Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

When we reached the end of the alley the girl motioned for us to flatten ourselves against the wall as she peered cautiously round the corner to see if the street was clear. She leaned back into cover and held up her hands to signal that there were two of whoever it was we were hiding from, to the right. She indicated that they were not looking our way.

Again there was a disagreement. The girl wanted to risk running across the road to the alley opposite; Tariq wanted to go back the way we had come. This time, she won the toss. She counted down from three with her fingers, and we broke cover. It was only a few metres to a burnt-out car, and we made it without the alarm being raised. We huddled behind it. She glanced down the road on my right, Tariq on my left. Stuck between them, with Toseef, I was unable to see who or what we were hiding from. All I could see was a tiny lizard, sunning itself on the rear bumper of the car, an inch from my nose. Lying there, frying itself alive on that scalding metal, it radiated warm contentment.

Toseef grabbed my bad arm to get my attention and I winced. He let go and gave me a look that said sorry. Tariq gave us a silent countdown and we all turned to face the other side of the road as the girl moved to my side, ready to run. There was no-one behind me. They all broke cover, scurrying for the other side of the road. But in the heat of the moment none of them tried to drag me with them; they were so focused on their own predicament they must have just assumed I’d follow suit. But I didn’t. I let them run away and I stayed, crouched behind the car with my small, cold-blooded friend. They didn’t realise I wasn’t with them until they reached the safety of the opposite alleyway. Tariq turned, alarmed. I waved at him and smiled. He slapped Toseef around the head, annoyed, then urgently beckoned for me to follow them. I pretended to consider this for a moment, then shook my head, grinning. I didn’t trust him an inch.

Of course, I hadn’t exactly escaped, but I’d bought myself an opportunity. I turned away from his frantic gesticulations, and peered around the side of the car. About thirty metres down the road stood a humvee. Result! Through the heat haze I could just make out two soldiers standing either side of the vehicle, backs to me. I looked back at Tariq and I could tell he was about to come running back for me. Now or never.

I stood up and began walking towards the vehicle. I saw Tariq grasp the air in fury and frustration, so I gave him a jaunty wave and sauntered towards the soldiers. I was safe.

“Hey guys,” I shouted when I was halfway between the burnt-out car and them. I had stopped walking and had my arms raised high and wide. Didn’t want to give them an excuse to shoot.

They spun around, rifles raised to their shoulders, but they didn’t fire. They hesitated, obviously surprised and suspicious.

“I’m British,” I yelled. “I just arrived here. I’m looking for my dad. He’s a squaddie like you.”

That sounded as lame as it did unlikely, but it was the truth so it was all I had. I expected them to tell me to lie on the ground, hands behind my head, that sort of thing. But they didn’t move. One of them reached for his radio and muttered something to someone, then his colleague shouted: “Take off your shirt. Slowly.”

It took me a second to work out what he’d said, and then another to work out why.

“Okay,” I said. “But my shoulder’s pretty torn up, so bear with me.” Both rifles were sighted on my chest as I struggled out of my shirt. I let it drop to the ground. “All right? See, no bomb vest.”

“Now your pants.”

“Seriously?”

“Do it!”

So I unbuckled my belt and let my combats fall around my ankles. I considered making an inappropriate quip, something like “If you want me to take my boxers off, you’ll have to buy me lunch first,” but I thought better of it.

“On the ground, hands behind your head.”

I sank to my knees and lay down on the ground as he’d instructed. The gritty dirt burnt my skin, and a sharp stone jammed itself between my ribs, but I didn’t wriggle. I heard them walking towards me slowly, their heavy boots grinding the dust beneath them.

“Lie completely still,” said the talkative one. “If you move a muscle my friend here will shoot you dead.”

“Understood. Just be careful please, I disclocated my shoulder earlier and it hurts like fuck.”

I heard him fumbling with something, and then a thin strip of cold plastic was looped around my wrists and pulled tight. Then he grabbed my bound wrists and hauled me upright, grinding my damaged shoulder horribly. I yelled in pain and anger.

“Sorry,” he said sarcastically.

The talkative one pushed me ahead of him, back to the humvee, while his mate scanned the surrounding buildings for danger. I had so many questions I wanted to ask them, but I decided it would be best to keep quiet for now. These were frightened, frightening soldiers; anything could happen. Best wait ’til I was safe in their HQ talking to a senior officer. Shouldn’t take long to sort everything out then.

And yet… I didn’t tell them about Tariq and his friends, hiding in an alleyway behind us. I was probably concussed, certainly dehydrated, definitely scared, and it was only as they marched me back to the car with brisk military efficiency that it occurred to me, belatedly, that perhaps my judgement wasn’t the finest right now. So I kept quiet about the Islamists who had nearly beheaded me, the ones who could even now be taking up positions in nearby buildings and sighting their rifles on us. I think that maybe, through all my confusion and adrenaline, I’d started to have an inkling that I’d jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.

They shoved me into the humvee roughly. My shin banged painfully against the metal lip of the door, making me curse. The quiet one stayed outside on guard, while the one who’d bound my wrists sat opposite me. He was a young man, about twenty; Hispanic, with a wispy, bumfluff moustache. But despite his youth he seemed confident, in control, self contained. His face was hard and cold, and gave nothing away. I suppose his accent could have told me which part of the States he was from, but apart from New York and the deep south I don’t know my American accents well.

“Name, rank, serial number,” barked Bumfluff.

“I’m not a soldier.”

“You’re British, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Name, rank and serial number. That’s all you Brits ever tell us.”

“If we’re soldiers. And it’s the Second World War. And you’re Nazis. But I’m not a soldier and you’re not wearing jackboots.”

So the Yanks and the Brits weren’t working together. Maybe they were even enemies. Suddenly all my preconceptions came tumbling down. I’d assumed that the army would have retained some order and discipline in the face of The Cull, but sitting here, facing an American soldier who thought I was an enemy, that idea seemed wilfully naïve. They could have splintered into all sorts of warring factions. This led straight to the idea that maybe Tariq and his gang had not been all they seemed either, and I cursed my prejudices and my stupidity.

From the second I’d hit dirt I’d been reacting instinctively and without thought. I knew too well that that kind of thing gets you killed.

Engage your brain, Keegan.

“Tourist?” he asked.

“I flew here from England.”

“Economy?”

“You must have seen my plane coming down, light aircraft, two seater. I’ve been unconscious but I think it was yesterday.”

“Maybe.”

“I was shot down.”

“Not by us.”

So should I tell him about Dad? I couldn’t see why not. I had to ask someone, after all.