School's Out Forever (afterblight chronicles)

by Scott K. Andrews

  That’s what the security and community of St Mark’s allows me, allows all of us — the chance to daydream about the future. I can’t imagine that any of the survivors who are stuck out in the cold, scavenging off the scraps of a dead civilisation, ever daydream about anything but the past.

  Morning break’s at quarter-to, so I decide to swing by the kitchen and grab a cuppa before the place is overrun.

  I head deeper into the old house, following the smell of baking to Mrs Atkins’ domain. Sourcing ingredients to feed seventy-three children and sixteen adults would have been a pain even before Sainsbury’s was looted to extinction, but now it’s a full time job for Justin, ample Mrs Atkins’ very own Jack Spratt.

  He finds it, grows it or barters for it; she cooks it. We’ve got a thriving market garden that the kids help him maintain, plus a field each of cows, sheep and pigs, not to mention the herds of deer that roam the area. We don’t have any vegetarians here. This year we’re experimenting with grain crops and corn, but it’s early days yet. There’s a working windmill in a nearby village but demand is high so we only get a sack every now and then, which makes biscuits and bread a special treat. Our carpentry teacher, Eddie, is working on designs for a windmill of our own, but it’s still on the drawing board.

  Jamie Oliver would approve of our kitchens — everything’s fresh and seasonal, and there isn’t a turkey twizzler in sight. But there is a pan of fresh biscuits lying cooling on the sideboard as I walk in, so I snatch one and take a bite before our formidable dinner lady can slap my hand away or hit me over the head with the big brass ladle she’s currently using to stir the mutton stew she’s preparing for dinner.

  “Oi! Make your own, cheeky,” says Mrs Atkins as she glares at the crumbs around my mouth.

  “Any chance of a cuppa?” I plead. “I fancy dunking. I haven’t dunked a biscuit in ages.”

  “There’s the kettle, the Aga’s hot, but there’s no water.”

  I grab a bucket from the cupboard, head out to the courtyard and draw some water from the well. It’s crystal clear and ice cold. Back in the kitchen I fill the kettle and place it on top of the wood burning stove, which radiates a fierce heat.

  “Why so serious?” asks the dinner lady as I warm myself, deep in thought.

  “I don’t want to lose this,” I reply. She looks at me curiously, but I don’t elaborate and she takes the hint and returns to her stew.

  I make myself a cup of tea and grab another biscuit before heading back to the entrance hall and then up the main stairs.

  I push open a door marked No Entry and enter the Ops Room. Most schools have Staff Rooms, but St Mark’s is not most schools. Instead of pigeon holes and a coffee area, this room has a map of the British Isles covered in pins, and a notice board thick with accounts of missing children.

  I am the first to arrive, so I pull up a chair and sit down, stretch my legs out in front of me and take a sip of my nettle tea. I wince involuntarily. I’d kill for a mug of Typhoo, but we’ve long since depleted our stocks of tea bags. Now if I want a hot drink my only option is home made herbal infusions. I tut. The Cull has turned us all into new age hippies.

  I dunk my biscuit and consider the map.

  It is not a standard Ordnance Survey map; it does not show motorways, cities and county boundaries. Instead, it is hand drawn, with huge areas left blank and small handwritten notes that chart the limits of our knowledge. This is a map of the world left behind, a chart of rumours and hearsay, overheard whispers at market day, tales of powerful rulers and legends reborn. It is incomplete and surely inaccurate, but it represents the best intelligence we can gather.

  Where a pre-Cull map would have read Salisbury Plain, this one has a small drawing of a mushroom cloud and the word FALLOUT written beneath it in red felt-tip. The areas which used to be called Scotland and Wales now have big question marks over them because although we know there are power struggles going on there, we’ve no idea who’s winning; the area around Nottingham shows a bow and arrow with ‘The Hooded Man’ written next to it. There are other, smaller pictures and names dotted about — Cleaner Town, Daily Mailonia, The New Republic of the Reborn Briton, Kingdom of Steamies — these are the major players, the mini-empires springing up across the land as alpha males assert their dominance and begin building tribes with which to subjugate, or protect, the survivors.

  Beyond the shores of Britain some wag has written ‘Here be monsters’, but I reckon there are more than enough monsters already ashore.

  I cast my glance down to Kent and the big red pin that marks the Fairlawne Estate, new home of St Mark’s. There are no major players in this neck of the woods. A spattering of green circles mark the regular markets that have sprung up in the area. Unlike other parts of the country, the home counties have mostly reverted to self-sufficient communities, living off the land, trading with neighbouring villages, literally minding their own beeswax.

  The alpha males who tried to set up camp in this neck of the woods were dealt with long ago, leaving room for looser, more organic development.

  My eyes track north, to a big black question mark. London. We steer clear of it and, so far as we have been able to ascertain, so does everybody else we have regular contact with. Even the army, back before they were destroyed, were biding their time before wading into that particular cess pit. I think of it as a boil that sooner or later will burst and shower the rest of the country with whichever vile infection it’s currently incubating. It disturbs me to be living so close to such a mystery, and I know that sooner or later I’m going to have to lead a team inside the M25. I don’t relish the prospect.

  I hear the bell ringing for morning break and then there’s a cacophony of running feet, shouting, laughing and slamming doors as the kids race to the kitchen for biscuits.

  The door behind me swings open. I can tell who it is by the lopsided footsteps.

  “Hey Jack,” I say, taking another sip of tea, hopeful that if I keep drinking I’ll develop a taste for it in the end.

  The King of England, Jack Bedford, drags a chair from the side of the room and sits down next to me, heavily. Without a word he leans forward, rolls up his left trouser leg and begins undoing the straps that secure his prosthesis.

  “Still chafing?” I ask.

  He grunts a confirmation, detaching the fibreglass extension that completes his leg and laying it on the floor. He begins massaging the stump.

  “It’s not so bad,” he says eventually. “But I’ve been reffing the footie. So, you know, sore.”

  “Come see me afterwards, I’ll give you some balm.”

  “Thanks.”

  What he really needs is a custom-made prosthesis, properly calibrated. But the tech is beyond our reach. We scoured every hospital still standing and were lucky to find such a good match. I have no idea what we’ll do if it ever breaks.

  I like Jack. He’s sixteen years old, his face ravaged by acne and his hair thick with grease that no shampoo seems able to shift. He keeps himself to himself, and has watchful eyes and an air of secrecy that I’m not sure anybody else has noticed. Only a select few of us know that he is the hereditary monarch, and we have no intention of telling anybody. Jack seems grateful for the anonymity. Nonetheless he has become part of the inner circle at the school, one of those boys that we adults treat as an equal. He’s proven himself brave, loyal and capable.

  “Anything new?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “But we’ll wait ’til the others get here.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The door opens again and Lee and his father, John, enter.

  “I don’t reckon it’s likely,” Lee is saying, but his father disagrees.

  “Think about it,” says John. “We know he likes the ladies, and he’s got a violent temper.”

  “But we’ve no evidence he ever even knew Lilly,” says Lee, taking a seat on my other side.

  “Lee, she was his son’s girlfriend.”

  Lee shakes his head. “No,
I still reckon it’s Weevil.”

  “Dream on,” says John, with a laugh.

  Neither Jack nor I have to ask what they’re discussing. Our DVD nights have been dominated by season one of Veronica Mars for the last two weeks and the whole school is trying to solve the Lilly Kane murder. With the internet consigned to history, no-one can hit Wikipedia and spoil it for everyone else, and I keep the discs locked in the safe so no-one can sneak down at night and skip to the end.

  “You’ll find out in two episodes time, guys,” says Jack with a smile.

  “May be a while though,” I say. “We’re nearly out of petrol for the generator. Can’t have any more telly ’til we refuel.”

  Lee makes a pained face. “You’re fucking kidding me. Really?”

  I let him squirm for a second then smile. “Nah, telly as usual tonight, eight o’clock for the big finish.”

  “Bitch,” he says, smiling, then he leans forward and kisses me. His jaw gives a little click as he does so, a reminder of the damage he sustained two years ago in the Salisbury explosion. He still has two metal rods holding the bottom of his face together. I kiss him right back.

  Lee has just turned eighteen. I am ten years his senior. We’ve been lovers for six months and he makes me feel like a schoolgirl.

  Jack rolls his eyes. “Get a room,” he says.

  When we break apart I catch John’s eye, but his face is a mask, giving nothing away. I am still unsure how he feels about my cradle-snatching antics. Part of me couldn’t give a damn whether he approves or not, but he’s a colleague and an ally, not to mention my boyfriend’s dad, so another part of me craves his approval. He’s a hard man to get to know, John Keegan. A hardened veteran of numerous wars, he’s seen and done some terrible things. He’s undemonstrative but never rude; friendly but never familiar. He’s fiercely devoted to his son, and Lee to him, but while they get along well and spend lots of time together fishing, playing football and running, there’s a slight reserve to their relationship.

  I know that Lee killed his mother — put her out of her misery when the virus was putting her through hell. He still hasn’t told John this. I think John suspects and wants to talk to his son about it but has never been able to broach the subject. The secret hovers between them, poisoning the air.

  “Where’s Tariq?” asks Lee.

  “Late as usual,” I reply.

  The door opens and Tariq strides in, chest out, confident, with a hint of swagger. The Iraqi is twenty years old, with hawkish features, thick black hair, eyes that seem to be permanently amused and a vicious hook where his left hand should be. The first person he makes eye contact with is John, and they share a nod of greeting. Before The Cull Tariq was a young lad in Basra, blogging about corruption and running from the militias. Afterwards, he and John led the resistance to the US occupation. John treats Tariq like another son, and Tariq does anything John asks of him, without question.

  Lee and Tariq exchange greetings, but with more reserve. They are friends, and they’ve saved each other’s lives countless times under fire, but Tariq doesn’t entirely trust Lee. He thinks he has a death wish that could get everyone killed. I’m worried that he may be right.

  Tariq pulls up a chair and sits beside John. The gang’s all here.

  I take another sip of tea. “Nope,” I curse. “No matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise, this is rank.” I spit the tea back into the mug and put it down on the floor.

  “Okay,” I say. “John?”

  John gets up, steps to the front of the room and sits on the desk facing us.

  “Couple of things,” he says briskly in his thick Black Country accent. “We’ve had a response from the Hooded Man. He’s invited an envoy to visit and discuss possible co-operation in the future.”

  “Do we have any idea who he is yet?” asks Tariq.

  John shakes his head. “Haven’t even got a name. My guess is that he’s ex-military, but I don’t know for sure. I did find out one thing though, and you’ll like this — the man he deposed, who by all accounts was a vicious son of a bitch, was a Frenchman called De Falaise.”

  Tariq and Lee are agog. “No fucking way,” says Lee, eventually. John just nods.

  “Anyone care to fill me in?” asks Jack.

  “We had a run in with him on the way back from Iraq. He’s the reason I don’t hear in stereo any more,” says Lee. “Is he dead?” John nods again. “Then this Prince of Thieves guy’s fine with me. Even if he does wear tights. Is there word on that, by the way?” John smiles and shakes his head.

  “He’s building an army of sorts,” John continues. “Calls them Rangers. They’re a kind of paramilitary police force and so far they seem to be doing a good job of keeping the peace. But it’s still a power base, so there’s every chance Hood could turn out to be just as bad as the man he kicked out, just more subtle.”

  “You still think we should send someone?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah, but whoever you send should keep their eyes and ears open. If he’s going to be a threat, we need to know. So far he doesn’t know our exact location, and I’d like to keep it that way, at least for now.”

  I turn to the king. “Jack, you fancy a trip?”

  He frowns. “Wasn’t Robin Hood always fighting the king?”

  “First off, he won’t know you’re the king,” says Lee. “And second, no, he was fighting the king’s brother. He was loyal to Richard. Did they teach you nothing at King School?”

  “I missed the first year of Putting Down Rebellious Peasants.”

  “Has he been having problems with the snatchers?” I ask, bringing the conversation back on topic.

  John shakes his head. “They know about them, but so far they’re staying out of Hood’s territory. I’d bet money that he’s got some of his Rangers trying to track them down, but he’s hardly going to tell us details of his operations.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. I can tell he’s about to deliver bad news.

  “The second thing is that there’s been another raid. A big one.”

  “Who?”

  “The Steamies.”

  We’re all shocked. The Kingdom of Steamies are a community that’s grown up along the length of the old Spa Valley Railway. Their philosophy, handed down by their benevolent but bonkers leader, rejects all electrical power, relying instead on steam engines. It’s like stepping back to the nineteenth century when we visit their domain, but most everywhere else is like stepping back to the fourteenth so they’re ahead on points.

  “How many?” I ask.

  “They hit the Steamie settlement at High Rocks. There were eleven children there. All gone. They killed most of their parents in the snatch, too.”

  “That’s a hell of an escalation,” says Tariq.

  John nods. “They’re getting bolder.”

  “Did you track them?” asks Lee.

  “Straight to the M25, same as always.”

  “Double the patrols,” I say. “And enough with the rifles. Issue the machine guns. I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Done,” replies Tariq, who is responsible for perimeter security.

  “That all, John?” I ask.

  “Yeah, although I still think…”

  “We should go after them.”

  “Sooner or later they’re going to find us. I’d rather find them first.”

  “Duly noted.”

  There’s a moment when I think he’s going to challenge me, but he shrugs and resumes his seat. He’s older than me, and far more experienced. But this is my school, and he accepts that — some days with better grace than others.

  “Tariq?”

  Tariq remains in his seat, I wonder whether out of laziness or some complex dynamic of male hierarchy that makes him uncomfortable taking the table his one time leader just vacated.

  “I’ve been to three markets this week,” he says. “Sevenoaks, Cranbrook and Crowborough. People are paranoid and there are a lot more guns being carried openly. There was a fight at Crowboro
ugh which ended with a man being shot. It was a misunderstanding, it seems. Someone trying to return a lost child got accused of abducting them. Tensions are high. When word of the attack on the Steamies gets out, they’ll get higher. I didn’t hear of any fresh raids, though.”

  “Lee?”

  I know what he’s about to tell everyone, so he turns away from me as he speaks. I stare at the thick line of baldness that runs down the back of his head, betraying the presence of a surgical scar. I bear a similar mark.

  “I’ve been up to Oxford for a few days. A while back we heard of a group that had secured the Bodleian and was trying to start up a university. There are about fifty of them, all ages, scholars and students. The boss is a guy called Pearce — big, musclebound, ex-Para. He’s an unlikely Dean of Studies, but from what I could tell he’s passionately devoted to what they’re doing and more than willing to kill anyone who threatens the project.”

  “Forces?” asks Jack.

  “A team of six; four guys, two women. Hardnosed, well armed. Polite but not welcoming. They let me stay overnight, though, and while I didn’t sound them out directly, I’d recommend making an approach.”

  “Why?” asks Tariq. “They’re miles away.”

  “We’re a school,” I reply. “Where else would the kids go after they finish their studies with us, but university?”

  “There’s more,” says Lee. “Over dinner, one of Pearce’s men offered up some intel on the snatchers. He says they’ve been increasingly active in East Anglia, and thinks they have a staging post in Thetford.”

  I rise from my chair. My stomach is full of butterflies because I know that what I am about to do puts everything I have worked to create here at risk. But I’ve mulled it over long enough. It doesn’t really matter who these bastards are or why they’re capturing children, they’re expanding their area of operations and getting bolder. Sooner or later they’re going to learn our location and pay us a visit. I don’t intend to sit here waiting for them to arrive.

  John’s instincts are sound. It’s time to take direct action.

  “So that’s where we’re going,” I say. “I want everyone out front this time tomorrow, full kit and arms. If these fuckers have a place of business, I think we should pay it a visit.” I fold my arms and strike a resolute pose, accidentally kicking over my cold nettle tea as I do so.