School's Out Forever (afterblight chronicles)

by Scott K. Andrews

  Jane waited perhaps an instant too long before shaking her head. They held each other’s gaze for a second. She looked away first. Dad turned, pulled open the door, and led us inside.

  Subconsciously I think I’d been expecting the building to have that familiar school smell, but instead we were greeted by the stench of rotting timber, pervasive damp and unwashed bodies.

  We found ourselves in a corridor that stretched to our left and right, ending in double swing doors at each end. Wooden doors with glass panels led into what had once been classrooms. A notice board hung on the wall directly facing us as we entered. It still had water damaged paintings and faded crayon drawings pinned to it.

  Jane gently closed the door behind us and Dad led us to the right, towards what had looked like the assembly hall from outside. No matter how softly we trod, the squeak of our boots on the linoleum sounded like a chorus of banshees. I nervously walked backwards at the rear of the group, covering the swing doors at the far end, expecting someone to come crashing through them at any moment, guns blazing.

  We crowded around the hall doors. The windows had blankets hanging over them on the inside, so we had no idea what we’d be walking into. There was a heavy metal chain padlocked through the door handles. I took the metal cutters from my backpack and got to work.

  “We go in quiet,” whispered Dad as I tried in vain to cut through the thick steel quietly. “Jane, stay just inside the door and keep an eye on the corridor. Tariq and I will go right. Lee, you go straight ahead. We fan out. No shooting unless absolutely necessary — there could be children in here.”

  We all nodded.

  I finished cutting and threaded the broken chain off the metal handles, leaving it in a pile on the floor. Dad gently pushed the door open and we crept into the darkness, the squeaks of our boot soles echoing against the rotting wooden climbing frames that lined the far wall.

  Blankets had been taped over the huge windows that Jane and I walked past as we moved into the hall, but the first light of dawn sent dim chinks of light through the moth holes and gaps to illuminate a large floor space littered with small grey mounds.

  It took me a moment to realise that these were sleeping children, huddled on the cold, hardwood floor under ragged old blankets. There was no sign of any guards.

  Dad waved me over to him.

  “We’ve got to move quickly,” he said. “The other exit is chained from the outside too, so we’re stuck in a cul-de-sac. The second anyone walks down that corridor, we’re trapped. You head outside and unchain the fire escape, that way we’ve got choices.”

  I turned on my heels and squeaked past Jane, down the corridor and back to the playground. Just as the exterior door swung closed behind me I heard a muffled shout of “Oi, who left the chain off? Jim? You there?”

  I paused and considered my options, then drew my knife and crept back to the door, stepping over the cooling body of the guard Dad had killed only minutes before. I crouched down and peered through the glass panel, thick with grime and mildew. I could make out a tall woman walking down the corridor towards the hall. She was bringing a shotgun to bear, beginning to be concerned.

  “Jim?” she said again, more quietly, wary and suspicious now.

  I waited until she had just passed the door, stood up and grasped the handle. I’d have to be quick about this. I took a deep breath and swung the door open, stepped into the corridor and brought the knife to her throat in one fluid motion. She froze.

  “To the hall, slowly,” I whispered in her ear. She walked forward without a word. I pressed in hard against her back, feeling her body — warm, tense, slim and muscled. She was as tall as me, with dirty blonde hair, and she really needed a bath.

  Jane opened the hall door and ushered us inside. She took the woman’s gun away and gestured for her to sit on the floor. I could see children beginning to sit up across the hall, sleepy and confused.

  “All yours,” I said, and then I headed back outside to complete my task.

  The sky was bright grey as I skirted round the outside of the building to the fire escape which was, as predicted, chained from the outside. I didn’t bother being quiet this time. I chopped the chain and pulled the door open. It made an awful noise as it opened for the first time in years, but nobody came running.

  By now there were children standing up, as Tariq moved quietly through the hall waking them one by one and telling them to wake their friends. There was a susurration of whispers.

  The plan had been to take one captive for interrogation, rescue the kids, and try to get out of the compound without the alarm being raised. So far so good. I propped the fire escape open with a chair and ran over to Dad, who was kneeling facing the captured snatcher. Jane was still keeping watch at the door.

  “I’ll only ask you one more time,” Dad said as I drew up beside him. “How many of you are there?

  The woman, who I could now see was in her early twenties and had multiple piercings all over her face, clenched her jaw and stared ahead, defiantly. Dad shook his head and turned to me.

  “Cuff her and bring her along,” he said briskly, then he went to help Tariq muster the kids by the fire exit. I pulled a set of genuine cuffs from my pack.

  “Wrists,” I said curtly. She held out her arms and gave me a sarcastic smile. I shook my head and indicated for her to turn around. She got up on her knees, shuffled so she was facing the wall, and put her arms behind her back.

  I snapped the cuffs closed and used them to drag her to her feet.

  There were about twenty children gathered by the door now, each with a blanket pulled tight around their shoulders. As I marched the woman across the hall towards them I could see that the boys and girls ranged in age from toddlers right up to fourteen- or maybe fifteen-year-olds. Every one of them looked hollow cheeked and had dark rings around their eyes where hardship and lack of food had taken its toll, but their eyes all told different stories, speaking of everything from broken defeat to spirited resistance.

  As I approached, one of them, a slight girl with a scowl on her face, stepped up to my dad.

  “Why should we believe you?” she said primly, folding her arms and sticking out her chin. “How do we know you’re not just going to sell us yourselves?”

  I could see that Dad didn’t know how to respond to this. Even though he’d spent two years as a de facto staff member at St Mark’s he still wasn’t very good at talking to children. He tended to be brusque and uncomfortable around them. He wasn’t unkind, but he didn’t really understand that kids need to be handled with more sensitivity and patience than, say, a squaddie on a parade ground. He liked kids, he just didn’t get them.

  Tariq smiled and reached for the gun he had taken from the guard. He handed it to the girl, who took it warily.

  “This is the safety,” he said, demonstrating. “It’s cocked and ready to fire now, so all you need to do is flick the safety off, point and shoot. But not at me, please. Okay?”

  The little girl nodded at him in mute, wide-eyed astonishment.

  “Good girl. I’m Tariq, by the way.”

  “Jenni,” she whispered. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “And you!”

  “If you’ve quite finished flirting, can we get a move on?” I said. Dad and I laughed as Jenni blushed bright red.

  “Jane, let’s go,” said Dad.

  She ran to join us and we led the children — cold, hungry, holding hands in a long chain, but quiet and co-operative — out of the hall and into the open. Tariq ran to the corner and peered around. He signalled the all clear and we moved as quickly as we could to the playground gate.

  “One sound,” I whispered to my prisoner, “and I’ll slit your throat.” Even so, I was surprised she didn’t try and raise the alarm.

  Dad pushed open the gate and stood watching the school for signs of pursuit as the children filed outside. When they were all out, and the gate was closed behind us, I gave a short laugh of relief.

  “We’re not cle
ar yet,” warned Jane, but I could see she was feeling it too. She smiled at me then ran down the road to get the minibus, which was parked down the side alley. It started first time and she drove quickly to the gate where we loaded the children inside.

  When they were all safely stashed I leapt up into the front passenger seat with Dad and pulled the door closed. Just Guria and the other kids to collect, and we’d be on our way.

  “Turn the heater on, I’m bloody frozen,” I said. But Jane wasn’t listening.

  “Look,” she said softly.

  I glanced up and cursed.

  Five men were standing in the road ahead of us, motionless, watching, waiting for us to make a move. They were dressed in camouflage gear. Dark green hoods obscured their faces. The outlying two had swords in their hands; the two inside them held strong wooden bows raised with arrows poised to fire. The middle one stood with his bow down, casual. Waiting for us to make the first move.

  “And it was all going so well,” muttered Tariq, over my shoulder.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I’LL HANDLE THIS,” says John.

  But I’ve seen the way he handles things, and I’m not prepared to let him screw this up. This calls for diplomacy, not violence.

  I’m out of the cab and walking before he can stop me.

  The middle of the five men raises his bow, notches an arrow, draws the catgut back slowly and sights on me as I step into the road.

  “Put your hands above your head and get on your knees,” he shouts.

  I put my hands up, but start walking towards them. I figure the last thing they’ll be expecting is politeness, so as I approach I smile and say: “Could you keep the noise down, please? We’re trying to stage an escape here.”

  I can see this throws him, and he doesn’t try to stop me approaching. I stop about three metres in front of him, hands above my head, ensuring that my body language is as passive as possible. His arrow is still pointing straight at my head, and now the two men either side of him are aiming at the cab of the minibus behind me.

  He cocks his head, inviting me to explain.

  “At a guess, you’re Rangers,” I say. “From Nottingham, yes?”

  He gives me nothing.

  “My name’s Jane Crowther, I run a school called St Mark’s. You may have heard of us.”

  The man shakes his head once.

  “Right, well, your boss invited me to send an envoy up to you last week. One of my people is talking to you guys in Nottingham right now.”

  He shrugs; what has this got to do with him?

  “I imagine you’re here to take down the snatchers and rescue the kids,” I continue. “Thing is, we just did that. Or at least, we got the kids out of the building and into the minibus. Most of the snatchers are still inside, asleep. And the longer we stand around here making noise, the greater the chance of them waking up and starting to shoot at us. So can we please, please take this discussion elsewhere?”

  He considers me carefully, then gives a tiny nod.

  “Crossroads. One hour,” he says to his men. Then he gestures for me to walk back to the bus. “I’ll be right behind you,” he growls. His men peel off and begin heading back into the shadows. I turn on my heels, but before I can start walking there’s a sharp report, a dull impact, and a grunt. Instinctively, I drop to my knees and draw my weapon. I don’t even need to look behind me to realise that the leader of the Rangers is slowly toppling backwards — I felt the spray of blood and brains splash across the back of my neck.

  I can see Lee leaping out of the minibus cab while his father jumps across to the driver’s seat and prepares to pull away.

  But I’m confused. I scan the walls of the primary school and can’t see anyone at all. The snatchers must still be in bed or, more likely, reaching sleepily for their guns now they’ve heard shooting. And then I process the fact that the blood hit the back of my neck. The bullet came from the other end of the road. I drop and roll, coming up facing the other way. I can see two Rangers bolting for cover in the terraced houses on either side of the road, and two more dragging their leader away by his wrists.

  I’m totally exposed, a sitting duck, and I still can’t see the shooter.

  “No! Don’t!” shouts Lee as he runs towards me. He dives sideways as an arrow comes whistling past me, meant for him. One of the Rangers is shooting at him.

  “Dammit,” I yell. “We didn’t shoot your boss!”

  And then I realise, with a sinking feeling, that we did.

  “Guria, you fuckwit, where are you?” yells Lee as he staggers to his feet and scurries for cover.

  I see a Ranger take aim at the minibus cab and I have no choice. I send two rounds past his head and force him into the doorway of the nearest house. I’ve just confirmed to him that we’re the enemy. No going back now.

  Before I can get to my feet and run to join Lee, there’s a snapping noise and gravel spatters my cheek. Someone else is shooting at me. I’ll be dead if I stay here another second, so I just get up and run as fast as I can for the nearest doorway, the frame of which splinters as I race through into the rotting terrace. Those bullets are coming from the other direction, which means the snatchers have woken up and decided to join in. I crouch inside the hall of the ruined house, trying to work out what to do.

  I’ve got a kid gone rogue with a sniper rifle, misguidedly trying to protect me. There are at least four highly trained Rangers who now want to kill all of us. And there’s an angry group of child-rustlers taking potshots at us from behind a big brick wall. Lee and I are trapped in houses on opposite sides of the street, there are four other armed children cowering in houses somewhere, and worst of all a minibus full of kids is smack bang in the middle of the crossfire. Would the snatchers shoot them rather than let them escape? I hear the engine revving. John isn’t sticking around to find out. The minibus goes roaring past the house I’m sheltering in, making a break for it, getting the kids to safety.

  The moment they’re past I risk leaning out and sending some bullets back towards the snatchers. I get a vague impression of three of them lined along the wall. None of the Rangers are anywhere to be seen. I think only one of them is on this side of the street, which means three others are opposite me, with a clear shot if they want to take it.

  There’s nothing I can do here except get myself shot. Time to go. I race through the house, past an overturned sofa thick with fungus, through a burnt-out kitchen, out the back door, down the old brick-walled yard, past the shed which used to be an outdoor toilet, and through the gate into the back alley.

  Before I can get my bearings I hear the unmistakeable sound of a car crash.

  Just for a second I catch myself wondering whether any day has ever gone completely to shit so quickly. But the answer, of course, is yes. Once.

  Right — stop, think, prioritise.

  Lee can take care of himself. Guria and the other four should have the sense to make their way out of the area, if they can avoid the Rangers. I have to worry about the minibus, because if John’s wrapped it round a lamppost they could be injured. That’s where I’m needed.

  I run down the alleyway, away from the school, towards the ominous sound of a blaring car horn.

  As I run, I expect to see a Ranger step out ahead of me, or hear one of the children calling for me to stop, but an eerie silence has fallen, broken only by that horn. The back alley is cobbled, with a gunnel running down the middle of it. I race past countless wooden yard gates, some hang off their hinges but most are still bolted shut. As I reach the far end of the alley I pass a row of garages and then I’m out into the street, skidding to a halt and trying to make it back into the alley without being seen. Because the minibus has driven head first into the grille of an enormous lorry, the first of a convoy of three, all boasting huge spray painted red circles on the side like some kind of logo. The street swarms with angry men carrying big guns.

  I finally manage to stop about two feet away from a man who has his back to me. I take
a step back; he hasn’t heard me. I turn, planning to creep back into cover… and I’m staring down the double barrels of a sawn-off shotgun.

  So there I stand, watching the steam from the ruined minibus curling into the air behind the head of this gunman, trying to think of something to say. But he finds his tongue first.

  “Well fuck me slowly with a chainsaw,” he drawls. “Look who it is.”

  “Oh great,” I say when I’ve caught my breath. “And I didn’t think today could get any worse.”

  He smiles, turns the gun around and slams the stock into my face.

  The world goes black.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I ACTUALLY SAW the muzzle flash as Guria took out the Ranger.

  He was about halfway down the street, just behind the Rangers, in the top window. I opened the door and ran into the road, ignoring Dad’s calls to stay put. I didn’t really have a plan; I just wanted to stop Jane being cut to pieces in the inevitable crossfire. As the shot man fell, and Jane ducked, I saw one of the Rangers raise his bow to finish me off. I shouted at him to stop, but he wasn’t having it. I dived out of the way and heard an arrow whistle past, far too close for comfort.

  I was a dead man if I stayed in the open. I had no choice but to hare over to the nearest house and dive inside, sliding on my stomach over the slime that had accumulated in the once pristine hallway carpet. I stood up feeling soggy and sick. My best chance of ending this was to get to Guria and take over the rifle. He was about fifteen houses up on this side of the road. I glanced back out the door and saw Jane had made it to cover across the road. That was a relief. Then the minibus roared past me, bullets pinging off its roof as the snatchers joined the fight from their compound.

  Events were moving too damn fast. I ran out into the alleyway behind the house and raced up to where Guria had been hiding. Somehow I managed to get all the way there before any of the Rangers emerged into the alley to make their own escape. Or maybe they were digging in for a fight.

  I reached the kitchen door of what I was reasonably sure was the right house, and brought my SA-80 to bear. Guria was one of us, but this was the first time he’d fired in anger. I had no idea what state he’d be in when I found him, and I wasn’t going to let him shoot me dead in a moment of hyper-adrenalised panic.