Scott Andrews - School_s Out

The brown stain wasn't paint at all. It was blood.

Human blood.

Right. So. Not the good guys.

I felt a familiar sinking feeling as I realised that I was going to have to get involved. I turned to the others and whispered "Follow my lead". Then I pushed open the door, bellowed as loudly as I could, and ran at the man with the raised machete.

On the whole I try to avoid picking fights with people, especially people who are clearly insane, daubed in blood, and carrying a fucking huge knife, but I was now doing exactly that, armed with only a detachable piece of flushing toilet.

I had surprise on my side and my target had little time to react. I swung the cistern lid with all the momentum of my short run up, and smacked him under the chin as hard as I could. There was a shattering crunch as he was lifted off his feet and his head smacked satisfyingly into the corridor wall. He slumped to the floor, unconscious, his jaw a bloody mess.

His mate shouted out in anger and threw the old man aside, raising his machete and moving towards me menacingly. At which point Williams snuck up behind him, wrapped the shower hose around his neck and tugged him off his feet. They collapsed backwards in a tangle of limbs. Then Petts ran forward and squirted bleach into the man's face.

Williams scrambled clear as the man clawed at his eyes and screamed loud enough to raise the dead. Before I could knock him out with my trusty cistern lid, the old man stood up and drop-kicked his would-be murderer into the middle of next week.

There was a brief moment of calm as all four of us stood there breathing heavily, contemplating the two unconscious men.

"Thanks, lads," said the old guy, cheerily, "but I had it all under control."

We all gaped.

"Know a bit of unarmed combat from my army days," he went on. "I was just waiting for him to get a little closer then I'd have kicked him in the goolies, tossed this chappy over my head and done a runner."

"You were whimpering!" I said.

"All part of my act, dontchaknow."

We didn't have time for this.

"Right," I said. "Good. Fine. Um, we're running away now, if that's okay with you. So you ain't seen us, right?"

He tapped his nose and winked. "You hotfoot it, lads. I'll take care of these two." He bent down and picked up a machete. "Haven't used one of these since Burma," he said with relish.

We legged it.

We made it to the ground floor without encountering anyone else. We could hear someone giving some sort of speech from the forecourt, but I didn't want to hang around so Williams led us through the kitchens to the back door.

"We go out here and around the side of the house," he told us. "Then there's a garden hidden from the driveway by a tall hedge. Then it's over the road, across a field and into woodland. We should be safe from then."

I pushed open the door. No guard. We ran as fast as we could, Williams in the lead, until we came to the sheltered garden that ran alongside the forecourt. Still no sign of anyone. They were all on the other side of the hedge listening to whoever was ranting. We were halfway down the garden when we heard a truly bloodcurdling scream. It was no use; I had to see what was going on. I ran to the end of the garden and peered around the edge of the hedge.

I wish I hadn't.

The men with machetes were still encircling the captured citizens of the town, but all attention was focused on the scaffold. The noose was lying on the platform, the rope slack. A middle-aged woman was struggling in the grip of the two heavyset, naked guards, but she was tied hand and foot and had no chance of escape. One of the naked men looped her feet though the noose and then a third pulled the rope. She swung into the air, suspended upside down.

The man in the pinstripe suit, who was also standing on the platform – I assumed he was this group's leader, David – stepped forward and began to undress, meticulously piling his folded clothes to one side. The last thing he removed was his bowler hat, which he placed on top of the pile. He stood there naked, his body caked in crumbly dried blood. He spread his arms and addressed the crowd.

"In the fountain of life I shall be reborn," he intoned.

All the machete men chanted back in unison: "Make us safe."

From then on it was call and answer, like some kind of Catholic Mass gone horribly wrong.

"With the blood of the lamb I wash myself clean."

"Make us safe."

"From the source of pestilence comes our salvation."

"Make us safe."

"Life for life. Blood for blood."

"Make us safe."

He turned, tenderly cradled the woman's head and kissed her lips.

"I thank you for your gift," he said.

Then she was hauled as high as the rope would go. David stood directly beneath her. One of his acolytes stepped forward and smoothly, emotionlessly, drew his machete across the trussed woman's neck.

And David showered in her fresh blood as the crowd screamed and his acolytes chanted together:

"Safe now. Safe now. Safe now."

Suddenly Mac didn't seem like such a bad guy after all.

I turned away in disgust to find Petts, white-faced in shock, Williams, throwing up, and a very big man with a machete standing behind me.

Without hesitation I threw a punch, but he rocked backwards and I swung into thin air. He snapped upright and brought his machete scything down at my shoulder. I followed my fist and spun left as the metal blade sliced within a millimetre of my ear. I stumbled, my weak leg momentarily betraying me. I hit the ground and tried to roll with it.

I'm not a martial arts specialist. That's Norton's thing. I can do guns, no problem. I can even do toilets, in a pinch. But straightforward fighting, especially when I'm unarmed and the guy I'm fighting has a piece of metal specifically designed to split me in two, is not something I'm very good at.

My cack-handed attempt at a forward roll probably saved my life. The man brought the machete around with lightning speed and chopped at the space where I would have been had my hand not slipped in some mud, pitching me face first. I scrambled forward on my hands and knees as he raised the knife again.

Petts barrelled into the guy's side, classic rugby tackle. The man staggered sideways but didn't fall, and he brought the machete handle down on the back of Petts' neck, hard. He went down like a sack of spuds.

I had regained my feet by now, and the man and I circled each other warily. I caught a glimpse of Williams, running for the safety of the trees in the distance. Cowardly bastard. Maybe I would crucify him, if I ever saw him again.

I considered letting myself be captured, escaping later. But after what I'd just witnessed I didn't want to spend any more time in the company of these lunatics than I had to. No point taking a chance of being bled. But I was hopelessly outmatched here. This guy was faster, older, stronger and armed. I was limping, breathless and my neck hurt like hell.

He lunged forward, sweeping the machete sideways, trying to gut me. I sucked in my stomach and bent myself like a bow. The knife missed its mark. He then stepped towards me, and in one fluid movement the knife swept up and across, slicing down at my neck. I took a single step forward, ducked under the swing, and raised both hands to grab his forearm. I spun and shoved my back into his belly, tried to use his weight against him, throw him off balance. But, dammit, he was too solid on his legs and I hadn't practised this move before; I was just aping what I'd seen on TV, and he obviously knew what he was doing. He pulled in his arms, kept me cradled to him and squeezed, lifting me off my feet and tossing me aside.

I got to my feet and ran. Of course I say 'ran', I was still limping so there was no point my making for the tree-line; I'd just never make it. Instead I ran back to the house, making it inside just seconds before my pursuer. I flung myself through the kitchen door and scanned left and right for some kind of weapon with which to defend myself.