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 until 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 s
houting, 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 mind. 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.”
Reluctantly, I agree. As the commander leaves the room, I feel tears on my cheeks. I raise a hand and brush them away.
Get it together, Ketty.
*****
Jackson might be alive, but when they finally let me see him, he’s a mess. He’s lying, eyes closed, in a bed surrounded by machines. There’s a tube punched through his chest, draining blood and air into a bag. There are wires running from his body to the monitors, and there’s a breathing tube jutting from his mouth. Like me, he’s got tubes and needles in his arms.
I talked one of the nurses into bringing me here as soon as I could sit up, and he’s standing behind me, hands on my wheelchair as I watch Jackson from the corridor. Now that I’m here, I realise that I don’t want to see this, but I can’t look away.
Dan Pearce did this. Pearce and Ellman. And for what? Armour and guns they won’t have a chance to use against us, and two children who couldn’t learn to take care of themselves.
Come on, Jackson. You’re worth more than that. I need your iron fists. I need you to back me up.
He looks small and broken. Taped together and cocooned in machinery. I can’t see his eyes. His power, his energy – they’re gone. This stillness – this isn’t Jackson. He should be standing over me, mocking me for the bandage on my knee, the wheelchair, the nurse pushing me around. He should be reading my mind. Asking me what to do next. We should be planning our retaliation, not lying in hospital beds.
I hate this feeling of helplessness. I want to do something. I want to hurt the terrorists, like they hurt Jackson. I want to take someone important away from them. Leave someone else bleeding and weak and helpless.
“I’m done. Take me back.”
The nurse hesitates. “Are you sure? We’re not in the way here …”
I grab the wheels of the chair and start pushing myself away, ignoring the stabbing feeling from the needle in my arm every time I tense my muscles. There are dark bruises on my arms and my back from my fall on the coach, and dressings all over my hands and wrists from the windscreen glass. Everything pulses with pain as I shove the wheelchair forwards, but I keep moving. At least I can feel something.
“OK! OK. We’re going.” The nurse takes over, pushing me away from Jackson. Away from his empty shape in the bed.
I find I’m dashing tears from my eyes as we leave the ward and head back to my room.
*****
When we get there, Brigadier Lee is waiting.
Are you stalking me, Sir?
“Lead Recruit Ketty Smith,” he says, as I’m wheeled past him. “I hear you’re the hero of the hour!”
“Couldn’t say, Sir,” I manage, as the nurse tries to help me up into bed. I wave him away. I want to stay in my chair if the brigadier is here to talk. I don’t want to feel like a patient. I want to be able to look him in the eye.
“May I sit down?” Lee indicates the chair next to my bed.
“Of course. Please.”
The nurse wheels me round to sit next to him, checks my drip and the blanket over my knees, and makes sure I’m happy with my visitor before leaving us to talk.
Lee reaches down next to the chair and pulls up a bouquet of brightly coloured flowers. “I brought you these. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Thank you, Sir!” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice. I think this is
the first time anyone has ever bought me flowers. I take them from him, carefully. I’m not sure what to do with them.
Pull yourself together, Ketty. This is a professional visit. Handle it.
I take a deep breath, will my head to clear, and put the flowers gently down on the end of the bed.
“What can I do for you, Sir?” I ask, folding my hands in my lap, and sitting up as straight as my bruises will allow.
He leans back in his chair, watching me.
“How are you feeling, Lead Recruit? I gather the terrorists made a mess of your knee.” He indicates the bulge of the bandages under my blanket.
I shrug. “It could be worse, Sir. Bullet grazed the bone. I’ve got some torn ligaments, muscle damage – nothing I won’t recover from.”
He nods. “And your colleague?”
Use his name. He’s not dead yet.
“Jackson has a punctured lung, some smashed ribs, some other broken bones. He’s … not awake yet.”
“I’m sorry. As I understand it, that shouldn’t have happened.”
“No, Sir.”
He pauses for a moment, then continues.
“If you ask me, you shouldn’t have been in that position at all. A coach full of children, sent out to be attacked. I can’t even count the number of things that could go wrong.”
“No, Sir.”
“Was it Bracken’s idea?”
“HQ’s, I think. But Bracken approved it.”
“Did he protest the plan with HQ?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“And did he come with you? Share the risk?”
“No, Sir.” I shake my head.
He leans forward, towards me.
“You and Jackson should be very proud of yourselves. You protected a coach full of recruits this morning, and made sure the terrorists left with the tracked armour. You should be proud of yourself, for directing the rescue and recovery effort while dealing with your own bullet wound. The kids I’ve spoken to were clear that none of that would have happened without you.”
“Thank you, Sir, but I just did what needed to be done.”
He smiles. “And that’s why you’d be an asset to my team. Not many people could do what you did.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Are you promoting me, Sir?
False Flag (Battle Ground YA UK Dystopia Series Book 2) Page 16