Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

Ferguson nodded. “They’re more organised than we’d thought.”

“Then let’s kill them all, release the kids and go home.”

Dad gave me an exasperated look. “Lee…” but he broke off when we heard voices at the door. Without a word, he and Tariq scuttled to the door and took up positions either side. Ferguson and I ducked down below the window ledge.

I heard the door open then a brief scuffle and a groan, then the door closed again. I looked up to see Tariq holding his gun barrel in the mouth of a spotty little man in a dark green hoodie.

“Sod this,” I muttered, and climbed into the room. Ferguson followed me.

I pulled my knife out as soon as my feet hit lino, stepped forward and laid the blade across the captive’s throat. Tariq removed the gun.

“You’re here to kill us, right?” said Dad.

The terrified man nodded.

Instantly, Dad aimed his gun at the wall and let off two rounds.

“Now strip,” he said. The terrified man undid the zip on his hoodie. “Quickly!”

“Good idea,” I said, as I began unbuttoning my own coat. “I’ll take his place and follow them back.”

Dad shook his head. “No way, son. You’re coming with me.”

“But I’m the right height and build,” I protested. “Neither of you are.”

Dad looked past me, over my shoulder. “But I am,” I heard Ferguson say, in response to my father’s piercing gaze.

“Oh come on, we’re going to trust this guy over me?”

“Yes,” said Dad firmly. “I think your judgment is a little off.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I replied.

“I think maybe he’s seen me,” whispered Mac.

But Dad wasn’t going to get into this now, and our captive was down to his underpants.

“If I get away with this, I’ll stick with them until they reach wherever their base is, then I’ll try and sneak away, head back to Nottingham,” said Ferguson as he hastily pulled on a crusty pair of smelly combats. “You should join my men in the road and head there yourselves.”

“And if you don’t come back?” I asked peevishly. “If they rumble you the second you walk out of this room?”

“Then there’ll be plenty of guys to take my place.”

We heard a distant car horn.

“They’re wondering where he is,” said Tariq.

Ferguson pulled the hood over his head and headed for the door.

“Head North via Hemel Hempstead,” says Dad as Ferguson makes to leave. “Look for us there.”

“Will do,” he replies.

“Good luck,” I said as he turned the handle. He didn’t acknowledge me at all.

WE WAITED A minute, but we heard no shots and no commotion. Dad left the room and came back a moment later.

“All clear.”

I ran into the playground just in time to see the trucks turning the corner at the end of the road. The engines faded away and silence reigned. Jane was gone.

I stood there for a moment, then I began walking purposefully to the gate. I would find my sniper rifle and go after her. Anyone who got in my way would die. Simple as that.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I stopped but didn’t turn around, afraid of what I might do.

“Lee.” It was Dad.

“I’m going after her.”

“Like hell you are.”

“Don’t try and stop me.”

“There’s a pile of bodies back there with bloody great holes in them.”

“So?”

“Was that you?”

“Yes.”

“And what threat did they pose to you? You shot them when we’d already left. They were irrelevant.”

“They were scumbags who had it coming.”

“So you’re judge, jury and executioner now?”

“When needs must.”

There was a long silence. “You’re not going after her and that’s final.”

I burst out laughing and turned to face him, bringing my gun up until it was pointing right between his eyes.

“Really, Dad? You think you can ground me? What am I, twelve?”

He looked at me with such sadness in his eyes that for a moment I felt a stirring of… panic? Conscience? I ignored it.

“No, you’re eighteen. But you’re out of control. Your judgment is shot and you’re a danger to yourself and to the people around you. I am your commanding officer and you will do as I say.”

“Like fuck I…”

His eyes gave no warning, and he moved so fast and with such control that I was disarmed and lying face down on the concrete with his knee in my back before I knew what was happening.

“If I let you run around with a gun, how many more people will die? How long ’til you decide that Tariq’s broken one of your rules and has to be taken out? Or me?”

“Not that long, at this rate,” I said. It was supposed to be a joke, but nobody was laughing.

“If she’s harmed in any way, because you stopped me going after her,” I said coldly, “I will kill you.”

He considered me for a moment and then turned away.

“The awful thing is,” he said softly, “I believe you.”

I got to my feet and held out my hand for my gun. He considered me for a moment then handed it back. I shoved it in my waistband and then walked back towards the school.

“You’d better come up with one hell of a rescue plan, Dad,” I said over my shoulder as I walked away.

IT’S COLD OUTSIDE, and there’s no heating in the lorry, but the huddle of children produces a foul-smelling warmth that at least stops us getting hypothermia. There’s no light either. Or seats. Five winters without maintenance have reduced Britain’s roads to a long trail of endless potholes through which we splash and spring. So we bounce along in the dark, getting bruised and beaten as we crash into each other, or momentarily lift off then slam to the floor on our bony, undernourished arses.

None of the snatchers got into the back with us, so we’re unguarded. But the heavy doors are securely locked from the outside, and even if we could get them open, we’re hardly going to jump from a moving vehicle, are we?

I expected a flood of eager questions once the doors closed and we were momentarily unwatched, but these children have been broken. They sit silent and scared, clutching their blankets around their shoulders as if they were some kind of armour. One small boy keeps being shoved against me by the movement of the lorry. I try to talk to him, but he ignores me. Eventually I put my arm around his shoulder and cuddle him in close. At least that way, I reason, we won’t bang into each other so much. But his response to my attempt at comforting him is to bite my forearm, hard. I yell and snatch it back. Little beast.

“Hello?” I hear a faint shout from deeper in the bowels of the lorry. “Hello, is that the woman who came to rescue us?” It’s a girl.

“Yes,” I shout back. “My name’s Jane. What’s yours?”

There’s no reply, but a few moments later I hear vague sounds of commotion and I realise someone is fighting their way through the crowd to get to me.

“Hello? Where are you?” she says again.

“Here,” I reply, and I steer her towards me in the darkness until I feel small hands grabbing at my coat. I grasp her hands tightly. I fight down my fears and put on an upbeat façade.

“And what might your name be, young lady?” I say cheerily.

“Jenni,” she says, and thrusts a gun into my hands. “They didn’t think to search us.”

For a moment I’m too surprised to speak, and then I remember Tariq giving her the weapon back in the school hall.

“Oh, Jenni,” I say eventually. “You are my kind of girl!”

“Where are they taking us?” she asks. I can hear her trying to be brave.