Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

As I watched, Mac popped the clip out of his Browning. Empty. He nodded to Wylie, who raised his rifle and executed the next man. Then Wolf-Barry, Pugh, Speight and Patel each took a life. Green protested but he had a gun forced into his hands by Wylie. Mac barked an order and stood beside him, menacingly. Given no choice, Green closed his eyes, turned his head, and pulled the trigger. Mac patted him on the back.

One more team-building exercise.

One more crime to unite them.

I pushed open the front door and walked outside. The gasps of the boys alerted the officers, who turned, guns raised, and then stood there, amazed. Mac came running up to me, his face a mask of astonishment. He looked me up and down and said:

“What the hell happened to you?”

I told him.

“So what you’re saying is that I’ve just executed a whole bunch of potential allies who could have helped us take on a far nastier bunch of heavily armed psychotic fuckers who like bathing in human blood and are probably cannibals?”

“That about covers it, yeah.”

“Fuck.”

Mac ordered the officers to hang the corpses from the lamp-posts that lined the school drive in the hope that they’d deter any attackers for a while.

AFTER FILLING MAC in on my escapades I went to the San and attended to my own wounds, dosing myself with antibiotics and rubbing antiseptic and arnica on bruise after bruise. The wound in my side was excruciatingly painful, but I’d managed to miss all my vital organs and I didn’t think I’d punctured my guts. I stitched it up and hoped for the best; it would make strenuous physical exercise even more awkward and painful for a while. By the time I was done a hot bath had been prepared for me, one of the privileges of rank. Lowering myself into it was sweet agony, but I lay there, boiling myself for about an hour, letting all the tension seep away, trying to work out my next move.

We had been training for a potential war with Hildenborough, but after a brief, bloody skirmish they were out of the picture, replaced by a far more menacing enemy. This new force was highly organised, armed with machine guns and machetes, driven by religious fanaticism and pre-emptively attacking communities in our area. We had no idea what, if any, strategy they were using, where they were based, or when, if at all, they planned to attack. We were vulnerable and uninformed; what we needed more than anything else was good intelligence.

When I was cleaned up I briefed all the officers on the events in Hildenborough. I was relieved to find that there was no sign of the resentment I had been expecting from them; I had been blooded once again and it seemed I had earned their respect without even having to try. Mac made it clear that all information regarding the new threat remained amongst officers only; he didn’t want to scare the boys.

“Give ’em a day or so to mourn the dead and celebrate our victory,” he said. “We’ve seen off an attacking army of adults — twenty-eight of them — with only five boys dead. We can use this to increase morale a bit, coz if what Lee is telling us is correct then this was just a warm-up. I won’t leave one of my men in enemy hands so we’ve got to go and rescue Petts. That means picking a serious fight.”

Once the briefing was over the officers went back to the grisly task of hanging out the Hildenborough dead, and burying our own. Mac and I pored over an OS map of the local area and picked out the most likely bases of operation for the group that Wylie had colourfully christened the Blood Hunters. We mainly focused on places that would have good defences, which meant stately homes and old manor houses. There were a lot of them, but we prioritised and drew up a search plan.

While Mac pondered the offence that we would adopt as our best defence, I sent a note to Matron via Mrs Atkins, warning her of the new threat and telling her to be on guard.

“I HAVE NEVER been so bloody scared in my entire life,” said Norton. “There were bullets everywhere, the windows were exploding, the minibus blew up. I just closed my eyes and fired blind. Fat lot of use I was. Give me hand-to-hand and I know what I’m doing, but this was mental. Just fucking mental. And what I don’t understand, right, is why they picked a fight with us in the first place? I mean, what’ve we done?”

“They were watching us,” I said. “They saw Bates’ crucifixion, thought we were a threat. You can see their point, I suppose.”

“Still, couldn’t they have just, y’know, knocked on the door and said ‘hi, we’re the neighbours, we baked you a cake?’ I mean, there was no reason to come in guns blazing, no reason at all.”

“Look where it got them.”

“Look where it got Guerrier, Belcher, Griffiths and Zayn.”

I had no answer to that.

“I don’t want to die like that,” he said eventually.

“If it’s choice of being shot or being bled and eaten, then I’ll take a bullet every time, thanks. After all, been there, done that.”

“Yeah, yeah, stop boasting,” he teased, sarcastically. “By my reckoning you’ve been shot, stabbed, strangled, hanged and savaged by a mad dog since you came back to school, three of those in the last twenty-four hours.”

“I also shat myself.”

“All right. You win. You are both vastly harder and far more pathetic than any of us.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

“So, oh great unkillable smelly one, do you want to know how I’ve been doing?”

I nodded eagerly.

“Things in the ranks are confused. Some boys are really pumped up about the fight, gung-ho, ready for more. They reckon Mac’s leadership saved our bacon and they’re willing to fight for him now.”

“Mac’s fucking leadership provoked the bloody attack in the first place.”

“But they don’t know that.”

“Which boys are we talking about?”

“Most of the fourth- and fifth-formers. They’re the ones who cop it least from the officers, so they’ve got a less highly developed sense of grievance. But I’ve had a quiet natter with Haycox, the horsey one, and filled him in on what happened to Matron, and he’s with us. He’s trying to spread the word, subtle like.”

“And the juniors?”

“They’re more interesting. Rowles is a sneaky little sod when he’s not sniffling, and he’s got pretty much all of them on side. They loved Matron and Bates, and they fucking hate Mac. Plus the officers pick on them all the time and they’re feeling pretty pissed off.”

“So we’ve got basically all the seniors led by Mac, against all the juniors, led by us,” I said, morosely. “Not going to be much of a fight is it.”

“Do we have a better plan?”

I shook my head. “We’ll just have to choose our moment carefully, won’t we?” I said.

AFTER BREAKFAST THE next morning — a surprisingly good Kedgeree made with fish from the river — everyone gathered in the briefing room. Without explicitly detailing the situation, Mac told the boys that there was a new threat abroad and that we were going to be searching for their HQ. A group of five search teams was assembled, each comprising one officer and two other boys, and they were allocated specific targets to recce. The rest of us were to concentrate on repairing the damage of yesterday’s attack and bolstering our defence perimeter.

As walking wounded I was excused any actual work. Instead I spent a quiet day with three boys who had been wounded in the fight. The youngest of these, Jenkins, had been shot in his left hand, which was shattered and unlikely to be fully useable ever again. He was only eleven but he had already made it to grade six on piano; he was having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that he’d never make grade seven. Vaughan had a nasty head wound, although this was from crashing into a table as he dived for cover. He was a bit concussed but he’d be fine. Feschuk had taken a splinter of glass to his left eye, and it was likely that depth perception was a thing of the past for him. We spent the day rummaging through the dusty library for any useful books and sharing stories of life before The Cull.