Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

There was nothing else to do. He was going to have to try and fight this guy. Ben knew he didn’t have much of a chance, but if he didn’t do something he was going to be shot dead at any moment. And he was damned if he was going down without a fight.

He clenched his handful of dirt and prepared to make his move.

“Kings and queens,” corrected the madman. “Ten in all. You’ll be number eleven.”

Ben ignored the nerves and the insistent pressure on his bladder, and rolled to his right, releasing his arms and flinging the forest mulch into the face of the madman.

“Like fuck I will!” he yelled, and then he was up and running.

ARTHUR WIPED THE muck from his eyes as he rose to his feet. The boy had already vanished into the undergrowth, but he was hardly stealthy and he could clearly hear him blundering away to his left. With a weary sigh, he gave chase. It was his own stupid fault. He should have just shot the boy when he had the chance. Then he would have fulfilled his destiny and ascended to invincibility. As it was, his legs hurt, his eyes stung, he had a stitch from running and he was starting to get really cheesed off. Time to kill the boy and be done with it.

He held tight to his gun as he ran.

BEN KNEW THE madman wasn’t far behind him, so he put his head down and concentrated on going as fast as he could. A bullet pinged off a tree right beside him, and he put on an extra burst of speed.

He was so focused on his pursuer that he didn’t see the man who stepped out in front of him, only becoming aware of his presence when he ran smack into the heavy log the man was wielding.

He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

ARTHUR SAW THE boy lying on the ground and stopped dead. Had he tripped, or hit his head on a tree? He was pretty sure his hopeful shot hadn’t found its mark.

He approached the boy carefully. Maybe he was playing possum, waiting for him to get closer so he could spring some trap. Arthur told himself not to be paranoid; there were no traps here.

Which was why he was so surprised when Mr Jolly stepped out from behind a tree and shot him in the gut.

Arthur stood there for a moment, his face a mask of stunned surprise. Then his gun dropped from his hand and he fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. He remained kneeling as his supervisor from the camp walked towards him shaking his head ruefully.

“And you were so close, Arthur,” said Mr Jolly as he approached. “So close.”

Arthur didn’t understand. He was so shocked and confused that he couldn’t even form a question. He just stared, baffled, at the man who had shot him.

Jolly knelt down as well, so he was facing Arthur.

“Of all the people I showed that spreadsheet to, you were the unlikeliest candidate,” he said. “I’d almost given up.”

Arthur registered that his accent had changed. The glottal stops of his Wandsworth accent had gone, replaced by round, plummy RP.

“I really didn’t think you had it in you. The one before you, now he was a go getter. But when he saw his name on the list he just laughed. In all, you were the sixth person whose name I added to the spreadsheet, and by far the least promising. Or so I thought. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? You never can tell about people.”

“I…” gasped Arthur. “I don’t…”

“Understand. Yes, I know. You’ve gone quite round the twist, haven’t you? Poor love. I knew you’d finally lost the plot when you killed that reprehensible parasite Parker. Making him a paper crown, painting it gold, then setting him up in a tableau, in a big chair with a roll of silver foil as a sceptre… well, it was inventive, I’ll give you that. But a bit bonkers, don’t you think?”

“What are you… doing here?” Arthur was beginning to feel lightheaded, as if the world was spinning around him. Gravity suddenly seemed to be on the blink. He saw spots before his eyes and found it hard to draw breath.

“Oh do keep up, Arthur. I replaced my name on the line of succession with yours. Simple plan, really. Convince someone else that they’re the rightful heir, they traipse off and kill everyone who stands in their way, and I sit back, watch the show, then pick off the hapless patsy at the end. That way I only have to kill one idiot, rather than eleven.”

Arthur’s head swam. Was this another test? Surely what Jolly was saying couldn’t be true. No, it had to be a test. It was his destiny to be king. He knew that, more certainly than he’d ever known anything in his life.

“You used me?” he groaned.

“Well of course I did, dear boy. First rule of being king — delegate the nastiest jobs to the most expendable serfs you can lay your hands on. And you, Arthur St John Smith, are the most entirely expendable person I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet. Plus: murderous, delusional and now, very dead indeed.”

ARTHUR LAUGHED.

“Funny,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “You see, I really am the king. I can feel it. You wouldn’t know what I mean, of course. But it’s in my blood. Don’t you realise who I am?”

“Go on, surprise me.”

“I’m the once and future king. Arthur, you see? My name isn’t a coincidence. My parents must have known. Don’t you realise? This is the moment of England’s greatest need and I am come again!”

With that final pronouncement, Arthur’s eyes rolled back in his head, he toppled sideways and lay motionless.

THE KING OF England, Jolyon Wakefield-Pugh, tutted affectionately.

“Nutty as a fruitcake,” he laughed.

He rose to his feet and turned to deal with the last bit of unfinished business.

But the boy was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh,” groaned Jolyon. “Oh bugger.”

BEN WAS WOOZY and concussed but he still had enough presence of mind to slip away quietly the moment he regained semi-consciousness. Once he was out of earshot he increased his pace, half falling forwards with every frantic step. He made for the school buildings, which seemed to offer the best chance of cover and safety.

The bump to his head had only made the events of the morning seem even more surreal and dreamlike. Had he really been attacked by two men who thought he was king? Had Jack really been shot down in cold blood right in front of his eyes? Could any of this be real?

He broke cover at the tree-line and made for the ruins of the main building. There was a cellar there where he could hide.

But when he made it to the bricks he lost his footing and fell, sprawling on the ruined masonry. As he lay there he could feel consciousness slipping away again. The fear of death overwhelmed him, and he whimpered “Mum” before succumbing to the darkness.

LIEUTENANT SANDERS, LATE of the SAS, now barracked at Salisbury with the remnants of the British Army, had all but given up hope. Six months spent chasing royalty, and all he’d found were corpses. Each time he found a new one he’d contact his superior officer and break the bad news. And each time he was ordered to go find the next person on the list.

Sanders wasn’t much of a monarchist, but he had to concede that a figurehead would be a useful rallying point for the scattered survivors of post-Cull Britain. A heroic king or a stern but comely queen would provide a focal point for patriotism and a sense of allegiance that could help rebuild the nation.

It helped keep the army in line too, if they had someone they could swear an oath to.

So he’d scoured the length and breadth of the British Isles with a list of names and last known addresses, trying to find the rightful monarch. And each time he arrived, they were dead. He wasn’t stupid, after the third body he’d realised that someone else was using the same list for a different agenda. A radical republican, maybe?