Children's Crusade

by Scott Andrews

  Lee

  Chapter One

  "When is it acceptable to kill another human being?"

  The question hangs there as Green waits for an answer. It takes a moment but eventually a girl three seats back raises her hand.

  "Caitlin?"

  "When they're trying to kill you, Sir?"

  We make them say Sir and Ma'am at St Mark's. Old skool.

  Green writes this on the whiteboard. I make a mental note to add whiteboard pens to our scavenging list; we're running short.

  "Anyone else?"

  More hands go up now that someone else has taken the plunge. Green indicates them one by one, writing their contributions up.

  "When someone's trying to kill a friend of yours."

  "Or a family member."

  "When someone is a murderer."

  "Or a rapist."

  Green doesn't react any differently to this suggestion, but I shift in my seat, uncomfortable both for him and for myself.

  "Or a paedo."

  "In a battle, like a war or something."

  "As part of an initiation."

  Okay, we'd better keep an eye on that one.

  "When they're stealing your food or water."

  "If they try to take over your home."

  "For revenge."

  Green turns quickly back to the class. "Who said that? Was that you Stone?"

  The boy nods, unsure if he's about to cop a bollocking.

  "Revenge for what, though?" asks Green intently. No-one answers. The class seems confused. "You see, Stone has hit the heart of the matter. A lot of your suggestions - murderer, rapist, paedophile, thief - wouldn't killing them just be an act of revenge? I mean, the crime's already been committed. You're not going to bring back the murder victim, un-rape someone, un-abuse a child. So why kill the criminal other than for revenge? And if it is revenge, is it a justifiable thing? Is killing for vengeance a crime, or a right?"

  Another long pause, then a boy at the back, quite close to me, says: "But in those cases it isn't just revenge, is it, Sir? Coz they might kill again, or rape or abuse or steal. So by killing them you're protecting everybody."

  Green claps his hands, pleased. "Yes!" he says forcefully. "But what about prison? If you could lock the person away and thereby protect everyone? Remove the danger, and what purpose does killing the criminal achieve then other than vengeance? So again, is vengeance okay?"

  "But there aren't any prisons any more, Sir," responds the boy, warming to the discussion. "And food and water and stuff are hard to get. So it's a question of practicality and resources, isn't it?"

  I can tell Green is pleased. This boy is lively and engaged.

  "So are we allowed to do things now, after The Cull, that we would have considered immoral beforehand?" demands Green.

  "Yes," says the boy firmly. "The world has changed. The morals they had before The Cull are a luxury we just can't afford any more."

  "You don't think morality is absolute?" responds Green, who once fired a clip's worth of bullets into an unarmed man and has never displayed a hint of remorse. "That some things are just wrong, no matter what?"

  "Do you, Sir?"

  Jesus, this boy's, what, fourteen? And before I can help myself I tut inwardly and think 'kids these days'. I smile ruefully at my own reaction. Am I getting old? I notice, as well, that he said 'they'. He was born ten years before The Cull, but already the people who ran the world then are another breed, as ancient and unknowable as the Romans. How quickly we forget.

  Green beckons the boy forward. "Come to the front, Stone."

  The boy rises and walks down the aisle to the front of the classroom, the other children gently laughing at his discomfort. Green hands the boy a book.

  "Turn to page thirteen and read Vindici's speech." The boy begins to read, stumbling over the archaic language at first, but gradually gets the hang of it. I sit, transfixed, until he cries: "Whoe'er knew murder unpaid? Faith, give revenge her due!" and I notice a momentary grimace that flashes across Green's face as the knowledge of his act of vengeance twists in his guts.

  I quietly rise from my seat, nod encouragingly at Green, and sneak out of the classroom.

  When I was at school, plays like The Revenger's Tragedy seemed ancient and irrelevant, hard to understand and full of abstract moral question that meant nothing to us. But these kids? This generation of children who saw everyone they've ever known and loved die slow, painful deaths and then had to survive in a world without law, authority or consequence get that play on a level I never could, and Green - twenty-one now and no longer the uncomfortable, persecuted teenager I first met - has turned into a fine drama teacher; impassioned, encouraging, good with kids. He's also a pacifist now, and refuses to touch a gun under any circumstances.

  I'm oddly proud of him. Which, given our personal history, is quite something.

  I stand in the hallway and listen to the babble of voices drifting out of the four classrooms that stand adjacent to it. It's a good sound, a hopeful, productive noise. It's learning and debate, friendship and community. And it's rare these days. So very rare.

  I glance up at the clock on the wall. 10:36. Of course GMT no longer exists, so the world has reverted to local time - the clocks at St Mark's take their time from the sundial in the garden. I wonder if time, like morality, is absolute. Does GMT still exist somewhere, like those echoes of the big bang that astronomers and physicists were always trying to catch hint of, waiting to be rediscovered and re-established? And if the clock that set GMT is lost, and we someday recreate standard time, what if we're a millisecond out? How would we ever know? I linger in the hallway, surrounded by the murmur of learning, and daydream of a world in which everyone is always a millisecond late.

  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 civilization, 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 Jenkins' 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 Jenkins' 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 Jenkins 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 repl
y. 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 chaffing?" 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 featur
es, 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."