Now What? Book 1: The Gone

The locker’s handle made a soft, metallic pop as Gary pulled it open with the edge of his crowbar. It was the eighth locker on this corridor—still no food. A few textbooks, a cracked phone, an empty inhaler.
He tossed the inhaler aside. It bounced once and spun in a lazy half-circle on the dust-covered hardwood floor.
Behind him, Ash adjusted the cricket bat slung across his back and said, “Anything?”
Gary shook his head. “Same as the last one. Nothing.”
The school was silent in that dense, padded way only abandoned buildings ever managed—like the air itself was trying to muffle any movement. There were bloodstains in places—none fresh. Desks turned over, graffiti across the lockers. One large scrawl read:

WE TRIED

Ash wandered ahead, peeking into an open classroom. “This place gives me the creeps.”
Gary knelt and checked under the locker’s built-in shelf. A half-squashed cereal bar wrapper. No bar.
He stood and stretched his back. “Is anything creepier than an abandoned school?”
Ash raised an eyebrow. “Where exactly are the snacks supposed to be hiding?”
Gary ignored him. He pulled out his battered Ordnance Survey map from the side of his rucksack and traced the road they’d come up that morning—picked clean of anything useful. Birmingham was behind them now, swollen and dead. West Bromwich was supposed to be quieter. A place to breathe. Restock.
So far: disappointment and dust.
Ash ducked into another classroom. “Can I say something without getting a lecture?”
Gary sighed. “You’re going to anyway.”
“Maybe this whole ‘Lake District’ idea—maybe it’s bollocks. Maybe we should just stay somewhere. Set up. Reinforce.”
Gary folded the map carefully, slower than necessary. “And live on what, exactly? Board markers and chewing gum?”
Ash didn’t reply.
Gary placed the map back in the side pouch of his backpack. “We keep moving. That’s the plan.”
Ash reappeared, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Was just saying.”
Gary turned toward the end of the hallway. The double doors there were partially ajar—beyond them, the staff corridor. He gestured. “We try the offices. There’s always a vending machine somewhere.”
Ash cracked his knuckles. “You’re just hoping for a Twix.”
“A Twix,” Gary said, nearly salivating. “Now, that would be quite the morale booster.”
“Reckon that’s in Bear Grylls’ survival handbook?”
Gary smirked, just briefly. “My dad was obsessed with that Bear fella. Used to make me and Matt watch all his shows.”

They stepped carefully through the double doors, pushing them open with the flats of their shoulders. The hinges let out a low, rusty groan.
Gary winced and froze.
Silence.
He and Ash exchanged a look.
Ash raised his bat. Gary nodded.
They moved.
The corridor beyond the double doors smelled terrible.
Gary didn’t have a poetic way to describe it. It was just wrong—like damp clothes left too long in a bag, like meat left out, like something trying not to be dead anymore.
The carpet was sticky. Grey-blue school issue, spotted with blackened stains. A pigeonhole on the wall had a shoe wedged into it. Another had a cracked photo ID half-hanging out, a smiling teacher’s face smudged beyond recognition. Mr. Johnson or Mr. Jackson, perhaps—Gary couldn’t make it out.
“I wonder if this chap survived?”
“Probably not. Very few people did,” Ash responded.
Gary placed the ID badge back inside the pigeonhole.
They continued to move. The corridor seemed to get darker, as if they were making their way deeper into a cave.
Ash muttered, “I hate this bit.”
Gary said nothing.
He moved slowly past the staff toilet—door propped shut with a mop handle. Someone had done that deliberately. Probably smart.
They reached the fire exit at the far end. Gary nudged it open with the tip of his crowbar. The heavy metal door gave a reluctant hiss as it moved—just enough to let in a shaft of light and air. The light didn’t help the smell. In fact, the air smelled even worse.
Ash was squinting at the wall beside the fire door. He pointed.
“Look at that.”
Scratches. Not just random panic marks—dragged fingernails. Long, uneven streaks across the paint, leading away from the doorframe like something had been pulled backwards.
Gary stepped closer. He didn’t want to imagine what that scene looked like.
“The Gone?” Ash asked quietly.
Gary nodded once.
Ash lowered his voice. “How long d’you think before one of them finds us?”
Gary glanced at the hallway behind them. “Fairly soon, if you keep talking.”
Ash raised his hands, mock surrender, then followed him into the next corridor.
The staff hallway was tighter than the main building—low ceiling, blue walls, tack boards with half-torn announcements. A lunch rota still hung by the staff room door.
A reminder was written in looping handwriting:

Mrs Kaur brings cake Friday!

A sound.
They froze.
Not one of the Gone. Not that ragged, low gargle they made in the distance.
This was… music?
Tinny. Slightly warped by distance.
Gary turned his head toward it.
It was coming from behind a door further down the corridor—beneath the faint clatter of something shifting.
Ash frowned. “Is that—?”
“80s pop music,” Gary confirmed.
They crept forward, slow, weapons ready.
The door had a laminated sign:

Staff Lounge — Strictly Authorised Personnel Only

There was a barricade of furniture on the other side. Something was definitely moving in there.
Gary leaned close. The music got clearer.
“Take… on… meeeee…”
Ash blinked. “You’re kidding.”
Gary raised a finger to his lips, then nodded toward the door handle.
They exchanged one last glance.
Gary reached out, slowly, and—
The handle wouldn’t turn. The door wouldn’t budge.
He kicked it once—hard, low, controlled. The barricade behind it shuddered, furniture scraping.
From inside came the faint scuffle of movement—then a voice, clear as day:
“What’s with all the saftness? Could’ve just knocked.”
A chair was dragged aside. The door opened a cautious inch.
One eye peered through the gap, assessing, unimpressed.
Then the door swung wide.
Standing before them was a boy with spiky bleach-blonde hair, cut haphazardly, possibly by a pair of nail clippers. He was smaller than them and probably about a year younger.
“So? Can I help you, or are you just gonna stand there gawping?”
The room behind him was a post-apocalyptic teenager’s nest. Barricades built from desks. A stash of loot scavenged from vending machines—crisps, sweets, bottled drinks, energy bars—overflowed from a recycling bin. The air smelled like dust and salt.
The boy picked up a crisp from a half-eaten multipack, crunched it slowly, and said:
“Name’s Callum. Callum Price. Welcome to the Ritz. Hope you don’t mind the open floor plan.”
Gary didn’t move. Ash squinted slightly. “Are you playing a-ha?”
Callum pointed to a cracked, battery-powered boombox perched on a filing cabinet. “Bit of ambience. Helps with the trauma.”
“What is that thing? Is it Bluetooth?” Gary asked.
“Bluetooth? You gotta be joking, haven’t ya? That there is a top-of-the-range cassette player, that is. Sorta retro, just how I like it.”
“Cassettes?” Ash asked, stunned.
Callum didn’t hear him—or pretended not to.
“Besides, you can’t go running around during the apocalypse carrying a Bose Bluetooth speaker. I mean, where would you charge it? That thing runs on AA batteries. And I’ve got enough to get me through all this end-of-the-world business, thank you very much.”
He wandered to the back of the room and flopped onto an oversized red beanbag like it was a throne. Then, for no clear reason, picked up a battered maths exercise book, opened it upside down, and pretended to read.
“Didn’t expect guests, but always nice to meet the neighbours. You lads fancy a Wagon Wheel?”
Gary stayed by the door, crowbar in hand, glancing around slowly. “You alone?”
Callum glanced up from his upside-down book. “Well, there was a supply teacher in here, but he was rubbish at cards and kept trying to bite me, so… yeah. Just me.”
Ash blinked. “You’ve been here since it started?”
“Mostly. I mean, I nipped out once or twice. Didn’t go well. Figured I’d ride out the end times in style. Emptied the school’s entire stock of vending machines and I even have not one but two tubs of Nutella. Man’s living like royalty.”
Gary didn’t smile. “And what happens when the food runs out?”
Callum shrugged. “That’s tomorrow’s problem. Today’s problem is your crowbar aimed at my bonce.”
He closed the maths book with a deliberate clap and stood, hands raised.
“Alright, cards on the table: I’ve got no plan, no backup, and no intention of dying alone while my 80s mixtape plays in time to me being beaten to death by you pair. I’ve got food, mild charm, and a working knowledge of which mushrooms won’t kill you. And I don’t snore. Much.”
Ash smirked, just a little.
Gary narrowed his eyes. “Why would you want to come with us?”
Callum didn’t flinch. But the edge of his grin softened.
“Because… you’re the first people I’ve seen in a week who weren’t trying to eat me. And maybe it’s stupid, but I’m not ready to be alone again. Not yet.”
A silence stretched out. Long enough for the sound of wind outside to rise through a broken vent.
Gary finally muttered, “You slow us down, we leave you behind.”
Callum saluted. “Understood. I’ll try to keep the saftness to a minimum.”
Ash barked a quiet laugh.
Gary turned for the door. “We move in five.”
Callum scrambled for a battered rucksack and started stuffing snacks into it. He wedged the small boombox and his collection of mixtapes on top, zipped it shut, and slung the bag over his shoulder before jogging to catch up.
As they left the room, he called, “Hope you lads like New Wave. End of the world deserves a bit of mood music.”

The corridors were even darker now. As the group moved toward the rear exit, the late afternoon sky beyond the windows had dulled into a flat grey.
The last bell had long since rung, but the silence still carried a faint echo of it—like the walls remembered the shape of noise.
Callum paused beside a locked classroom door, running his fingers along the scratched paint, then turned away and caught up with the other two.
He walked in the middle, swinging his rucksack lightly in one hand. He kept glancing between Gary and Ash like he was trying to figure out who to irritate first. Then he clocked Gary’s crowbar and Ash’s cricket bat.
He reached into his pocket and produced a red school tie. He wrapped it around his head like a bandana.
“I don’t have a weapon,” he said brightly, “but I do have this tie.”
Ash held back a laugh. “Is that supposed to make you look like Rambo or something?”
“Exactly! It gives me sort of tactical skills and quick wit. Plus, it looks badass, which is a bonus.”
Gary took one look at the tie and asked, “So did you, like, go to this school then?”
“No, I came here about a week ago. Walked along the M5 from Halesowen. That’s where my school is. Well—was. Well… I suppose it still is, but I mean—”
“Yeah, I get what you mean,” Gary said, cutting him off.
“What about you two then? You sound like Brummies to me.”
“Not quite. We’re from Solihull.”
“Solihull, is it? Gotcha.”
They walked a few paces before Callum broke the brief silence.
“So,” he said, “you two got, like, a group name? The Survivin’ Lads? Team Misery?”
Gary kept walking. “We don’t do team names.”
Callum grinned. “Right. No fun allowed. Got it.”
Ash gave him a sideways look. “You always talk this much?”
Callum shrugged. “Only when I’m not asleep. Or dead. Or trying to charm someone out of the last packet of Frazzles.”
They reached the last fire door. Gary pushed it open cautiously.
Outside: the shattered remnants of a playground, trees pushing up through cracked tarmac, a swing creaking faintly in the wind.
Callum followed them out, then stopped and looked back at the building.
“Y’know,” he said, quieter now, “first couple of days after I came here, I used to sit in the drama studio pretending I was waiting for my classmates to show up. Or that someone’d ring the bell and I’d have to go to geography next.”
Neither Gary nor Ash responded.
Callum exhaled through his nose. “You lot are a barrel of laughs, aren’t ya?”
Gary pointed north. “We head towards Stoke. Country roads where possible. No lights. No cities.”
Callum nodded. “Lake District the final destination, yeah? Proper dramatic, that. Lakes and mountains and sheep that look at you funny.”
Gary blinked. “How did you—?”
“I was listening earlier, mate. You probably think you were whispering, but the sound carries quite well along an empty corridor. Sorry—didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
He jogged a few paces ahead, then turned and walked backwards.
“Just to check—I’m not on tea duty, am I? Because I once made instant coffee with gravy granules, and I’m legally banned from all kettles now.”
Ash snorted.
Gary kept his eyes on the road. “You slow us down,” he repeated, “you’re gone.”
Callum gave a little wink. “Aye aye, bossman. Minimal saftness. Maximum hustle.”
And for the first time in a long time, he smiled—and it was genuine.

They left the school through a rear staff car park, half-empty even before the outbreak. A fuel shortage had pushed many people onto public transport in the weeks before the collapse.
Old cones lay scattered like forgotten markers. A skip had tipped at some point, spilling out chairs, broken test tubes, and an unrolled PE mat that flapped weakly in the breeze.
Callum paused by a toppled vending machine someone had clearly tried to smash open weeks ago. The glass was fractured but not fully broken. He gave it a contemplative tap.
“Always one stubborn bastard, isn’t there?”
Ash gave it a kick. Nothing.
Gary didn’t stop walking.
They crossed into a narrow service lane that snaked behind rows of crumbling brick homes. The air smelled like wet paper and rust. No sounds. No people. No birds.
Just the three of them and the occasional crunch of broken glass underfoot.
“Anyone else feel like we’re being watched by ghosts?” Callum said, half-joking, half not.
Gary stopped to check his map. Ash kept lookout, his grip firm on the bat. Callum chewed a vitamin he found in his pocket. Or maybe it was an aspirin. He didn’t care.
“So,” he said casually, “how long’ve you two been doing the Road Trip from Hell?”
Gary glanced at Ash. “What’s it been, Ash—three or four days?” Then, to Callum: “We’ve skirted the edge of the city. Taken our time.”
Callum whistled low. “Proper urban lads then. And now we’re heading into the wilderness. Love that for us.”
Ash chuckled under his breath. Gary scanned ahead and then checked a compass hanging from his rucksack.
“We need to head northwest,” he said. “Keep to the residential edges until we find the B-roads. If we’re lucky, there’ll be woodland.”
Callum raised his eyebrows. “If we’re lucky, the next house we pass has a working kettle and a still-living Labrador named Kevin.”
Gary stared.
Callum grinned. “No? Too much? Alright. Silence it is.”
They reached the end of the lane. Beyond it, a crumbling industrial estate—and further still, fields rising into a low ridge.
Their road north.
Gary looked up at the overcast sky. “We keep moving till the sun goes down.”
“Sun? What sun?” Callum asked.
Ignoring him, Gary continued, “I reckon we have about five hours. That might be enough time to reach Cannock Chase. It’s a good spot to get a few hours kip, if we keep a steady pace.” He looked at Callum. “And if we keep quiet. Wouldn’t want to arouse the interest of any of the Gone.”
Callum gave a little mock-bow. “Say no more. Ninja mode engaged.”
Ash just nodded.
As they stepped off the broken road and into the long grass of a deserted verge, the sun disappeared behind a thick grey cloud. The air grew colder.
Callum looked back once—just for a moment—at the school behind them.
Then he turned and followed.
Three figures. One broken world.