Scott Andrews - School_s Out

The means had been despicable, but the end had been achieved. Still, I wondered whether I hadn't failed in one crucial thing: preventing myself from becoming the thing I hated. After everything I'd done I couldn't help but feel that I was that little bit more like Mac than I'd ever wanted to be. I didn't know how I was ever going to come to terms with any of this.

I'd killed two people today and seen many more die. As I watched the fire I prayed that this was the last I would see of killing.

Should've known better, really.

"Wasn't my fault. They were bigger than we were."

Wylie was making excuses, but his heart wasn't in it. Like all the best bullies he was a coward at heart. It turns out the boys hadn't blown the bridges to get rid of Mac and me. The adults from Hildenborough, scared out of their wits, some of them armed (by us), had demanded that the boys blow the bridges immediately. Wylie, who'd been in charge of that part of the operation, had agreed.

I was wet through, cold, tired and very, very pissed off.

"You left us to die," I said, through gritted teeth.

"You look fine to me." Cocky little shit.

I raised the Browning and pointed it at his face. He hadn't expected that.

"Give me your gun," I said.

"You what?"

I twitched the gun sideways an inch and fired a shot past his right ear. He jumped, yelled and backed away.

"What the fuck are you doing, man?"

"I won't ask again."

He threw the rifle at me. I let it fall to the floor.

"Here, have it you fucking psycho." His shout was half whine, like a spoiled brat being told to give back the car keys.

I didn't lower my gun.

"How old are you, Wylie?"

He glanced left and right looking for support or a way of escape. I had him cornered.

"Seventeen. Why?" he said. Half petulance, half defiance.

"And how many men have you killed?"

His eyes widened as he felt a jolt of genuine fear.

"Just the one."

"One kneeling man with his hands tied. What, you didn't off a few more when the Hildenborough men attacked?"

"My… my gun jammed."

I laughed.

"Not what I heard."

Rowles had found him cowering in the art room. He hadn't told anyone but me because he was too afraid of what Wylie would do to him if he blabbed.

"Fuck you! I'm a sixth-former! And a prefect!" He was starting to cry.

"That's right. And I'm only fifteen. But I've killed four people, two of them this morning. So who do you think is the scariest person in this room?"

He sniffled.

I chambered another round.

"Who do you think is the scariest person in this room?"

I fired a shot past his left ear.

"You. You are, all right. You." His lower lip was trembling.

I nodded.

"Right again. I am. I am the scariest person in this room."

I was having fun. I'd have been worried by that if I'd stopped to think about it. But I didn't. I was enjoying myself too much.

"You're a bully, Wylie. And a coward. I don't like cowards much. But I hate bullies."

His nose started to run.

"But do you know what I hate even more than bullies, Wylie? Do you?"

He shook his head. Mingled snot and tears dripped off his wobbling chin.

I walked right up to him and pressed the gun against his temple. He let out a low moan of fear.

"The one thing I hate more than bullies," I said. "Is anyone who was in the room when Matron was raped."

He looked like he was about to shit himself.

"It… it… it wasn't my idea. It was Mac… he made us… he had a gun and everything."

"Don't. Care."

"I had to! I didn't enjoy it. Honest. I didn't enjoy it all. Really."

"Not an excuse."

"What… what are you going to do to me?"

"Haven't decided yet. I reckon it's a choice between shooting you in the back of the head or crucifying you. Do you have a preference?"

His knees buckled and he fell to the floor, snivelling and moaning.

I knelt down beside him and whispered in his ear.

"I'm inclined to crucify you myself, but it's time-consuming and a bit of a drag. Probably easier to just shoot you. What do you think?"

"I'm sorry, all right?" he cried. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

I yelled into his ear as loud as I could: "I don't care!"

He cowered against the wall.

"Choose!"

"Oh God."

"Choose!"

"Please, no, I'm sorry, please." He buried his face in his hands and curled up into a foetal ball, wracked with sobs.

"Fine," I said. "A bullet it is."

I grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet. He made a half-hearted attempt to resist, so I kneed him in the balls. Then I herded him down the corridor and out the front door. He could barely walk for pain and terror.

I kicked him down the steps and he sprawled in the gravel, clawing for purchase. He tried to get up, but the best he could manage was to crawl away on all fours. I sauntered after him. When he reached the grass I planted a foot in the small of his back and he collapsed onto the turf.

"Kneel," I said.

He let out a cry of anguish and scratched at the dirt.

"Kneel!"

I bent down and grabbed him, pulling him up until he was kneeling in front of me. The second I let go he toppled sideways. I kicked him in the ribs as hard as I could.

"Kneel, you pathetic little shit."

I pulled him up again and this time he stayed in position. He shuddered and shook, gasped and wept.

"This is pretty much the spot where you executed that helpless, unarmed man, isn't it? Kind of fitting you should die here too."

He started to beg.

"Please, oh, God please don't. Please don't."

"Is that what she said, huh? Is that what Matron said?"

I pressed the hot muzzle of the gun against the nape of his neck. He screamed.

"Is it?"

I let him sweat for a good minute or two before I pulled the trigger.

After all, he didn't know I'd used all my bullets.

"Was that necessary?" asked Norton, as we watched Wylie limp out of the school gates. I gestured to the faces pressed against the windows of the school behind us.

"Yes."

I looked at the faces of the boys before me. They looked so tired. They hadn't slept all night and they'd marched three miles expecting to go into battle. In the end they'd only been shot at from a distance before being threatened by a bunch of fear-crazed adults, but it must have been terrifying for them, especially the little ones.

It wasn't just the events of the past twenty-four hours, though. These were boys whose lives had been calm and orderly before The Cull. They'd lived every day according to a rigid timetable set down for them by distant, unapproachable grown-ups. They'd played games and sat in lessons, pretended to be soldiers on Fridays and occasional weekends. They'd eaten set meals at set times and known months in advance exactly what they'd be doing at any given day and time.

Of course there had been bullies, beatings and detentions, but unless Mac was the bully in question it never went too far. And Matron had always been there to give them a hug and put a plaster on whatever cut or bruise they'd received.

But for the past few months things had been very different. They'd seen their parents die and had run back to the one refuge they could think of. They'd hoped to find safety in the familiar routine of St Mark's. Instead they'd killed men in combat, seen their teachers and friends die before them, been bullied and abused, subject to the whims of a gang of armed thugs who'd ordered them about day and night. They'd been trained for war and had learnt to live with the expectation of their own imminent deaths.

I was looking at an entire room of young boys with post-traumatic stress disorder. And I was supposed to lead them.