School's Out

by Scott Andrews

  Every now and then we'd catch a whiff of something happening in the wider world, rumours of television broadcasts and an Abbot performing miracles, but our fuel was long gone so we couldn't tune in. Whatever was brewing in the cities couldn't reach us out here in the countryside. Not yet, anyway. So we carried on building our little haven and prepared for the day when either madness or order would come knocking on our door again.

  I flatter myself that I was a pretty good leader. The boys would come and talk to me when things were bothering them, and I did my best to resolve disputes and sort out any issues. I think I was approachable and fair. You could hear laughter in the corridors of Castle again, something I never heard when Mac was in charge. I relied on Norton and Rowles to let me know when and if I got things wrong, and they weren't shy about knocking me down a peg or two when necessary.

  As my wounds healed I continued exercising my leg and found that my limp became much less marked. My cheek did scar slightly from Baker's ring, and Norton joked that it made me look like an Action Man. Within a couple of months I felt as fit and healthy as I'd ever done.

  None of this stopped the nightly visitations of the dead keeping me awake, of course.

  And there was still no sign of my dad.

  I went three whole months without picking up a gun.

  Felt good.

  Couldn't last.

  The Woodhams farm was about two miles south-west of the school. A collection of outbuildings and oast houses around a Georgian farmhouse, it was inhabited by ten people who'd moved down from London after The Cull. They'd found the place empty, moved in and started running the farm, which boasted a huge orchard and fields devoted to fruit production, including grapes and strawberries. Mrs Atkins met them at Hildenborough market and they'd extended an invitation for Green and the theatre group to visit their farm for the weekend. The boys would put on their show and in return they would put the boys up, feed them, and let them bring back some fruit for the rest of us. Lovely. What could possibly go wrong?

  Jones was one of our new recruits. His parents were dead but he'd been living in Hildenborough ever since The Cull. He was a good pianist, so Green had recruited him for the revue, and he'd fitted in well. Green's troupe had left for the Woodhams place in a horse-drawn cart, so when Jones came staggering through the front gate after midnight the duty guards raised the alarm.

  "I'd just played the opening chords of After Fallout when there was a knock on the door," he told us. "Ben Woodhams got up to answer it, we heard a struggle at the door and then a gang of men burst in wearing balaclavas and waving guns around. Green put up a fight and he got hurt pretty badly. I managed to slip out in the confusion and I've been running ever since. It's about two hours or so now. You need to hurry!"

  Me, Norton, Jones, Rowles, Haycox and a new kid called Neate, who fancied himself a soldier boy, were dressed, armed and saddled up within ten minutes. There was no moon and we rode blind to the edge of the farm, but we could see flickering candle light around the edges of the curtains.

  "There are seven boys and ten adults in there," I said. "Jones reckons there were four or five gunmen, that right Jones?"

  He nodded.

  "We've got no idea what's going on in there," I continued. "They might just be looting the place, they might have decided they like the look of it and want to move in, they might be doing any number of things. Our advantage is that they don't know we're coming, so we should have surprise on our side. The hostiles are dressed all in black and had balaclavas on."

  "Why?" asked Norton.

  "What?"

  "Why were they wearing balaclavas? Were they afraid of CCTV or what? Doesn't make sense."

  "I don't know. Probably just for effect."

  Norton didn't look convinced.

  "Haycox and Neate, you cover the front door," I said. "I don't want you to shoot any of the hostiles unless necessary. If they make a run for it let them go. But if they try to leave with hostages I want you to fire off some warning shots and force them back indoors. We need to try and contain them.

  "The rest of you are coming with me. Everyone was in the living room when they were attacked, and that's at the front of the house so we're going in the kitchen door at the back. We go in quietly and cleanly, and we keep an eye out for sentries. We use knives until such time as they become aware of us, after that you can fire at will. Don't take any chances, but only kill if you have to. Jones knows the house so he and I will take point. Questions?"

  "Just... be careful everyone, all right?" said Norton. "I don't like this at all. Something doesn't feel right to me."

  I smirked. "Corny line!"

  "I'm serious."

  We left the horses a safe distance away and approached on foot, knives drawn. There were candles burning in the kitchen but there was no-one inside. The door wasn't locked and it didn't creak. So far so good. The room still smelt of roast beef. I looked greedily at the pile of dirty plates as I tiptoed around the large wooden table. The interior door was open a crack. It led into a corridor that ran to the front door. A number of rooms opened out of it to the left and right, and at the far end there was a staircase on the left.

  I couldn't hear any voices and I couldn't see anyone. Gesturing for the others to stay in the kitchen I pushed the door gently and got lucky again: no creak. The hallway was carpeted so I took a chance and walked to the living room door, which was ajar. I leaned in and listened. Total silence. I was just about to try the other doors when I heard a small cough from inside and then someone shushing the cougher.

  They were in a remote farmhouse, after dark, no-one expected or likely to arrive. Why would they be trying to keep so quiet?

  I heard a small creak behind me and to the left. There was someone on the stairs. Suddenly I felt the world shift around me and I realised that I wasn't the hunter at all. I was the prey.

  This was a trap.

  There was a slim chance whoever was waiting on the stairs hadn't seen me. Without looking up at them I backed away towards the kitchen as slowly and quietly as I could.

  And then another noise, this time behind me. Someone opened a door between me and the kitchen and stepped out into the hallway. I spun to see a black-clad man looking straight at me. He was wearing a balaclava and carrying a sawn-off shotgun.

  He opened his mouth to shout a warning as I lunged forward. Normally I would have drawn my gun, told him to freeze. But something odd was going on here and I felt cornered and threatened. I wasn't inclined to take any chances. I led with my knife. I slapped my left hand over his mouth and shoved the blade up between his ribs as hard as I could, lifting him onto his toes with the force of the thrust.

  I felt hot blood spurt out across my hand as I stared into the eyes of the man I was in the process of killing.

  It wasn't a man, it was a boy. I recognised him. It was Wolf-Barry.

  There was no wall behind him and he toppled backwards. I tried to follow him down, to maintain the silence, but I was overbalanced. We fell backwards together and as we hit the floor his shotgun went off, blowing two big holes in the plaster ceiling.

  Dammit, this always looked so easy in the movies. I felt reassured that I wasn't a practised and professional killer - I didn't ever want to be that - but fucking hell, it would have been nice not to screw it up just this once.

  I saw the eyes of the boy I had just killed begin to glaze over. I had a sudden memory of the first time I'd met him, in IT lab three years earlier. I remembered he'd made some joke about the headmaster, but I couldn't recall what it was. It was funny, though. I thought he was funny. And now I'd stabbed him through the heart without a second's hesitation.

  I felt everything I'd achieved in the last three months evaporate in an instant. Who had I been kidding? This was my life now. Not cricket and plays and lessons, but killing and bleeding and dying. I was a fool to ever hope otherwise.

  With both barrels fired and a knife in his chest, Wolf-Barry was no longer a threat, and since our cover was we
ll and truly blown there was no longer any need for stealth. I rolled off him, trying to draw my gun as I did so, but I was tangled up and couldn't pull it free. A man came down the stairs swearing loudly, and as he turned the corner into the hallway someone behind me fired twice. Both bullets found their mark and he jerked backwards, two holes in his chest.

  There were shouts from the living room; Green shouting "In here!" and a woman screaming. But no-one came out of the door.

  Without rising to my feet I crabbed backwards towards the kitchen door and safety. The door was wide open and Norton and Rowles were stood there, smoking guns aimed down the corridor over my head, covering my retreat.

  "You were right, it's a trap!" I shouted.

  I reached the door and sprang upright. As I did so there was gunfire from outside, at the front of the house. Someone was attacking Haycox and Neate, someone who'd been waiting for us to get inside the house before revealing their presence.

  I pointed to the boy on the floor in front of me, the one with the pink froth bubbling out of his mouth.

  "That's Wolf-Barry," I said.

  "I fucking knew it," replied Norton.

  "And I think that's Patel," I said, indicating the corpse at the foot of the stairs.

  "Green," I shouted. "Are you alone in there?"

  "What do you fucking think?" came the reply. It was Wylie.

  This was not good. Not good at all.

  "I've got a gun to Limpdick's head, Keegan. If any of your men offer the slightest resistance I'll splash his brains all over the walls, got me?"

  "What do you want, Wylie?"

  "Want? I've got what I want: you. You're surrounded. My men were waiting outside in the dark. There's ten of us, how many of you?"

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  I heard the sound of a gun hitting the floor behind me and I turned to see Jones standing stock still at the back door, his eyes wide as saucers. Pugh had a knife to his throat.

  "Drop the guns," he said.

  Nobody moved.

  "I said, drop the guns!"

  Pugh pressed the knife into Jones' throat and a small trickle of blood escaped.

  We dropped our guns.

  "Now on the floor," he shouted. "Hands behind your heads."

  We complied. The kitchen tiles were hard and cold.

  "All right, chief, we've got them," he said.

  Ten minutes later I was tied to a chair in the dining room. The other prisoners were being kept next door. I'd caught a glimpse of them through the door when I was being trussed up; Green had a huge purple bruise on his forehead, and Neate had been shot and killed out front, but everyone else was okay. All ten of the farm family were there, as were the six kids from Green's troupe, Norton, Jones and Rowles.

  I'd obviously been set aside for special treatment. I didn't want to dwell on what Wylie was likely to do to me. My hands and feet were firmly bound, and there was no give in the ropes at all. I wasn't going anywhere.

  Wylie pulled over a chair, reversed it, and sat facing me, resting his arms on the seat back. He had removed his balaclava, no need for it now. He looked very pleased with himself. And so he should. I'd walked obediently into his trap like the amateur I was. I would've kicked myself if my feet hadn't been tied. I figured that the best I could hope for was a bloody good kicking and I saw no reason to prolong the agony.

  "Patel and Wolf-Barry are dead," I said. "That just leaves you, Pugh and Speight. So who are the other guys, Wylie?"

  "They're old friends of yours, Lee," he said. "Wanted a chance for a bit of payback. Actually I'm working for them, sort of sub-contracting. They wanted me to deliver you to them. Piece of piss, really."

  "Wolf-Barry didn't look like he thought much of your plan as I shoved a knife into his heart."

  Wylie looked annoyed. "He shouldn't have broken cover. He was supposed to stay in there 'til I gave the signal. Prick."

  "No wonder you command such loyalty, you're just so compassionate."

  He smiled the smile of a man who knew he was in total control. "No point trying to piss me off, Lee. I've got my orders and I'm going to stick to them. You're not going to annoy me into making mistakes. I'm supposed to deliver you in one piece and that's what I'm going to do."

  He stood up and walked over to me, leaning down so we were face to face.

  "Doesn't mean I can't hurt you just a little bit first though, does it?"

  He leaned back, raised his right leg and stamped on my balls.

  There's no point describing the pain. If you're a woman you've got no idea, and if you're a guy you know only too well. Suffice to say I screamed for a bit, whimpered for a while, and then passed out.

  Unconsciousness passed into sleep. Wylie woke me in the morning by kicking me in both shins. The first thing I heard, apart from my own curses, was a chorus of screams from outside the house. He untied my feet and led me out the front door, where a familiar canvas-top truck was parked. The engine was running and the rest of the captives were already in the back. All except Mr Woodhams, who was lying on the grass, sliced open from pubis to throat, with a group of young men stood around him, dabbling their hands in the gore and wiping it all over themselves.

  Blood Hunters.

  Pugh and Speight were standing at the back of the truck, machine guns slung across their chests. They were trying not to watch the gruesome ritual occurring right in front of them. Pugh looked sick.

  Wylie forced me into the truck, and then the six Blood Hunters climbed in and sat at the back. They sat silently, staring into space. Each carried a machete and a gun. They stank like an abattoir. Pugh closed the tailgate, the three sixth-formers went to sit in the cab, and we pulled out of the driveway onto the road.

  The nine remaining residents of the Woodhams farm were cowering in the far end of the truck, in various states of hysteria. The eleven St Mark's boys were all there too, hands bound, all looking to me for ideas or hope as we were bounced about by potholed roads. I shrugged helplessly. But Norton found my gaze and winked. Good to know somebody had a plan.

  We rumbled along for about five minutes until I felt a nudge from Jones, who was sitting next to me. I felt something cold touch my fingers. A knife! Where the hell had he got a bloody knife? I glanced up and saw Norton grinning at me. He nodded subtly downwards and wiggled his right foot. He'd had a knife in his boot. I could have kissed him. I scanned the faces of all the other boys. All of them still had their hands behind their backs as if still tied up, but they all looked at me, excited and nervous. Christ. They were all free!

  I grabbed the knife and set about cutting the rope that bound me. It didn't take long; it was razor sharp. I felt my hands come free and I squeezed the knife handle firmly in my right hand. I looked up. Everyone was looking at me.

  I mouthed silently: "One, two, three."

  As one, we leapt up from our seats and shoved towards the six Blood Hunters. One of them went over the tailgate and smacked onto the road before he even knew what was happening. I buried the knife in the eye socket of another, and grabbed his machete as he tumbled backwards towards the tarmac. The other four were no match for the combined shoving weight of twelve boys, but the tailgate was still closed, and they braced themselves against it. One of them tried to grab his gun, but the crush of bodies was so tight that he couldn't bring it to bear, and his hands got stuck down on his chest so he couldn't defend himself. Rowles hit him repeatedly, over and over again, both hands working the man's face like a punchbag. Jones wrestled for control of another man's machete, which was suspended over his head. But he was too weak to prevent it coming down and splitting him open. As the Blood Hunter tried to wrench the blade free, Haycox, who had somehow got hold of a machete in the struggle, returned the favour, striking his head from his shoulders with one powerful swipe. Norton grabbed the decapitated man's feet and tipped him over the tailgate onto the road.

  The Blood Hunter being hit by Rowles was unconscious by this point, and only remaining upright because of the mêlée surrounding h
im. Rowles kept punching him anyway. The other two Blood Hunters were backed right up against the tailgate now. One was hacking and slashing wildly, and as I watched he sliced open the throat of a young boy called Russell, who sang comic songs in Green's revue. The boy tumbled backwards with a terrible screech. The other Blood Hunter was struggling with Norton for possession of his gun until his mate's wild swinging blade smacked into the side of his head with a soft crunch. Norton shoved him back over the tailgate and onto the road, the machete still embedded in his head.

  The one remaining Blood Hunter, bladeless, tried to reach for this gun. But suddenly he jerked and wretched as his eyes went wide and a torrent of blood gushed from his mouth. Haycox pulled his dripping machete free of the man's ribcage and pushed him back over the tailgate.

  Job done.

  I reached down past Rowles, who was still punching, and grabbed the machine gun from the unconscious Blood Hunter beneath him. I pushed my way through the crowd to the front of the truck.

  "Everyone brace yourselves," I shouted.

  "Lee, hang on, do you think..." said Norton.

  But I didn't let him finish. I popped the catch and emptied the entire clip through the canvas in front of me, riddling the driver's cab with bullets and killing Wylie, Pugh and Speight instantly.

  "Should have done that in the first place," I said, as the lorry swerved violently off the road. I was flung off my feet in a tumbled tangle of limbs as the lorry hit a ditch and rolled over onto its side. There was a monstrous crash, a chorus of cries and then stillness and silence.

  I'd come to rest under a pile of bodies, my nose buried in somebody's armpit. It took a few minutes for everyone to untangle themselves and climb out of the lorry onto the road. We took stock.

  Russell and Jones were dead, and a young girl from the Woodhams farm had broken her neck in the crash. Otherwise it was all just scrapes and strains. I pulled the clip out of the machine gun. It was taped to another, which was still full, so I reversed it and slammed it home.