Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

He skipped to number five on the list, but was too late. Then seven. Again, too late, and the body too long cold. Now he’d jumped to eleven. He had to get ahead of this bastard, whoever he was.

When he got to Harrow he went in cautiously, weapon at the ready. The school was still smoking, and he got a familiar sinking feeling. There was no-one alive here.

But just as he was about to give up and go on to the next name, he caught an impression of movement through the wisps of smoke. Moving cautiously, he stalked his prey.

JOLYON WAKEFIELD-PUGH STOOD over the unconscious body of the boy he believed to be king and considered his next move.

More specifically: knife, gun or brick?

He eventually plumped for brick, reached down and grabbed one, enjoying its heft and solidity. He raised his right arm, ready to bring the brick crashing down on the boy’s skull, ready to seize his destiny.

WITH HIS ARM raised, the man presented a perfect target. Sanders knew nothing of his grievance or motive in wanting the boy dead, but he knew a murderer when he saw one. Martial law gave him the right to take action, and he was not afraid to do so.

He put three rounds into the chest of the King of England, killing him instantly, and he felt satisfied that he had done right.

Then he ran to offer aid to the fallen boy.

Sanders turned him over and felt for a pulse. Strong and steady. He was alive, but he had a nasty head wound that needed some attention. He had a medical kit in his jeep, so he leaned down and grabbed the boy’s hands, lifting him into a sitting position, ready to throw him over his shoulder. As he did so, something fell out of the boy’s pocket on to the ground.

He let go of the boy’s right arm and reached down to pick up the library card.

He read the name on the card.

Then he looked down at the boy.

Then he looked back at the card.

“Well fuck me sideways, Your Majesty,” said Sanders, grinning fit to burst. “Pleased to meet you.”

He threw the child over his shoulder and walked back to his jeep, singing the Sex Pistols’ God Save The Queen at the top of his voice.

ARTHUR ST JOHN Smith sat in the bottom of the ice house, pressed hard on his stomach wound and wondered where it had all gone wrong.

He had crawled away from the scene of the shooting, instinctively seeking a quiet sheltered place in which to die, like a mortally wounded cat. Now he sat on the soft carpet of moss and leaves, feeling his life seeping out through his fingers, waiting for the fair folk to come and carry him back to Avalon, to wait for the call to come again.

He knew they would find him. It was only a matter of time. He just had to be patient. His destiny was calling, he could hear it on the wind.

A fox peered in at the doorway, sniffing the air, drawn by something else the wind carried — the enticing tang of fresh blood.

Arthur heaved a stone at it, and it ran away.

For now.

CAROLINE OPENED HER good eye and winced. It was hard to divorce the pounding in her head from the shockwaves of the explosion that still reverberated around the small room. The walls were painted white but they glowed orange as the fireball billowed up the street outside.

Even with her head swathed in bandages, her hearing muffled, and her vision clouded by the lingering anaesthetic — not to mention the fact that one of her eyes was healing underneath a thick gauze dressing — Caroline knew instantly what was occurring.

Someone was attacking the base.

The night was warm and the window was open. It rattled in its frame and a wave of hot air pushed the curtains towards the ceiling.

She was lying flat on her back with her hands on her belly and was wearing what felt like a cotton nightdress. The crisp white sheets felt luxurious on her bare calves. It had been so long since she’d felt clean sheets.

She remembered her mother ironing the bed linen in front of the telly, watching Eastenders from within a cloud of steam.

The curtains fell back into place and the orange glow faded and began to flicker as fires took hold. Caroline heard the crack of small-arms fire; sporadic at first, then constant and concentrated. Fire and a firefight. She wondered how long it would take for the conflict to reach her room, and what would happen when it did.

She sniffed the air, expecting cordite and smoke, but instead smelled lilies, strong and pungent. She focused on the chest of drawers that sat against the wall directly in front of her. The sense that she was one step sideways from reality was reinforced by the uneasy feeling that the world was somehow flatter. If she never recovered the use of her other eye then things would always be this way; the depth of the world reduced to one smooth surface, like a painting or a television.

On top of the wardrobe stood a large green vase which held about ten flowering lilies, their petals white with streaks of purple and yellow. They were exquisite.

Caroline wondered where Rowles had found them, and smiled at the thought of her best friend.

Then she frowned. Where was he?

Engines now, outside. Deep, throaty roars and the rumble of caterpillar tracks coming closer. Tanks, then. She could not imagine who would have the resources to attack this place, the most heavily defended position in the country, base of operations for the entire British Army.

She licked her lips. Her mouth felt musty and she had a sharp, bitter taste at the back of her throat, like bile or grapefruit. Wondering what the time was, she gently rotated her head until she could see the clock on her bedside table. 10:15. Not so late, but it was already dark outside.

She stroked her belly through her nightshirt, feeling the flat planes of her abdomen and the hollow empty ache inside, a reminder that she had not eaten for at least 24 hours. Then she thought: it might be more than that. How long had she been unconscious? It could be days.

She felt no disquiet at the prospect of having lost time in this nice, clean, envelope-smooth bed. What a nice place to lose time, she thought.

A distant whine grew into a piercing shriek that swept across the outside sky like a banshee. Fighter jet. No, two fighter jets. As they screamed overhead there was a whoosh and a hiss then a series of loud explosions as the planes launched missiles into the most entrenched positions, or eliminated British tanks or buildings.

Her nice warm bed didn’t seem a safe place to be, but Caroline did not panic. She was too weak from surgery to lift herself into a sitting position, let alone leave the bed and search for shelter. The knowledge of her helplessness freed her from fear. There is no point, she told herself, being afraid of something you can’t change; you will survive or you won’t and there’s nothing you can do to influence the outcome either way.

A tank ground to a halt beneath her window. She heard a whirr of engines as the turret rotated and the gun was manoeuvred into firing position. Then a moment’s pause before her bed shook as the shell was fired.

Now she could smell gunpowder and the tang of hot, oiled metal, but the smell of the lilies was not entirely swamped. She imagined the flowers fighting back against machinery, and winning.

Since the explosion had woken her, Caroline had heard no noises from inside the building where she lay, tucked up safe on the second floor in her convalescent room. Now she heard the unmistakeable clatter of boots on the stairs at the end of the corridor. It was one person, running. Looking for somewhere to hide, perhaps? Or coming for her?