School's Out Forever (afterblight chronicles)

by Scott K. Andrews

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “THEY BLEW THE bridge because the point where it meets the bank is their weakest spot,” said Ferguson.

  I panned across with my binoculars to focus on the jagged outcrop of stone that marked the opposite side of the now destroyed Westminster Bridge. I could see immediately what he meant. At the foot of Big Ben there was a patch of open ground between the wall of the Palace and the edge of the bridge accommodating some steps that led down to a tunnel entrance. The tall black fence that ringed the Palace only came up as high as the bridge, which meant that you could get inside by laying a plank of wood across the gap and leaping in. Obviously not an option when the CCTV systems were all working, but now it seemed eminently doable.

  “It’s called Speaker’s Green,” explained Ferguson.

  “What’s that tunnel entrance?” asked Jack.

  “Westminster Tube. There are tunnels direct from the station into the Palace and that big building opposite it, the one with the black chimneys. That’s Portcullis House where the MPs’ offices used to be. There’s a tunnel running from there under the road into the Palace as well.”

  “In which case we should go in underground, through the tube,” I said. “They blew the bridge but they didn’t blow the tunnels, did they?”

  “They didn’t need to,” the Ranger replied. “Once the pumps shut down, the tube tunnels all flooded. The old rivers that run under the city reclaimed them. If we had scuba gear, maybe, but even then it’d be madness.”

  “So we go in over the fence there?” asked Jack.

  “It’s an option, but it’s the wrong end of the building,” said Ferguson. “If we go in there we have to travel the whole length of the Palace to get where we’re going, which massively increases our chances of discovery. No, our best way in is there. The Lords Library.”

  He pointed to the opposite end of the Palace, to the huge tower that marked its southernmost point.

  “There are only two places where the Palace backs directly onto the river, and that’s the towers at either end,” he explained. “In between there’s a bloody great terrace between the wall and the river. What we have to do is get on the water, moor at the foot of that tower, and climb in one of the windows. It’s our best way of getting in undetected.”

  “I don’t know about you, mate, but I’m not Spider-Man,” I said. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to scale that wall.”

  “What we need,” said Jack, “is one of those grappling hook gun thingys that Batman uses.”

  “Nah,” said Ferguson, smiling. “We can do better than that.”

  Ten minutes later we climbed down from our vantage point through the ruined interior of St Thomas’ Hospital, emerged into a street buried under a thickening carpet of snow, and set off in search of a dinghy.

  “WHATEVER YOU DO, don’t fall in, okay?” said Ferguson unnecessarily as we climbed into the small inflatable that we’d found in a River Police station half a mile upstream. “The water is freezing and the current is deadly. If you hit the water you’re dead, simple as.”

  “But we’re wearing life jackets,” I pointed out.

  “Don’t matter,” says the Irishman. “You probably won’t be strong enough to swim to the shore. You’ll stay afloat, but you’ll freeze to death before you hit land.”

  “I thought Irish people were cheery, optimistic types,” said Jack as he climbed carefully into the rubber boat.

  “What the fuck ever gave you that idea?” asked the Ranger, untethering the boat and pushing us away from the shore.

  “Um, Terry Wogan?”

  Ferguson clipped his ear and handed him an oar. “Row, you cheeky sod.”

  There was no moon, but the world was clothed in white and the sky was still thick with falling snow. The current took us quickly and we floated out into the Thames.

  “We can’t use the engine, ’cause they’ll hear us,” explained Ferguson. “And we don’t have an anchor, so the hardest thing will be to bring ourselves to a halt long enough to climb out. When I give the signal, you two need to start rowing as hard as you can against the current. Got that?”

  Jack and I nodded as Ferguson used his oar to steer us as close to the bank as possible. Although the blizzard was providing us with the best possible cover, there was no point in taking foolish chances; the further out we were, the easier we would be to spot.

  I was astonished at how fast we moved, and we were floating alongside Parliament within ten minutes. As we neared the farthest tower, Ferguson gave the signal. Jack and I dipped our oars and began paddling frantically against the tide, trying to slow us down. The Ranger took his bow and notched an arrow. Attached to the shaft was a small metal grappling hook from which trailed a slender nylon rope. Despite all our efforts, we continued to sweep down the river, but Ferguson did not allow himself to be distracted. As we reached the tower he let the arrow fly. It soared away into the white and although we listened, we never heard it land. But the rope didn’t tumble back to the water.

  He grabbed the end of the rope and looped it through one of the metal rings on the rim of the dinghy and pulled. I sighed with relief as the rope went taut and he pulled us in to the edge of the river, where the dinghy nestled underneath the concrete lip that marked the ground floor of the Palace. He tied it off and Jack and I gasped with relief as we dropped our oars. My arms were burning from the effort of rowing against a current that laughed at my exertions.

  We looked up at the blue nylon rope that trailed up into the night sky. The snow was so thick now that the top of the tower was lost to view. The rope seemed to rise up into nowhere. We all pulled on the rubber-coated climbing gloves that Ferguson had looted for us from a sports store on our way into town, and put on the strange climbing pumps which were soft and lacked soles, but had rubber moulding all over, for purchase.

  “Climbing in these conditions is extremely dangerous,” said Ferguson. “So we’ll go in the first window we come to. Take your time, don’t hurry, and remember — there’s no safety rope, so whatever you do, don’t lose your grip.”

  I handed him the heavy kit bag that was the key to our success. He slung it over his back, took the rope in both hands and launched himself off the dinghy. He scrambled up over the concrete lip in no time at all. We waited until we heard a muffled crack and saw shards of stained glass tumble past us into the water. I gestured for Jack to go first.

  He nervously followed Ferguson, but whereas the Irishman had been speedy and confident, Jack was all over the shop. His prosthesis slowed him down, and his fibreglass foot scrabbled uselessly against the wet concrete and he slipped backwards more than once as the nylon rope got wetter and more slippery. Eventually he also disappeared over the concrete lip and the rope went slack indicating that he’d made it inside.

  I grabbed the rope and pulled myself up. Every set fracture and old bullet wound protested as I hauled myself skywards, but I focused on doing everything slowly and carefully, and managed a steady, unwavering ascent.

  When I crested the concrete rim I saw a gothic arched hole where a stained glass window had nestled. I reached up to grab the window sill and two things happened in quick succession: there was a burst of gunfire from inside the room, and Jack crashed out of the window to my right, flying backwards in a cloud of glass and lead, clutching Ferguson’s black kit bag, plummeting soundlessly into snowfall.

  I braced my feet against the stone, looped the rope around my left hand, reached into my coat, pulled out my Browning and then pushed up with my legs, propelling my head and shoulders in through the gaping stone window frame, firing as I went.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CAROLINE HIT THE floor hard with her right shoulder, which made an awful crunching sound. She rolled with the momentum, tumbling like a drunken acrobat.

  She screamed as she hit, but it was more battle cry than fear. There was anger in it too, that none of them had reckoned on so obvious a reversal of fortune. That plane was huge and made a perfect
billet. Somebody should have worked that out.

  When she finally stopped moving and skidded to a halt, she hurt everywhere. She just wanted to lie down, close her eyes and rest for a while. But she did what she always did in moments like this: she asked herself what Rowles would do. As soon as she asked herself that question, she opened her eyes, gritted her teeth, gripped her gun and got the fuck up.

  Her shoulder was useless and there was something pulled in her left leg; her hearing was muffled and… woah… her balance was a bit off. But she limped back towards the plane, ignoring the pain.

  The kids were pouring up the stairs and through the jagged blackened hole that denoted where the door had been a minute ago. Small circular windows ran the length of the plane on two levels, which meant that this plane was a double decker. The windows along the lower level were lit by the strobe flashes of gunfire; the upper windows revealed blurs of movement but no fighting yet.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and she whirled, gun raised. It was Tariq. He was looking at with concern and his lips were moving.

  “Speak up,” she said. “Part deaf. Explosion.”

  “I said are you okay?”

  “What do you bloody think? Come on.” She turned and kept moving towards the steps. Tariq fell in beside her as Wilkes and the ten kids that had come in the other end streamed past them towards the stairs. Caroline glanced up at Tariq, who waved them past, obviously determined to stick with Caroline.

  “I don’t need a baby sitter,” she said.

  “Well I do,” he replied, still focused on the stairs ahead. “And you’re the designated adult.”

  Caroline smiled as she swung the gun back up to her hip.

  “This plane is huge,” she said as they reached the foot of the stairs. The last few kids were disappearing into the belly of the plane above them.

  “A380,” said Tariq. “Biggest airliner ever made. Lap of luxury.”

  A huge explosion blew out the rear doors and a man dressed entirely in black and with an Uzi in his hand tumbled backwards out of the resulting gap in the fuselage, arms flailing. He fell onto the concrete head first, his brains and lungs suddenly finding themselves colocated.

  “They do know we want some of them alive, don’t they?” asked Caroline as she dragged herself up the stairs.

  A man appeared in the hole above them, firing back down the body of the plane. Caroline hardly blinked as she squeezed the trigger and cut him down where he stood.

  “I don’t know, Caroline. Do they?” asked Tariq as she stepped into the plane.

  She glanced down at the dead snatcher then looked up at Tariq and made a sad face. “Sorry,” she said.

  Tariq tutted as he stepped across the jagged metal edge. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

  They turned and walked into the passenger section, guns raised, and all their wisecracks died unspoken as they beheld the carnage before them.

  The two aisles were littered with corpses of children and snatchers alike. The air was thick with cordite and the walls and ceilings were sprayed with blood.

  Caroline couldn’t have told you whether it was her post-explosion balance problem or the sight of that charnel house which caused it, but she turned, bent over and was violently sick.

  “FIFTEEN OF OUR children dead,” said Tariq as he sat down next to her in the business class compartment an hour later. “Seven of yours, eight of ours. Plus the thirty-two kidnapped kids they blew up in their attempts to escape.”

  Caroline shook her head in disbelief. “And?”

  “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 g
oing 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.