Victory Day (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 5)

by Rachel Churcher

  “We’ve lost the feed. They’ve hacked us back out.”

  I feel winded. I’m caught between the passion of my speech and the fear of what might happen next. I stumble over to the monitor.

  The screens around the platform are showing the trial again. Margie in her orange jumpsuit, sitting handcuffed to her chair. The judge at the podium. Soldiers closing in with guns.

  We haven’t stopped it. We haven’t saved Margie. The trial is going ahead, and the bullet-proof backdrop is waiting for her firing squad.

  I feel sick. I feel angry.

  I’m running for the door before anyone can stop me, grabbing my helmet and my gun from the table as I push past.

  There’s a figure in a smart suit in the hallway, surrounded by guards. I’m so consumed by the idea of saving Margie that I don’t notice the guards moving to stop me. Someone grips my arm and spins me round.

  And I’m facing the King.

  If we’ve won, if we’ve cut off every meeting room and every committee, then I’m facing the only government this country has.

  I manage a tiny bow of my head, and I freeze. I don’t trust myself to speak.

  The King smiles, and puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “That was a good speech, Miss Ellman,” he says. “Now go and make it happen.”

  I nod, struggling to find my voice. “Yes, Sir.”

  And I’m running again. Down the stairs, past guards in armour, past assistants and staff in and out of uniform.

  Whatever happens next, I can’t let Dan face it alone.

  Fight

  Ketty

  I keep my hand on Bracken’s shoulder and push him ahead of me along the corridor. I don’t look back. Every step sends a jolt of pain through my knee, and I realise I’ve twisted it, dragging Bracken from the room.

  No time to stop. Just keep walking.

  We head down a tiny staircase, and at the next landing I elbow my way past a group of clerks in civilian office clothes and drag him through into the empty corridor beyond. I pick a door, and pull us both into a deserted office. He sinks into a chair as I close the door behind us, and perch myself on the edge of a desk, facing him. Taking the weight off my knee.

  He rests his head on one hand, as if he’s shielding his eyes from the light.

  Or from me.

  “I think its time for the truth. Don’t you, Sir?”

  He groans. “Ketty …”

  “The truth. Who you’re working with. Who’s involved. Just how many of these attacks were us, spreading fear and blaming the resistance. Making them into terrorists.”

  “I was doing my best …”

  “How many?”

  He shifts in his chair, and covers his face with his hands. His voice is a whisper.

  “All of them.”

  I know he’s telling the truth. I realise I’ve known this for a while, but I want him to confirm it. I want to hear him confess.

  “Leominster? Manchester? Crossrail?”

  He nods.

  “Every terrorist bombing was a government false flag?”

  He starts to protest. “Not to start with. The first attacks were real. But when we saw …”

  “… when you saw how frightened people were, you saw how useful that would be. You decided to keep it going. To keep the fear building.”

  “You have to understand, Ketty – this wasn’t me. I wasn’t part of it. I was running Camp Bishop. Leominster was the first time I realised what we were doing.”

  “And what did you do after that? Did you shout out? Did you tell the truth?” He shakes his head, looking up at me. “No. You helped them. And then you came here and took your promotion and carried on helping them. You even used resistance fighters to plant your bombs. It wasn’t their idea to bomb civilians – it was yours. You and Franks and Lee – and you blackmailed William Richards into making it happen. There was blood on your hands, and you used it to get here. You went along with the violence, and you turned it into a step up in your career.”

  He gives me a cold stare. “So did you.”

  My head jerks back, as if he’s landed a physical blow. He’s right. I did. I used Leominster and I used the bunker to get here. I even killed one of our recruits, and I would have killed more of them if I’d had the chance. If they hadn’t damaged the PowerGel. If they hadn’t left me lying in the woods.

  But I didn’t know the scale of the lies. I thought we were protecting people. I thought we were fighting terrorists, not killing civilians ourselves. Not after Leominster.

  Bracken reaches for his cargo pocket and pulls out his hip flask. His hands shake as he fumbles with the lid, but I’m too angry to let him drown his feelings. I step forward and twist the flask from his hands, throwing it across the room, and we both watch as the liquid inside drains out, his whisky a spreading stain on the worn green carpet. He makes to stand up, and I push him back into his chair, shouting. I can’t believe that he’d rather drink this away than face me. That after all I’ve done to keep him in his job, he won’t even tell me the truth.

  “No, Sir. You do not get to drink your way out of this. This is real, and I need you here, with me. I need you to confront this. I need to hear your side of the story.”

  He lunges up out of his chair, and his voice is an incoherent roar. He throws himself towards me.

  I’m not ready for this. I take a step back, but he’s too quick. He hurls his hand up and slams it into my neck, hard. The shock and the blow knock the breath from my lungs, and I stumble backwards, his fingers locking round my throat. I’m gasping for air, trying to pull his hand away, but he’s too strong. A sick, dizzy feeling hits me – I’ve lost control, and I’m running out of time.

  Don’t panic. Breathe. Fight back.

  The desk is behind me, and he’s throwing me backwards, his face pushed into mine. The room disappears as the edges of my vision fade to black, and his face is all I can see. My knee buckles, and I stumble, fear pushing me to fight as I struggle to stand. His grip on my neck pulls me up, and I can feel my windpipe closing; my neck, bruising.

  Breathe! Fight!

  I feel the edge of the desk against my legs, and I’m trapped. He’s pushing me, shouting as he throws me backwards, and I’m falling. Pain slams into me like a bullet as I crash onto the desktop, Bracken standing over me, pinning me down, his hand crushing my throat. My head hits the desk and I’m choking, coughing. Clawing at his knuckles.

  I can’t believe how quickly I’m thrown off my feet. How quickly he has total control of my body. I wasn’t ready.

  Breathe, Ketty. Keep breathing.

  My lungs are on fire. My throat is a fist of pain. I’m not thinking clearly. I need air. I need to breathe.

  Concentrate, Ketty. Focus.

  I’ve got one hand on his, my nails tearing at his skin, and with the other I’m searching the desktop for something I can use as a weapon. I can’t reach my gun, or his. I try to kick and twist against his grip, but I can’t move. He’s leaning over the desk, his whole body pinning mine.

  Fight!

  My throat is closing, I’m falling. I can’t feel the desk under me. All I can think about is taking a breath, and trying to cough and breathe and fight at the same time.

  One more breath.

  His face is red with fury, too close above my own as he leans his weight against my neck. He’s gritting his teeth and he’s looking at me, but he’s not seeing me.

  One more …

  He’s looking through me, his hand crushing my throat, and I’m suddenly sure he’s going to kill me. Everything else drops away. I’m vulnerable, I’m helpless, and I’m afraid. He’s pushed me to the worst place in the world, and I know there’s nothing I can do to stop him. I start throwing punches at his shoulders and head, but there’s no strength in my arms.

  There’s no air in my lungs.

  How did this happen so fast?

  You should have been ready, Ketty. You should have expected this.

  This is failure. Th
is is fear.

  I’m drowning. I’m blacking out. His hand is a bar across my neck, and I know I can’t fight this.

  I want to scream. I want to kick and punch and shout my way out of this, but there’s nothing left.

  … Iron fists and steel toe caps.

  … I’m falling into the dark.

  … Jackson …

  But then Bracken’s eyes seem to focus. He lets out a sob, and as suddenly as he attacked me, he stops. He loosens his hand and he steps back, away from the desk. I stay where I am for a moment, eyes closed, filling my lungs with air in ragged, ugly gasps.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  I can feel the desktop, hard and cold under my back.

  I can feel fire in my throat. Bruises blooming on my neck.

  My hands are shaking as I tug at the neck of my shirt, pulling at the buttons until I can breathe again.

  Bracken staggers back and drops into the chair, hands over his face. Slowly, I push myself up from the desktop until I’m leaning on the edge, propping myself up with my arms. There’s blood in my mouth, and my neck is a ring of bright bruises. Every breath makes a rasping sound in my throat.

  Breathe.

  He’s sitting, hunched over in the chair. The fight has gone out of him, and he’s crying, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

  I’m watching him, my hand on my neck as I drag fiery air through my bruised windpipe, and I try to feel something. Anger. Pity. Disgust.

  But there’s nothing. It’s as if he doesn’t matter any more.

  And I’m back in the kitchen, with Dad, the day I left for Camp Bishop. His drunken fury gone, the knife dropped on the table. His broken voice, begging me to stay.

  He doesn’t matter any more. He can’t protect me.

  And I know what to do.

  Barriers

  Bex

  I’m running, as fast as I can push myself in my armour. I’ve jammed my helmet on, and my visor is up as I burst through the doors at the bottom of the stairs. People are shouting behind me, but I’m not stopping, not now. I sprint through the archway, push past a security checkpoint, and out into Horse Guards Parade.

  There’s a wide open space in front of me, and it’s filled with people. People in PIN jackets with cameras and microphones. People in black T-shirts. Guards. Soldiers. I force myself to walk, cradling my gun. I need to look as if I’m supposed to be here.

  Above the heads of the people, there’s a wall of metal and black cloth cutting me off from the audience. I’m behind the stage.

  And the Judge is talking, his voice booming from the speakers. He’s reciting Margie’s crimes as if my speech hadn’t happened. And I realise that a few moments ago, that was my voice.

  And my face.

  I pull my visor down and touch the back of my glove to activate my radio, trying not to react to the sudden shouts in my ears.

  “Dan!” My voice cuts through the shouting, and everything falls silent. “Where are you?”

  “Bex!” He sounds breathless. “We’re in front of the stage. Where are you?”

  “Backstage.”

  “Can you get to the platform? Can you get to Margie?”

  I push my way forwards, past a group of PIN technicians.

  Someone steps aside to let me pass, and there’s a barrier in front of me. A chest-high metal fence, and on the other side are soldiers, guarding the back of the stage.

  I turn away, pushing out again through the crowd.

  “Not unless you want a suicide mission.”

  Turncoat

  Ketty

  I stand up, and the room spins around me. I walk round the desk, holding myself up with one hand. There’s a TV remote on the desktop, and I use it to bring up the PIN feed. I need to know what’s happening outside.

  But it’s Bex’s face on the screen. Bex, talking into a camera. She’s telling people about the Terrorism Committee, and she’s naming names.

  Holden, Lee, Bracken, Franks.

  They’re looking for Bracken.

  I need to get out. I need a way to walk out of here, before they work out who I am.

  I start pulling out drawers, throwing them onto the floor until I find what I’m looking for, trying to breathe without choking. I pick up a pair of scissors and test the blades with my fingers, then pull my camouflage shirt over my head and start cutting away the name tag on the front. I’m in a hurry, I’m still dizzy, but I force myself to focus. I keep it neat – I can’t have people seeing what’s missing. I still need to look like a soldier, out there.

  I have to stop to cough – violent, choking coughs that leave me sitting on the floor, leaning over, my head between my knees.

  Keep going. Keep protecting yourself.

  I cut the stitching around the flags on my sleeves, careful not to damage the fabric underneath. The Corporal stripes are next to go – I try to cut them off neatly, but it’s easier to slice the epaulets off completely. Two cuts at the top and bottom of the shoulders and I’m anonymous. I’m just a soldier in the crowd. I make sure the cuts are neat along the seams, and pull the shirt back on. I pull myself up on the desk until I’m standing again. I straighten my shirt, and check my belt for the handgun, still clasped in its holster.

  My breathing is getting easier. My throat feels full of flames, but I’m not choking any more. I give myself a few slow, deep, burning breaths, and turn back to Bracken.

  He hasn’t moved. He’s still sobbing, curled over and hiding his face in his hands. He looks small and weak, collapsed into himself in the chair.

  On the screen, Bex is urging people to fight. To turn their guns on us.

  She tells us that the world is ending.

  I touch my neck. I can still feel Bracken’s fingers gripping my throat, keeping the air from my lungs. I should say something. I should show him that he hasn’t broken me, he hasn’t beaten me. But he doesn’t matter. There’s nothing left to say.

  “I’m leaving now, Sir.” My voice is a rough croak, but I make myself heard. I watch him for a few seconds more, then I walk to the door. As I step out into the corridor, he starts to speak, but I don’t wait to hear what he has to say.

  Bex was right. His world is ending. I need to make sure that mine is not.

  Checkpoint

  Bex

  “Get to us, Bex. Get to the front of the stage. We’ve got a plan.”

  I look around. The backstage crowd is penned in on each side by more of the metal barriers, and there’s a walkway behind them that leads round the platform. I push my way through until I’m standing next to the barrier, and watch as two figures in RTS armour walk past, patrolling the perimeter. I glance up and down, but they’re the only people in the empty space.

  “I’m on my way.”

  I walk back to the archway, looking for the end of the barriers. Next to the buildings, where the walkway begins, there’s a guard. I stand back and wait for another patrol.

  There’s shouting behind me, muffled by the helmet. I risk a glance at the checkpoint I’ve just run through.

  There are guards, pushing through the checkpoint. Guards in black uniforms, gathering in the courtyard and clearing a passage through the crowd, towards the stage. And there’s a prisoner between them. Someone in an orange jumpsuit.

  Dan is shouting in my helmet, but I can’t let him distract me. I switch off my radio and watch, holding my breath as the guards walk into the courtyard. They’re bringing someone else to the execution.

  As they walk past, I see the prisoner’s face.

  It’s Dr Richards.

  Dr Richards, in handcuffs.

  And I know that this is my fault. I let her go, in the farmyard. I let the soldiers take her. I failed to save her, just like I failed to save Margie.

  And now the government is showing me what they can do.

  If I move now, we’ll both die. There are too many guards and too many people here for me to save her.

  And Dan needs my help.

  The guards walk past me, Dr Richards
held by her elbows between them.

  I take a breath. I’ve lost her again.

  Two more RTS kids walk past, through the space cleared by the guards, and up to the barrier in front of me. I step out, and fall in behind them, raising my hand to the guard as he lets us pass. The guard raises his hand back. He must assume I’m an instructor, patrolling with them.

  I don’t have time to think about it.

  Blocked

  Ketty

  I walk away from Bracken, down the stairs and out of the building. I head towards Whitehall, but my way through is blocked by a prison van, and a crowd of guards. I don’t know whose side they’re on, and I can’t risk finding out. I turn back, hiding my face with one hand, and walk through the archway.

  I take the backstage pass from my pocket and wave it at the guard, who lets me through into Horse Guard’s Parade.

  The voice of the trial Judge fills the space. PIN has taken back control of its live feed.

  Are we winning? Is the invasion over?

  My hands are shaking as I push the pass back into my pocket. I made a choice, in the conference room. I stepped away from the Home Forces, and I killed Brigadier Lee. If the Army has defeated the resistance, I’ll have to answer for that choice. If the resistance is winning, I need to disappear.

  This is dangerous, Ketty. Keep your head down.

  The backstage courtyard is crowded, and there are guards and soldiers everywhere. The easy route to freedom is behind me, and blocked. In front of me is the trial.

  And Bex.

  I need to find Bex. I need to fight my way out of this, and I need an ally.

  There’s shouting behind me, and I turn to see a group of prison guards, pushing their way through the crowd. I move away, slipping between someone in a PIN jacket and one of the stage hands, out of sight of the soldiers.

  They push the crowd back, clearing a path to the back of the stage.

  Escorting a prisoner.

  Margaret is already on the stage, and the Judge is reminding us of the injuries her attacks caused. He’s shouting about bombings and civilian casualties. I stand on tiptoes to see past the crowd. To catch a glimpse of the prisoner.