.

  The snow came down in thick, solid looking flakes, reducing visibility and making the going harder as they progressed. For a while Tariq thought they wouldn’t make it, but as the day drew to a close they pulled up outside the tall black metal fence that ringed the Palace of Westminster. Big Ben loomed above them in the blizzard, marking the time as twenty past seven. They were actually a little early but that was okay.

  The light was pre-dawn murky and the air was thick with snow as the snatcher honked his horn.

  “Remember, once we’re in, you can go,” said Tariq, knife in hand. “Just don’t try anything.”

  A minute later there was a knock at the window. The driver wound it down.

  “What the fuck you doing here, Tel?” asked the guard, shivering despite the thick Puffa jacket he was wearing.

  “We had a bit of business, mate,” said the snatcher. “Someone attacked us at the airport. Had to evacuate. Let us in, will you? I’m bloody freezing.”

  “You and me both. All right, put them underground.” The guard stepped back and waved them forward.

  The gate swung open and the three lorries pulled into the courtyard. The snatcher swung the lorry round and drove down a concrete ramp into the underground car park. He pulled into a bay and switched off the engine. The other two lorries pulled up alongside.

  Tariq opened the door and stepped out. He gave the thumbs up to Wilkes, who sat in the cab of the adjacent lorry, looking unenthusiastic.

  But Tariq’s triumph was short-lived. There was a cacophony of boots as men streamed down the ramp and burst through the interior doors, machine guns in hand.

  Tariq stood frozen to the spot as the lorries were encircled by ten very well armed, very angry looking soldiers. The guard from the gate stepped forward and met the snatcher who had driven the lorry, by now out of the cab and running to meet his comrades. He took a gun from the guard and walked up to Tariq, smiling.

  “I didn’t give the password, dipshit,” said the snatcher. “What, you think we’re amateurs? We’re SAS, pal. And you are really going to regret fucking with us.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I CAN HEAR Big Ben chiming midnight as I lie in bed, unable to sleep.

  I’ve been given a room in the Speaker’s Cottage. It’s luxurious, furnished with lovely antiques that have been polished to a fine lustre, and the flock wallpaper feels expensive. The bed is huge and comfy, the eiderdown deep and warm. The window looks out over the river and catches the rising sun in the morning. It’s a very nice room indeed.

  But it’s a gilded cage. Cooper sleeps next door in an even more opulent chamber, and when he escorts me to bed in the evening he locks my door so I cannot sneak out and kill him as he sleeps.

  I lie awake listening to the creaks and echoes of this old building as the night cold grips its bones. I can hear Cooper pacing the floor. He’s not exactly walking up and down outside – he ranges wider than that – but every few minutes his soft footfalls pass by my room and I hold my breath, listening for the key in the lock. So far he’s always kept walking, but this time around he’s stopped outside my door.

  Silence falls as I lie there, holding my breath, waiting for him to enter or leave. He’s been there for five minutes now. What is he doing? Listening at the door? Wrestling with his conscience? Plucking up the courage to come in? The silence lasts so long that I begin to doubt what I heard. Maybe I just didn’t hear him leave. He can’t have been standing out there, motionless, for so long, can he? That’s paranoid.

  Yet I feel that just by listening for him I’ve been drawn into a deadly game of cat and mouse. I consider getting out of bed, creeping to the door and peering out the keyhole. But if he hears me moving around that may catalyse a decision, lead directly to him entering.

  So I lie here, listening to the sound that is no sound – the sound of a man trying to decide my fate.

  I was surprised when I found the women in the Lords. Not because I didn’t realise such a place probably existed – armed men who run internment camps have always kept women for their use, from the comfort women to the women kept alive for ‘special duties’ in the concentration camps. No, what really surprises me is that Cooper visits them himself. He had been so insistent that he never had any of the women or girls that he trafficked before The Cull. I believe him, too. Now, it seems he no longer feels the need for such restraint. He even has a favourite. I wonder what insight Jools might be able to give me into the real man.

  I resolve to go and talk to her again in the morning. My movements around the Palace are not restricted, but I am closely watched and another visit to the Lords risks arousing Cooper’s suspicion. Still, I need allies, and those women are the best I can hope for right now.

  I hear a sound outside my window, like a sharp crack. The air is thick with snow and all sound is muffled, so I have no idea where it came from or what it was. A drifting boat bumping against the embankment, perhaps?

  There are no more sounds and I realise that it distracted me. Has Cooper crept away while I wasn’t paying attention?

  The silent waiting resumes. Another five minutes pass and I can feel my eyelids starting to droop in spite of myself. Sod this, I think. I’m going to sleep. I turn over, pull the eiderdown up to my cheek, and close my eyes.

  The instant I do this I hear a loud banging on the door of the cottage. My eyes snap open. I hear Cooper turn and walk away from my door – so he was still there! – and go to answer. I have a feeling that whatever has occurred may provide an opportunity, so after a second’s consideration I jump out of bed and pull on my jeans, jumper and shoes.

  I tiptoe to the door, grabbing a glass from the dressing table as I do so, placing it against the thick wood, trying to hear what’s going on. It’s hopeless, though; all I can hear is the muffled drone of their conversation.

  Then there are hurrying footsteps coming my way. I leap backwards as the key is thrust into the lock. I stand in the middle of the floor, fully dressed, no point trying to pretend I was asleep. The door opens and Cooper stands framed there for a moment, surprised to find me up and about. His surprise soon passes.

  “Kate, I need your help,” he says. “Come with me, please.”

  Over his shoulder I can see one of his goons standing expectantly in the hallway, machine gun at the ready.

  “Help with what?” I ask, not moving.

  He pulls a handgun from his waistband. “You’ll see,” he says. He steps forward, grabs my wrist and pulls me after him.

  “Hey!” I protest, but he spins and snarls at me with such menace that I’m momentarily silenced. Even when he slapped me he seemed in control, but in this brief instant I catch a glimpse of a different Cooper – furious, savage and ruthless, almost feral.

  ‘Ah-ha,’ I think. ‘There you are!’

  He drags me down a small winding back staircase to the ground floor, through a series of carpeted corridors – green carpet, meaning we’re in the Commons – then into the corridor that joins Commons to Lords, through the central lobby and up to the closed doors of the Lords itself.

  There are six or seven of his soldiers gathered at various vantage points, all with their guns trained on the doors. The air smells of cordite. Unconcerned by the fact that his men are staying in cover, Cooper walks right up to the doors, still pulling me behind him. He stands in front of the doors for a moment then kicks them open and strides into the ornate, high-ceiling chamber.

  The women are gathered in a line on the back bench to my left. They’re all sitting bolt upright with their hands upon their heads, eyes wide and fearful. In the middle of the room, on the big red cushion they call the woolsack, stands a man in a hoodie with a bow and arrow. The string is taut, the shaft of the arrow aimed straight at Cooper’s heart. My mind races. This is one of Hood’s Rangers. Have they decided to take Cooper down? Is this the beginning of an assault? I feel a
momentary rush of hope but then damp it down. There’s no firing from anywhere in the building, no sounds of combat or attack. No, this is one man. Here to deliver a message, maybe?

  It occurs to me that it might actually be Hood himself.

  Cooper pulls me to his side, wrapping his left arm around my throat and holding his gun to my temple.

  “Drop it or she dies,” he yells.

  The hooded man stands there, unmoved. He doesn’t say a word.

  Cooper lifts the gun an inch and fires a round just over my head, deafening me and making me yelp in surprise. I inwardly curse myself for being such a wuss. This is the point where I should bite his wrist or stamp on his foot, distract him for a moment and run for it. But there’s a small army behind me and only one man ahead.

  “I dunno who you think I am, but I have no idea who that woman is. Why should I care if she lives or dies?” The Ranger has a thick Irish accent. Not Hood, then. He’s a bit shit, too, ’cause I’ve never met him before in my life but already I can tell he’s bluffing.

  Cooper drops the gun so it’s pointing at the floor. For a moment I think he’s backing down but then, the instant before he fires, I realise what he’s about to do.

  “No,” I shout, but my cry is drowned out by the percussive blast that sends a small lump of lead into my right foot.

  I scream in agony and go limp, unable to stand. Cooper’s arm is tight around my neck, holding me upright. I begin to choke. As the blood pounds in my ears and my vision blurs I hear a voice shouting:

  “All right, all right! We surrender!”

  Lee?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “I’M SORRY ABOUT that, Kate,” said the man I assumed was Spider as he handed Jane the syringe.

  She took it without making eye contact and stuck it into her ankle, depressing the plunger. A few moments later her shoulders relaxed as the morphine did its work.

  I knelt on the hard tiled floor of the central lobby with my hands on my head, fingers interlaced. The muzzle of a rifle rested gently on the nape of my neck, ready to end me if Spider gave the order. Ferguson was on his knees next to me in the same predicament. I’d counted seven soldiers in the lobby with us, mostly dressed in black or combats, all heavily armed. I could tell they were proper soldiers, not followers who’d joined after The Cull; something about their bearing and expressions told me they were professionals.