Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

He considerd me carefully for a moment. “What you did, shooting those people in the street. That was not right in the head.”

“Then sign me up for psychoanalysis, but do it later, yeah?”

He held my gaze, trying to decide what to do.

“Ferguson, we’ve got movement in the street,” said another Ranger, poking his head into the room.

My interrogator turned to leave, then glanced back at me and nodded, indicating that I should follow.

“But this conversation is not over,” he said softly as we walked down the hall to the front room. “Just paused.”

“Hang on,” I said. “I thought there were only five of you. Two are dead, that leaves you and the two in the kitchen. Where did this guy come from?”

“Josh here was on sniper duty himself, upstairs. But he held his fire until he was sure what was going on. Discipline and experience, see?”

We reached the window and peered through the tatty lace curtains. The children we had loaded into the minibus earlier were walking down the street in a tight huddle. It took a moment for me to work out what was happening, but then I looked closer and made out two men amongst the kids, scanning the houses on either side of the road carefully. They must have seen the bodies at the school gates and this new bunch of snatchers were using the kids as a human shield.

But worse — leading the group were my dad and Tariq. Dad had a nasty gash across his forehead that had soaked his face and jacket with blood; Tariq had Jane slung over his shoulder, an unconscious dead weight.

I heard footsteps in the hall and turned to see yet another Ranger enter.

“The convoy’s in the next road,” the man reported. “The van drove straight into it. It’s a write off, and I think the first lorry is too. They’re disentangling them now.”

“Thanks,” said Ferguson, then he turned to me.

“Those people out front…”

“My dad, my friend and Jane. She’s our boss.”

He nodded and I could see that he was thinking hard.

“Well, we have to rescue them,” I said.

Ferguson regarded me coolly. “Do we? Do we now?”

“For God’s sake,” I said, but then I took a deep breath and stopped for a moment before continuing as calmly as I could manage. “I’ve got to assume you came here for the same reason we did — to find out who the snatchers are and where they’re taking the kids, right?”

Ferguson nodded.

“Okay, so we want the same thing. Track these guys, shut them down. Now you could try and take this lot, capture a survivor, interrogate them. But how many kids would die in the crossfire? Your only option is to infiltrate and collect intel.”

“Go on.”

“They’re going back to the school. I’ve been in there. I know the layout. We go in and we eavesdrop.”

“And free your people at the same time?”

“If the opportunity presents itself,” I said, although I was quite clear in my own mind that I’d rescue them no matter what.

“If this fucker tries to stop you,” says Mac, “you’ll just have to kill him. His men would never know that it wasn’t the snatchers.”

The group in the street drew level with our house and paraded past silently. We watched them go, seeing the fear on the children’s faces as they were marched down a shooting alley.

“Okay,” said Ferguson eventually. “But just you and me. If we don’t make it back, my guys will make sure your kids get home.”

“Done.” I held out my hand. He ignored it and walked past me, checking his weapon and barking orders.

BY THE TIME we’d got to the end of the alley, the snatchers and their hostages had made their way into the school. They made the kids carry in the bodies of the men I’d killed.

The wall that ran across the front of the school compound stretched down the sides too, but I’d glimpsed a wire mesh fence at the rear of the building. Ferguson and I broke cover, scurrying out of the alley and down the side of the school, staying in the shelter of the wall.

When we reached the corner I took out the wire cutters and within moments we had slipped into a playground. We darted from slide to roundabout to climbing frame until we reached the outbuildings.

There was no sign of movement at the rear of the school; everything would be happening in the front playground and the main hall, I guessed. We quietly tried all the doors and windows we could find. They were all locked, but time and neglect were on our side. I pushed one window gently and the whole frame came free and fell into the school. I gasped, waiting for a crash, but there was none. I peered inside and saw that it had landed on a mouldy blue crash mat. Ferguson and I climbed inside and found ourselves in a room full of soft foam wedges, mats and seats.

I clambered over the wet, squishy foam and cracked the door open. There was nobody in the corridor, so I headed into the school proper, with Ferguson close behind me. This part of the building had been left to rot, unlike the area around the main hall, which had obviously been inhabited since The Cull. We moved through the eerie, mildewed corridors, stepping carefully to avoid the lino tiles which had curled upwards and made loud cracking noises if we trod on them. We came to a pair of swing doors and I peered through a frosted glass panel and saw movement very close. It took a moment to work out that there were two men standing just on the other side of the door. It looked like they were guarding a room.

I turned to Ferguson and indicated that he should look. He took my place just as there were sounds of movement in the corridor beyond. I could hear muffled shouts and then a gunshot. In sudden panic I lurched forward, gun at the ready, but he spun and put his hand on my chest and shook his head firmly.

We stood there for a moment, me desperate to see what was going on, he resolutely holding me back. He didn’t see my hand slowly move towards the knife in my belt.

He held up his hand, releasing me and whispered: “We go around, through the window.”

I considered for a moment, then nodded. So we went back the way we had come, back across the foam and out into the playground. Then we skirted the buildings until we were outside the room that was being guarded. I was surprised how calm I was when we reached it. Someone had been shooting in there, so there was every chance that Dad, Jane or Tariq was lying dead. I felt nothing but a fixed certainty that, even if one of them was dead, my gun and my knife would help me make it better.

I peeked over the window ledge and saw Dad and Tariq sitting on a camp bed, looking grim. I tapped on the glass lightly. Tariq jumped in surprise, but Dad just turned and smiled. They came to the window.

“Brace the frame,” I whispered, miming how they should hold the window steady.

They looked confused, but nodded. Then Ferguson and I took up positions at either side of the window and pushed. We were in luck. The frame slowly slid forward and oozed out of the brickwork, entire. Dad and Tariq took the weight, carried it inside and laid it on the bed.

“Where’s Jane?” I asked when they returned to the window.

“Just took her to the hall,” replied Dad.

I reached into my pack, took out two Brownings and handed them to Dad and Tariq.

“Then let’s go get her.”

Dad shook his head. “No. There are too many of them.” I made to protest, but he waved me quiet. “And there are children in there.”

“We can’t just let them drive off with her, for fuck’s sake.”

“We have to,” replied Dad firmly.

“You could shoot them all and rescue her yourself,” said the voice in my head. I actually considered it for a moment.

“How many men in total?” asked Ferguson.

“Fifteen at least. It’s some kind of armed convoy, collecting kids from staging posts like this across the country and shipping them into London.”