Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

Eventually, after four days of negotiating our way across Europe, we arrived at the station in Coquelles, near Calais. We knew that the Chunnel might be blocked, but we fancied holding on to the Stryker, and if the tunnel were passable it would be a quick and easy trip. What we didn’t reckon on was the welcoming committee.

From my position at the gunner’s post, I kept lookout using the periscope as the Stryker nosed its way through the station entrance and on to the concourse. Burnt-out trains stood at the platforms, shattered glass everywhere.

On a bench in the middle of the concourse, a solitary man sat watching us.

“You see him?” I said.

“Uh-huh,” replied Dad, slowing to a halt and putting on the handbrake.

“What do you reckon?”

Dad didn’t answer, I glanced over my shoulder and saw that he was using his periscope to scan the windows of the buildings that overlooked the concourse.

“What you looking for?” I asked.

“Anything. Keep an eye on the guy. What’s he doing?”

I pressed my eye against the periscope and zoomed in.

“He’s smiling.”

“Like a ‘hi guys, good to see you’ kind of smile?” asked Tariq, frustrated that he couldn’t see what was going on.

I zoomed in closer, until the man’s face filled my vision. He was dressed in black and grey combats and was wearing sunglasses. I couldn’t see his eyes, but there was a cold malevolence about his smile; something feral yet amused.

“No,” I said. “More a ‘come into my parlour said the spider to the fly’ kind of smile.” I described a circle, checking for snipers or traps. I saw nothing, but I wasn’t reassured.

“I can see the way to the tunnel,” I said. “Should we just drive?”

Dad considered it, and shook his head. “No. I dunno who this bloke is, but he could have booby traps anywhere. The tunnel might be exactly where he wants us.”

Before we could decide what to do, the man took the initiative. He got up and walked towards us, stopping just in front of the vehicle. He removed his glasses to reveal jet black eyes.

“Bonjour,” he said affably.

Dad stroked the touchscreen and spoke into the mic on his helmet. “Parlez vouz Anglais?” His awkward schoolboy French echoed around the empty concourse and he stroked the screen again, turning down the loudspeakers.

“Ah,” said the man in a strong French accent, his eyes full of calculation and surprise. “We thought perhaps some Anglais might come through the tunnel. We were not expecting any to go the other way.”

Dad put his hand over his mic. “He said ‘we.’ Lee, keep looking, he’s not alone.” Then he took his hand away and replied: “We just want to go home. We’ve travelled a long way.”

“I can see that,” said the man. “This is not a British fighting vehicle.” It was not a question, which told me that he knew his stuff. Military background, perhaps? “My name is De Falaise,” said the man, rather more grandly than seemed appropriate. “My colleagues and I control this station. If you wish to pass, we would expect some form of consideration.”

“Here we go,” said Tariq.

“What do you have in mind?” asked Dad.

“Information.”

“What kind of information?”

“Have you been in contact with Britain since The Cull? By radio perhaps? Can you tell us anything about what is happening on the other side of that tunnel? My friends and I, you see, are thinking of relocating.”

I caught a glint, just for an instant, in a window behind us. I thumbed the zoom button and sure enough there was a man in position there; tripod, sniper rifle, telescopic sight. I didn’t think he could do us any damage, but there might be more.

“Sniper, three o’clock, in the hotel,” I whispered.

Dad covered his mic again. “Get ready, Lee,” he whispered back. “When I give the word, fire a warning shot. Just a warning shot, mind. I don’t want to start a war.”

“’Kay.”

Dad took his hand away and spoke again. “No contact. It all went dead long ago.”

I couldn’t see De Falaise’s reaction to this, but I imagined it was either disappointment or disbelief.

“That is what I thought,” he said. “Then perhaps we could trade something else. I think, perhaps, I would like your armoured car. I think I would like it very much.”

“Fire,” said Dad.

I gently squeezed the trigger and the gun mounted on the roof burst into life, spraying heavy rounds around the window where the sniper was poised. I saw him leap backwards, arms raised to protect himself from the chips of stone that were flying into his face. Once he was out of sight I squeezed again, destroying the rifle and taking him out of the game. Then I swivelled my periscope to see how our Frenchman would react. He hadn’t moved an inch. Cool customer.

The sound of gunfire reverberated around the empty space, fading away gradually. Only when silence reigned once more did De Falaise speak.

“That is a disappointment,” he said. “I was planning on letting you go.”

Dad didn’t wait to hear what he said next, choosing to slam his foot on to the accelerator and drive straight at De Falaise. But the Frenchman was too fast, diving out of the way to reveal the smoke trail of an approaching rocket-propelled grenade.

“Shit!” yelled Dad, and he yanked the wheel hard right, flinging Tariq and I to the floor. We skidded to a halt sideways and before we could get underway again the grenade hit us broadsides.

To this day, that explosion is the last thing I ever heard in stereo.

It’s impossible to describe a noise so loud that it blows out your eardrums. It was like a physical blow; like someone jamming a sharpened pencil in my ear and then wiggling it for a bit as the aftershocks bounced around. I screamed and wrapped my hands around my ears, feeling blood pouring from them. Then all I could hear was a deep throbbing tone, like a dead TV. My sense of balance was gone too. I rolled about on the floor of the vehicle trying to stop everything spinning. I vomited all over myself and I didn’t become aware of anything else until Dad sat me up and jabbed a needle in my arm. Then I passed out.

I WAS DEAF. I knew that before I even opened my eyes. I could feel the bandages around my head. I opened my eyes and there was Dad, leaning over me. I was on the couch in the back of the Stryker. Tariq lay on the couch across from me. He also had dried blood on his ears, but wasn’t bandaged. Dad, I realised, had been wearing the driver’s helmet, which would have protected him from the worst effects of the sound, and Tariq had obviously been hurt, just not as badly as me. So it was just me that got unlucky. Great.

Dad stroked my hair tenderly. I could see his lips moving but all I could hear was that dead TV tone in my right ear. My left ear registered nothing at all.

“I’m deaf,” I said. Or at least I think I said it. I may have shouted it, or said “I’m cleft” for all I know. It was weird, knowing I was making sounds but being unable to hear them.

Dad nodded and turned away. I think perhaps he was trying to hide his emotions. After a moment he turned back, and mouthed some words slowly. It took a moment for me to work out what he was saying but eventually I got it.

He was saying: “We came through the tunnel. We’re home. England. We made it.”

IT SOUNDS STRANGE to say it, but I was lucky that I was so badly hurt.

General Blythe was convinced that I was some sort of post-apocalyptic spymistress running covert ops at home and abroad, using specially recruited and trained kids like Lee.