The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3

by Rachel Churcher

  The soldier reaches up with one hand and opens his visor, wide enough to shout through, but not wide enough to show his face.

  “Drop the gun!” The voice is muffled, but it’s definitely female. And definitely angry. I keep my gun on her friend in the road. If I’m right, this is about keeping him safe, and right now I’ve got him in my sights. The vulnerable patch, just at the side of his chest where his arm is raised.

  “Drop the gun!” She shouts, again, and shifts her gun until she’s aiming at my chest. She’s in armour, so even if I can aim and fire before she does, it might not stop her. I’m in fatigues, so one shot is all she would need.

  I make a decision. I don’t want to die today. I don’t want to die for HQ and this dangerous plan, for Jackson and his stupid decisions. I don’t want to die for Bracken and his recruits, who shouldn’t be here in the first place. Let Jackson defend the kids. I’m not dying today.

  I drop the gun, keeping it close to my feet.

  “Kick it to me.”

  That would leave me defenceless. But truthfully, I’m defenceless already. I kick the gun towards her, and it tumbles down the steps, coming to rest near her feet. She ignores it, and steps up into the coach.

  “Sit down.” She waves her gun at me, and I step back into Jackson’s seat, moving slowly, hands where she can see them.

  She climbs up, next to the driver, and looks down the coach, taking in the kids crouched on the floor.

  The radio in her helmet squawks, and she turns her head, distracted.

  “Not now.”

  Someone shouts at her, the words garbled by her helmet.

  “Not yet. There’s something I need to do.” She speaks quietly, but I’m close enough to hear her end of the exchange. “Dan – can you cover the back door?”

  Dan? This is Ellman? Kind, good, caring Ellman? It’s all I can do not to laugh. Everything she does, every move she makes, is a move I’ve taught her. Me and Jackson. And now she thinks she can use that training against us.

  Good luck, tiny fighter. We’re not finished here. You’re not safe yet.

  I wait for her to make her move.

  “Heads up! Back in your seats!” She shouts at the recruits, but no one moves.

  You’re not the authority here, Ellman.

  She waits, then lifts her gun and fires a shot at the ceiling. The noise is shocking, and I flinch away before I can stop myself.

  Jackson calls out from the stairwell at the back door. “Do as they say!” There’s a rustling sound as the recruits scramble back to their seats.

  What do you want, Ellman? You’ve got your armour. Take it and leave.

  She steps up again, so she’s standing next to me, elbow touching the back of my seat.

  Careful, Ellman. That’s a little too close for comfort.

  The recruits are still moving, shuffling in the aisle.

  “You!” Shouts Ellman. “On the ground!”

  I can’t see what’s happening behind me, but I have a pretty good idea. She’s picking out recruits. For what? Bargaining chips? Threats?

  She looks around the coach. The recruits are quiet now.

  She waves her gun at the kids, her elbow brushing my ear. “Stand up!” More rustling.

  “You! And you! On the floor.” She levels the gun into the aisle.

  What’s she looking for?

  “Back row! All of you, in the aisle, now!”

  Amy. She’s after Amy. She’s not leaving without Amy and Jake.

  Stupid move, kid. That’s the one thing we can’t let you do.

  “You! On the floor. The rest of you – back to your seats. Here’s what’s going to happen. These four recruits are going to leave the bus with me. They’re coming in the trucks, and we’ll drop them off a mile down the road. You can come and fetch them. But you fire on us; you try to stop us; you do anything stupid; and we take them with us. Understood?”

  You’re making this up as you go.

  I stifle a laugh.

  “Am I understood?”

  “Understood, terrorist,” Jackson shouts, his voice hard.

  He’s going to let this happen.

  This is on me. I have to stop them.

  I’m swearing before I can stop myself, and I’m reaching up and pushing hard against her elbow. I’ve got one chance to knock her off her feet. I stand up as I shove her aside, pushing her off balance and into the seat across the aisle. She’s caught off guard, struggling to stand up.

  The back door of the coach opens again, and someone fires. Someone shoots back, twice.

  Ellman is still trapped against the seat. She’s all gangly limbs and flailing rifle. Without thinking, I throw a punch at the visor of her helmet, and her head snaps backwards. Someone – Dan? – is shouting, and I realise that I can’t hear Jackson. I risk a glance back down the coach as I draw my fist back for another punch, and Dan is standing in the aisle, a clear shot between him and me.

  He raises his gun, pulls the trigger, and my knee blossoms into pain.

  I hear the gunshot. I feel the impact. My leg is nudged out from under me and I’m falling backwards, down the steps. I’m dimly aware of impacts on my back, my arms, the back of my head, and for a moment I think the guards outside have fired on me, that this is it.

  And then I’m lying on the floor next to the driver, bruised but alive. My leg is braced against the steps, and there’s a rush of adrenaline that’s starting to mask the pain. I turn my head, and see the barrel of my gun, propped against the steps where it landed. I reach out and pull it towards me, shift it into a combat hold, and point it up at the figure standing over me in the aisle.

  Dodge this, Ellman.

  It might not kill her, but it’s going to hurt, and that’s all I care about right now.

  She stops, mid-step, gun dangling from one hand. She was trying to escape through the front door, but now she has to get past me. I want to laugh, but the pain in my knee expands, and I’m biting my lip to stop myself from crying out. My hands won’t stop shaking, but I’m aiming at her visor.

  With any luck, the visor being open will weaken it. I could get lucky. I tighten my finger on the trigger.

  And the windscreen above me explodes. There’s a crashing noise, and glass is showering down. Without thinking, I drop the gun and throw my arms over my face, closing my eyes and shielding myself from the stinging glass fragments.

  The noise fades. The glass stops falling. When I move my arms again, Ellman is gone. There are shouts from outside the coach and then the sound of engines starting up. I listen to the sound of the pickup trucks driving away with our armour and our guns.

  And our recruits.

  Pain

  “Jackson! Jackson!”

  I’m yelling. Screaming at the top of my lungs, but there’s no answer. The kids are silent. The coach driver is staring at me, a look of horror on his face, a criss-cross pattern of cuts from the flying glass starting to bleed on his cheeks and arms.

  My hands are bleeding, too. Covered in tiny lines of red where the windscreen rained down on me. My gun lies next to me on the steps. My leg starts to throb, pain flashing from the gunshot on my right knee. I bite down on my knuckles and close my eyes.

  Get a grip, Ketty. Make a decision. Clean up this mess.

  First things first. Stop the bleeding. Fix a tourniquet. Stand up, and secure the coach.

  Stop the bleeding.

  I push myself up on my elbows, blocking out the pain as well as I can. I can’t stop myself from crying out as I sit up and move my leg. There’s a ragged hole in my trouser leg, and a growing patch of blood seeping into the fabric.

  I turn to the driver.

  “Give me your shirt.” My voice is a whisper, and he doesn’t react.

  “Your shirt! Now!” I shout, putting all my effort into making myself heard.

  He nods, and pulls off his sweater and the shirt underneath. He untangles them, and hands the shirt to me.

  Carefully, I push myself up and backwards u
ntil I’m sitting against the front of the coach, broken glass crunching under me as I move. Spikes of pain drive into my leg as I shift position, and I bite down on a scream as I bend my knee and plant my foot on the floor.

  I hold up the driver’s shirt, until I find the middle of the back panel. I use my teeth to start a tear, and then pull the shirt apart. One half, I tie above my knee, as tight as I can. I keep pulling on the tourniquet, tugging it tighter and tighter until I can’t move it any more, and the edges of my vision are turning black. I wrap the pieces round my leg once, twice, and then tie the tightest knot I can manage.

  The other half, I wrap around the injury, as a bandage to protect the wound. I tie it as tightly as I can without blacking out, and this time I can’t help screaming as I work. When I’m done, the driver is still staring at me, and there’s a line of kids’ faces, watching me from the aisle.

  Secure the coach.

  I blink back tears, and take a deep breath.

  “Recruits!”

  “Sir!”

  “Whoever is sitting next to the back door, go down the steps for me and find Jackson.”

  There’s a rustling, and the faces turn away to watch. Someone walks down the steps and jumps down onto the road.

  I turn to the driver. He’s pulled his sweater back on. It’s inside out, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed.

  “Open the door,” I say, pointing at the front door of the coach. He presses the button and the door hisses open.

  “Jackson! Jackson! Get in here!”

  There’s a scrabbling sound in the road outside, and one of the recruits appears at the front door.

  “Sir …” he says, sounding uncertain. “I think there’s something wrong with Jackson.”

  My mind races. When did I last hear Jackson’s voice? Was it before or after Dan came through the back door?

  Before. Before the shots were fired.

  I fix the kid with a meaningful stare. “Is he bleeding?”

  The kid nods.

  “Can he speak?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Is he sitting up? Lying down?”

  He glances back down the coach.

  “Lying down, Sir. In the road.”

  His voice is starting to shake.

  Hold it together, kid. I need you. Today’s not over yet.

  He’s wearing fatigues, and I look for his name patch.

  “Mitchell! Pay attention!”

  He jumps, and stands up straight.

  “Sir!”

  “I need you to go back to Jackson, and tell me whether he’s breathing. You know how to check that?”

  The kid nods, and disappears, footsteps running along the road.

  I lean my head back against the frame of the windscreen, and I realise I’m crying.

  The driver seems to pull out of the shock of the attack.

  “Shall I …?”

  Without moving, I grit my teeth and reply. “Go and help? Yes. Please.”

  He takes off his seatbelt, and mutters an apology as he steps over me and heads down the steps.

  I close my eyes, and the world starts to turn and tumble around me.

  Focus. Focus on the kids.

  I force my eyes to open, and shout as loudly as I can.

  “Tiny fighters!”

  “Sir,” comes a ragged shout. Not good enough.

  “Tiny fighters!” I force myself to shout louder.

  “Sir!” Better.

  “Is anyone hurt? Any recruits bleeding that I don’t know about?”

  There’s a muttering, but no one shouts.

  “Check your neighbour. Check your partner. Check the seats in front of you and the seats behind you.”

  More muttering.

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  “No, Sir.” I listen for a ‘yes’ in the chorus of negative answers, but none comes.

  Mitchell appears again at the door.

  “Sir? He’s breathing, and the driver says he’s got a pulse, but he says it’s bad.”

  There’s a lump in my throat, suddenly, and my voice comes out as a whisper. “Thank you, Mitchell. Go back and help the driver. Tell me if anything changes.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “He wants the first aid kit.”

  The dizziness is getting worse. The coach seems to turn around me.

  “OK. Where is that?”

  He climbs up onto the first step, pulls the green plastic box from the stairwell wall, and runs back to Jackson.

  Right in front of you, Ketty. You’re losing it. Stay focused.

  “Tiny fighters!”

  My eyes are closing. Everything is turning round. I feel as if I’m sinking into the floor, and someone is pounding on my leg with a hammer.

  “Sir!”

  “I need you to stay in your seats. If the driver needs someone to help him, go and help. One recruit at a time. Everyone else, sit tight, and stay quiet.” I can hear my words slurring, but I can’t seem to stop them. It takes all my concentration to raise my voice. “Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  “Good.” It comes out as a whisper.

  I don’t know how long I sit, eyes closed, my back propped up and my arms braced against the floor. The kids stay quiet, and the only sound is the voice of the driver, talking to Jackson and Mitchell outside.

  Come on, Jackson. Hang in there.

  And then there’s a faint sound in the distance. The sound of a vehicle approaching.

  I wonder if I’m imagining it, but it grows relentlessly louder, until I’m sure it must be right behind me.

  The engine noise dies, and there’s the sound of car doors, opening and closing. Someone is shouting, and I know I should respond, but it’s so hard to speak. I want to shout out, I want to call for help, but nothing happens.

  Footsteps outside, and I can hear the driver talking to someone.

  “There’s a house, about a mile back ….”

  “… use the phone …”

  “… be back as soon as I can …”

  The doors open, the doors close, and the vehicle drives away.

  I sink down into darkness and pain.

  When I come to, someone is kneeling over me, asking my name.

  I try to speak, but no sound comes out.

  I try again.

  “Ketty. Smith.”

  “OK, Ketty,” says a reassuring voice. “We’re going to move you now. I’m sorry – this is going to hurt, but it’s what we need to do. Do you understand?”

  “I … yes. OK.”

  Strong hands slide around my back, and under my knees. I feel enclosed and protected.

  And then they lift me, and my leg moves, and I remember screaming.

  Cornered

  I open my eyes.

  I’m in a hospital bed, in a hospital gown. My leg is propped up, somehow, under a blanket, and there’s a tube and a needle in my arm.

  The lights are uncomfortably bright, and there’s someone calling my name.

  I cover my eyes with my hand, waiting to remember what I’m doing here.

  And then I do.

  “Jackson!”

  I’m sitting up, shouting, before I realise that I can’t move. I can’t move my right leg, and I can’t get out of bed. There’s a doctor standing in the room, and someone else.

  Bracken.

  “Ketty …” he begins, but I don’t want to listen to him.

  “Where’s Jackson?” I’m shouting so loudly I can feel my throat turning raw.

  “Ketty …”

  “Jackson. Where. Is. He?”

  Bracken steps forward, lays a hand on my arm. His eyes are bloodshot, his uniform is crumpled, and there’s a faint trace of alcohol on his breath. I wonder how long he’s been here.

  “He’s alive, Ketty. He’s alive, and so are the recruits, thanks to you.”

  The fight drops out of me and I slump back against the pillows.

  The details of the attack on the bus are flowing back into my min
d. I feel like crying again. I stare at the ceiling.

  “I lost four recruits. I’m sorry.”

  Bracken laughs.

  “Ketty! We lost two recruits. The other two walked back to the coach. The terrorists left them in the road and drove away.”

  I shake my head. I know who came back, and who didn’t.

  “We lost Brown and Taylor.”

  He nods. “Brown and Taylor.”

  He doesn’t sound surprised.

  “Sorry, Sir.”

  “Don’t you dare apologise, Lead Recruit. You’re the one who made sure everyone stayed on the coach. You got treatment to Jackson in time. You kept the situation under control. You even treated your own gunshot wound,” he gestures to my leg, “an act which the doctors here are officially calling ‘hardcore’. And that’s not something they’d say lightly.”

  I find I’m smiling, and so is the doctor as she puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Seriously hardcore, Lead Recruit. But you had surgery this morning, and now we need you to rest. We’ve got you, and we’ve got your friend. We’re going to take good care of both of you.”

  I look at Bracken again. “The kids? They’re OK?”

  He smiles. “The kids are fine. A little shaken up, a little confused, but they’re fine.” He looks at the doctor, and then back at me. “We’re going to leave you to rest, now. I’ll be back to check on you in the morning.”

  But there’s something else. Something I need to tell him. “Mitchell. Mitchell was amazing, Sir. He helped Jackson, he helped the driver. Get him an award, or something. He made it OK. He was my eyes and ears, and he did everything I told him to do.”

  I can’t believe I’m getting this emotional about a recruit. Must be the painkillers.

  Bracken is nodding. “I know. I’m working on it.”

  “And Sir? It was Ellman. Ellman and Pearce. They stole the armour, and they attacked us. Our own recruits, firing weapons at their friends.”

  His face hardens. “The recruits told us – the ones who went with the attackers. Thank you, Lead recruit. I’ll be back to take a statement when you’re well enough to talk.”

  I start to protest that I’m well enough now, but the doctor places a firm hand on my shoulder. “We need you to rest. Commander Bracken will be back tomorrow. We’ll see how you’re doing then.”