Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

“Sorry,” I gasped.

He shook his head as if to say it’s nothing . His other hand was holding his side, and I could see a red stain spreading through his fingers.

“You’ve been shot,” I exclaimed. “Let’s get you inside.” I wrapped my arm around his waist and tried to drag him towards the medical centre, but he resisted.

“No,” he said firmly. “It’s just a flesh wound. First we search the body and find out who these guys are and how they got in here.”

He shrugged my arm away and knelt down beside the body, grunting as he did so from the pain of his wound. I knelt down beside him.

“They’re both Americans and they parachuted in,” I said.

He looked up at me sharply. “You sure?” I nodded.

He reached down and pulled open the dead man’s jacket, searching his pockets. His hand was on the man’s chest when he mumbled “oh fuck” and ripped open his undershirt. Strapped to the man’s bare flesh was a little metallic gizmo.

“What’s that?” I asked, but Sanders was already up and running for the main gate. I pelted after him.

“Life sensor,” he yelled back to me as he ran. “It means whoever sent them knows they’re…” His final word was lost in the scream of an approaching missile. We were caught in the shockwave of an enormous explosion, which picked us both up and flung us backwards on to the hard tarmac, knocking the air out of us and singing our eyebrows. The main gate and the guard post beside it vanished in a huge fireball and I felt the scorching air blast across me and cook my lungs as I gasped for air.

The perimeter was breached. Operation Motherland was under attack.

My senses were scrambled. I didn’t know which way was up, my eyes couldn’t focus, my ears were ringing and I felt like I was going to be sick. As I tried to clear my head I felt the world lurch and start bouncing. It took me a moment to realise that Sanders had actually picked me up, slung me under his arm, and was running away with me. I heard sharp cracks all round us, which must have been gunshots, but they sounded distant and dull. Then I landed on soft grass with a thud and felt large hands running themselves up and down my body. Odd time to cop a feel, I thought, feeling disconnected and out of body. Then he slapped my face and the world got sharp, hot and focused.

“Oi!” I shouted, and slapped him back.

“You’re not hit.” He was leaning over me, black smears on his face, his carefully combed hair wild and frizzy. “Can you run?”

I nodded. “Come on then.” And he was off. I shook my head, rose to my feet with a groan of protest, and staggered after him. Even after being shot and blown up he was making good speed. But he was running away from the sounds of gunfire and explosions. Shouldn’t he be in the thick of the fighting? We ran through the base, which was suddenly full of shouted orders and running men, all heading in the opposite direction. Sanders grabbed one man as he ran past and relieved him of his weapons, sending him back to get re-equipped. I caught up with him and he handed me a sidearm.

“What the hell are we doing?” I asked, shouting to be heard over the sirens that were now ringing out. “What’s going on?”

“In situations like this, I’ve got standing orders. Now come on.” And he was off again, his wound not even meriting a wince. He wasn’t even breathing hard as he ran past the mustering troops. I was gasping for air and trying to ignore the stitch in my side.

“But don’t you want to know what’s happening?” I bellowed as I chased after him.

“I’m a soldier, Kate… sorry, Jane. I never know what’s bloody going on. I just do what I’m told.”

It seemed pointless to argue, but I couldn’t really wrap my head around it. I never followed orders, never did what anyone told me without being given an explanation first, always made sure I knew the big picture before making a decision. But I was a free agent, always had been. Sanders was a soldier, conditioned and trained to be a cog in a machine. He didn’t need to know the whys and wherefores, he just did as he was told, immediately, without question, confident that by following orders he was doing the right thing. I couldn’t imagine allowing anyone to have that control over me, or allowing myself to trust someone so much that I’d take their word for anything without being given proofs and reasons.

That said, I was running after him, so I suppose I trusted him that much. I really wanted to be running back to the medical centre. Rowles and Caroline were there, and they were my responsibility. But I knew the fight would already be at their front door, and it would be suicide to head back there now. I just had to hope they’d be safe. After all, no-one would attack a hospital. Would they? I told myself not to worry about it. Rowles could look after himself and Caroline, and as soon as I was able I’d be back for them. For now, I kept following Sanders, hoping he had a plan.

We ran across the base to a barracks that sat at the heart of the compound. It was a low building, brick built, with two guards on the door, one of whom greeted Sanders.

“Lieutenant,” he said, businesslike in the face of sudden chaos. “What’s going on?”

“He in there?” asked Sanders as he slowed and stopped.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, stay here, no-one comes past. Understand?”

“Sir!”

“Come on,” he said to me, and I followed him through the doors and into the barracks.

We came to a door and Sanders knocked and entered.

It was a simple bedroom, nothing too fancy. A single bed, a desk, a cupboard and a wardrobe. A bookcase full of Alex Rider , Young James Bond and Robert Muchamore. There were posters, too, of the Pussycat Dolls and Slipknot.

Kneeling on the bed was a young boy, fourteen or thereabouts, oblivious to our presence, listening to a CD player with his headphones on, the volume so loud it was drowning out all noise. His face was ravaged by acne, his hair was greasy and unkempt, and he was wanking over a porn mag. He looked up in horrified alarm as Sanders tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“What the…?” spluttered the boy, his face turning red as he realised he was not alone. He pulled his headphones off and dragged the quilt over his erection.

“You need to get dressed and come with me right now,” said Sanders.

“What do you mean? What’s going on?” the boy whined, spluttering in embarrassment and fear.

“The base is under attack. We need to get you to the safe house. Get dressed. Quickly, Your Majesty.”

The boy didn’t move, he just stared at Sanders and nodded his head sideways at me, indicating that Sanders should remove me. I grabbed Sanders’ arm and pulled him towards the door.

“We’ll, um, wait outside,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “Sire,” I added, and snigered as Sanders pulled me out the door and slammed it shut.

“That’s him?” I giggled. “That’s the king?”

But Sanders wasn’t laughing. His face was white and he was leaning against the wall. I glanced down and saw that the blood from the wound in his side had soaked his clothes right down to his knees. Suddenly things didn’t seem quite so amusing.

“I need to get you stitched up.”

“No time,” he said, forcing himself to stand upright. “We need to get the king to safety.”

“I’m the doctor,” I said firmly. “Is there a med kit or anything in this building?”

He glared at me and then reluctantly said: “Try the kitchen.”

I ran off down the corridor, looking in all the rooms until I found a small kitchen with a fridge, microwave and a Baby Belling cooker. There was a red plastic med kit on the wall, so I pulled it open and rummaged inside. I pulled out sterile dressing, elastoplast, alcohol and a needle and thread, then I ran back to Sanders, dragged him into the room opposite the king’s and set to work.