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

by Rachel Churcher

  *****

  We crowd onto the bed, wrapping ourselves in duvets and blankets, leaning on each others’ shoulders and knees. And we watch movies.

  There’s an argument, at first, but Dan’s the only one who wants to watch anything violent, so we end up watching dreadful RomComs and kids’ movies, Dan groaning through every predictable plot twist, and Margie poking him in the ribs when he complains too loudly.

  It’s wonderful.

  Amy is upset that Jake refused to join us, but she sits back and lets herself get caught up in the romance.

  When Charlie and Maz find us after lunch, we’re sitting on the floor, surrounded by pizza boxes and huge bags of crisps, arguing over the next film.

  Dan grabs the remote, and starts scrolling through the options.

  “Back me up here, Maz,” he says. “I’ve been watching chick flicks all morning.”

  Maz shrugs. “You’re outnumbered, mate. Sometimes you’ve just got to go with the majority.” Charlie grins, and gives Maz a kiss on the cheek.

  Margie checks her watch. “Isn’t Fiona on TV today?” She takes the remote from Dan, and switches back to the TV listings.

  She scrolls through to the news channel – what used to be PIN. It’s strange to be in London, watching news coverage without the PIN logo.

  The newsreader runs through the headlines, and there’s Fiona. She’s shaking hands with her opponent, smiling at the woman who sent us to Camp Bishop. They stand together on a platform, and announce the beginning of the election campaign.

  “So she’s the candidate, then.” Dan sighs. “It’s official.”

  “It’s not as if there was ever any doubt.” I think about Fiona in Scotland, running the OIE committee. “She always wanted the top job.”

  “And she’s going to get it.” Maz shakes his head. “The other party doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “Good.”

  And then it’s my face on the screen, and Dan’s. Footage from Horse Guards Parade. Of Margie, on the platform. Dan, crouching over her. Will, throwing himself in front of the bullets. Me, pumping bullets into the firing squad, every shot as accurate as my practice rounds on the firing range.

  Fiona’s using us in her speech.

  I can’t watch. I feel sick, watching everything happen again. Watching her use us for her campaign.

  “Oh, she’s so winning this.” Maz sounds impressed. “Who wouldn’t vote for you guys?”

  Maz is right. We’re winning this for Fiona. She’s using footage of people dying – footage of me, taking their lives – to put herself in power.

  And the voters will love it.

  I close my eyes and hide my face in my hands.

  “This is never going to stop, is it?”

  Hospital

  Ketty

  “Paperwork’s being approved, Smith.” The prison guard smiles. “You’re getting out of here.”

  She hands me a sealed plastic bag. My wallet. My watch. My painkillers.

  I stare at the bag. At everything I had in my pockets on my last day in the Home Forces.

  And I’m falling again.

  Everything’s changed. Everything is different. There’s been a revolution, and I’m a piece of the past. I don’t fit in this new world.

  I turn the bag over in my hands.

  My ID card. My backstage pass. They used to represent power and entitlement, and now they’re meaningless. The Home Forces is disbanded, and we’re all in prison, or in hiding.

  But Fiona Price wants me to work for her. Fiona Price is arranging my freedom.

  I shake my head.

  This is real, Ketty. This is happening.

  “Thank you,” I say to the guard.

  She smiles again. “Good luck, Katrina,” she says.

  *****

  Two nurses help me to move from my bed to the gurney, hooking my morphine drip to the frame and making sure my knee doesn’t twist in its plastic brace. The prison guard puts my boots and my folded clothes next to my feet, and the nurse hands me a folder.

  “Medical notes. Make sure you pass them on to the hospital.”

  I nod, and thank her.

  The guard and the nurse push me out of the curtained bay, and into the corridor.

  And that’s when the anger hits me.

  I walked myself in here. I refused to let them drag me from my holding cell, and I refused to show them fear. I held my head high, and I followed their rules. I did not let them break me.

  But I can’t walk myself out.

  It doesn’t matter what I did – what I pushed myself to do. Standing tall when they came to take me away. Folding my clothes when they took them from me. Using the interrogation room. Taking control of my humiliations.

  None of it matters. My knee is smashed again. I’m broken, and powerless, and they’re pushing me to freedom on a gurney.

  My fists are clenched as they wheel me through security gates, and out into the rain.

  There’s an ambulance waiting, and the medics load the gurney inside.

  “Stay stubborn, Katrina,” says the nurse, quietly, her hand on my arm. “You’ll get through this.”

  There are hot tears on my face as she walks away.

  Keep it together, Ketty.

  You’re free.

  *****

  “So you were Home Forces?” The nurse checks my morphine drip, and tucks the hospital blanket round my knee.

  I nod. He’s wearing fatigues, but I don’t recognise the flag on his sleeve. His English is good, but he has a strong accent.

  They must have arrested the military hospital staff, as well as the rest of us. I’m being treated by the coalition.

  “And they’re letting you out?” I nod again. “You must be the only Home Forces member who isn’t behind bars.” He looks at me. “What’s so special about you, Katrina Smith?”

  I wish I knew.

  “Good behaviour?”

  He laughs, and points at my knee. “It’s either very good behaviour, or very bad. Your notes say this wasn’t an accident.”

  I shrug.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Are you comfortable? Is there anything you need?” I shake my head. “TV remote is here, water is here. Your clothes and belongings are in the cupboard.”

  “Thank you,” I say, as he walks away.

  What I need is Fiona. I need to know what I’m doing here.

  *****

  The room is small, but it’s larger than my bay at the prison.

  And it’s mine. One bed.

  White walls, blue high-grip floor, institutional furniture, and a large window with a view of the grey sky.

  I sit back against the pillows.

  No more interrogations. No more handcuffs. No more cellmates. No more watching my back.

  Now I just have to learn to walk again. And keep Fiona happy.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  I pick up the TV remote, and start scrolling through the channels.

  *****

  It’s Fiona. Fiona, on what used to be PIN, shaking hands with the woman who used to be Prime Minister.

  They’re announcing the elections. They’re announcing the start of the campaign.

  I watch as Fiona makes her speech, praising the bravery of the resistance fighters. Praising Bex, and Dan. Making sure we all know that the Face of the Resistance is working with her.

  She’s praising my recruits. The kids I’ve been hunting since they broke out of Camp Bishop.

  And now we’re on the same side?

  I shake my head. This isn’t making sense.

  What does she want from you, Ketty?

  *****

  “Miss Smith?”

  I switch off the TV and turn towards the door. A tall woman in a khaki t-shirt and camouflage trousers is waiting in the corridor.

  “I’m Dr Hayes. Battlefield Medicine. Can I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  She walks over to me and shakes my hand, smiling, then looks dow
n at the blanket covering my knee. There’s a Dutch flag on her sleeve, but there’s no trace of an accent in her voice.

  “Can I take a look?”

  I nod, and pull back the blanket. She takes a pair of surgical gloves from her pocket, pulls them on, and starts to peel back the bandages.

  “There’s a lot of scarring here.” She looks at me. “And your notes say the kneecap is broken.” I nod. “How’s the pain?”

  I lift my arm, tilting the needle towards her. “Morphine,” I say, as if that explains everything.

  She nods. “I’m going to put some pressure on it. Tell me if the pain gets too bad.”

  She pokes and prods, and I can feel the bones, scraping. I close my eyes, clenching my fists and digging my nails into the palms of my hands.

  “Does this …?”

  “Yeah. That hurts.”

  “OK,” she says, tucking the bandages back into place and peeling her gloves off. “That’s a lot of damage. But I think we can help. How soon do you need to be walking?”

  I realise I have no idea. I don’t know what Fiona has planned for me. Is she expecting me to stay here? Does she need me with her, or can she keep me in a hospital bed, ready to answer whatever questions she comes up with?

  I don’t want to stay here. I want to be on my feet. I don’t want to be helpless and broken for a minute longer than I need to be.

  And she’s not asking Fiona. She’s asking me.

  “As soon as possible.”

  Dr Hayes smiles.

  *****

  When she comes back, there’s a box under her arm.

  Plain cardboard. Serial number. And an icon of a running figure.

  For a moment, I can’t breathe. I can’t believe what she’s bringing me.

  It’s a PowerGel.

  She smiles, and puts the box on the table.

  “Fiona Price asked me to give you this. Don’t get too excited – these take a lot of getting used to. But we should have you walking with crutches by the end of the week.”

  She opens the box, and pulls out the white gel and the black fabric.

  “This is going to feel weird when I first put it on, but …”

  “I know.” She looks at me, taking in the smile on my face, and raises an eyebrow.

  “I’ve used one before.” I point at my knee. “The first time. For the bullet wound.”

  She nods. “Well, then, you know two things. One – that it will stabilise the knee, and block the pain. And two – that when you take it off, you’re going to need the morphine.”

  *****

  By the time Fiona arrives, I’m out of bed, and I’m dressed in my fatigues. The swelling means there’s a limit to how far I can bend my knee, but I’ve walked end to end of the corridor on my own, and I’ve refused to use the crutches the nurse brought for me.

  It’s harder this time, because of the broken bones, and I’m limping. No obstacle courses for me today.

  But I’m walking.

  The pain-killing cold of the gel sinks into the joint, and the fabric wrap keeps my leg from buckling. I’m off the morphine drip, and I’m out of my room.

  I remember how to do this.

  “So you’re ready?”

  I turn to find Fiona watching me as I limp towards the nurses’ station.

  I can’t help grinning.

  *****

  “You’re going to be my assistant, Katrina. And you’re going to bring me Major General Franks.”

  I stare at her. She’s sitting on the chair in my room, and I’m propped up on my pillows. I’m resting my leg in front of me on the bed, the bulge of the PowerGel circling my knee under my uniform.

  “You don’t have Franks?”

  “Oh, we have her.” Fiona smiles. “She’s in one of your special cells, at Belmarsh.”

  “Then why do you need me?”

  “Because she’s not talking.”

  Of course she’s not.

  Lee’s dead. Bracken’s dead. Her plan to distance herself from the Terrorism Committee is working.

  “So you want me to do … what, exactly?”

  “To start with? I want you to walk with me, into her interrogation room.” She leans towards me. “I think she’s counting on no one knowing what she did. I’ve researched the Terrorism Committee. Franks created it, then walked away. She’s supposed to look innocent of all the plots and the bombings.”

  I nod, slowly. Brigadier Lee was supposed to take the blame. If anything happened, all the attention was supposed to be on him.

  But I shot Lee. I killed him, in the conference room.

  And now he can’t protect Franks.

  “So you want her to see my face? You want her to know that I’m working with you?”

  She nods. “I think you know exactly what she did. I think you know exactly what the Terrorism Committee did. And I think she knows that. I think you can make her talk.”

  I think about opening the cells at Belmarsh. About cutting the patches from my uniform.

  About choosing a side.

  I left Franks behind when I killed Lee. When I took Bex to Belmarsh.

  When I accepted Fiona’s offer.

  And now I’m going up against the Head of the Home Forces.

  I have no right to be here. No right to be free. And I have no right to a PowerGel, and a bed in a military hospital.

  But here I am. This is where Fiona has put me. This is what she wants from me.

  And this is what I’m good at.

  It feels like finding land under my feet, after weeks of swimming out of my depth.

  It feels like safety, for the first time since I came to London.

  You can do this, Ketty.

  I smile at Fiona. “I think so, too.”

  TV

  Bex

  “So tell me what happened when you arrived at Camp Bishop.”

  We’ve been asked this question so many times. Dan and I can answer it without thinking, each of us taking a piece of the story, but this time we have to remember to let Jake and Amy talk as well.

  The interviewer is a famous journalist. He’s been working in the US since the government stepped down and the Home Forces took power, and this is his first appearance in the UK since the revolution.

  They’re expecting a record-breaking audience for this interview. And they’re broadcasting live.

  We’re all here, sitting round a glass-topped table, surrounded by green screens and cameras. I’m sitting between Mum and Dan. Margie’s next to him, then Jake, Amy, and Charlie. And Fiona, sitting on the other side of the interviewer, waiting for her chance to take credit for saving us.

  We’re all in our smartest suits, and we’ve all sat through the attentions of the hair and makeup crew. I have to keep stopping myself from touching my hair. I feel ridiculous sitting here, my hair full of hairspray and my face coated in makeup, while we talk about life in the RTS.

  “And I know that life wasn’t easy, during your training. You experienced bullying, and some physical abuse.”

  Dan looks at me, and I nod. This is always my question. This is the story I get to tell.

  “The Senior Recruits had a lot of power,” I say, thinking about Ketty. “They used intimidation and punishment to make sure we behaved.”

  “And what form did this punishment take?” The interviewer’s face is a mask of concern.

  I force myself to meet his eyes. “They didn’t like us working together. They didn’t like anyone trying to form a team. I helped these guys,” I point along the table. Amy smiles, and Jake rolls his eyes. “And I helped our friend, when he injured himself on a run. The Senior Recruits didn’t like it.”

  It’s like reciting lines from a play. We’ve told this story so many times, I barely have to think about it.

  “What did they do?”

  “They grabbed me. One night after dinner. They dragged me outside the fence, and they held me down and punched me.” I close my eyes. I can see Jackson, his fists pounding into my ribs. Ketty, p
ushing my arms into the mud. I can feel each blow, forcing the air from my lungs.

  There are some things I can’t forget.

  “And did the Commander know about this?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. If he did, he didn’t care. He didn’t stop it.”

  I can see Saunders, slumped on the grass outside the gate. The guards, refusing to let us in. Ketty, telling them to leave us there. I can feel the rain, soaking our base layers. Saunders’ sobs, as we waited for help.

  The interviewer asks about Leominster, and Margie, piecing together the events that led to our escape. I tell him again what I saw in Leominster. The abandoned cars, the lost belongings. Ketty and Jackson, laughing.

  “So you stole a truck?”

  We all look at Charlie, and she explains how she got us out of camp.

  I glance at Jake, and he’s staring at the table. His arms are folded across his chest, and he’s the only person leaning back in his chair.

  “So you broke the Face of the Resistance out of Camp Bishop?” The interviewer smiles at Charlie, and she shakes her head.

  “I might have been driving the truck, but it was Bex who got everyone out.”

  The interviewer turns to me, but I’m too busy watching Jake.

  I see his expression change as he turns to Charlie. His crashes his fist onto the table, and Fiona gasps.

  I can’t help rolling my eyes.

  “That’s such bullshit, Charlie,” he shouts. The interviewer looks surprised, and opens his mouth to ask another question, but Jake isn’t finished. “You left me there. Me, and Amy. You know you did. And you left me with a gun to my head.”

  I should be expecting this. Jake, making his point on live TV.

  But he’s disrupting our story. He’s making this all about him.

  And he’s shouting at Charlie.

  Charlie nods. “That’s true, Jake, and I’m sorry. There’s nothing we could have done.”

  “You could have stopped!” His face is red, and twisted with anger. Amy puts her hand on his arm, but he pushes her away. He points at Charlie. “Have you ever had a gun to your head? A loaded, powered-up rifle, pressed against your skull? Someone’s arm, locked round your throat?” She gives him a sympathetic look, but she doesn’t answer. “Didn’t think so,” he says, quietly.