Wanted (Flick Carter Book 1)

by Arnot, Tim

  Oh Crap!

  The torch must have gone out when she’d dropped it. Cold sweat tickled on her cheeks as it mingled with gritty chalk dust. She spat the chalk away from her mouth, coughing as she pulled in a lungful of the dusty air. A cascade of small stones rattled away, dislodged by her spasming chest muscles.

  Calm down; you’re still in one piece.

  She tried to move an arm and found, miraculously, that it came free from the stones quite easily. She felt about and started pushing aside the powdery rubble. It was only a thin layer of small stones; any big rocks must have dropped straight down as she fell back. She pushed them aside and worked herself up into a sitting position, shaking the last few pebbles from her hair, and wiping the grit away from her nose and mouth.

  ‘Felicity Anne Carter, if you want to see your seventeenth birthday, you should be more careful!’ She imagined her mother scolding her.

  ‘Love you, mum,’ she whispered back to the darkness.

  Flick felt her way back through the passage to the shaft, where a dim grey light filtered down. The flints she had already gathered were in a neat pile near the foot of the ladder, and she transferred them to the basket ready to be pulled up and loaded into the panniers on her bicycle.

  I’m not doing that again in a hurry!

  She brushed the worst of the chalk dust from her leathers and hair. Once she’d let her heart rate get down to something approaching normal, she climbed onto her bike and pedalled off, wobbling slightly. After some minutes she came to the lumps and bumps that made up the earthworks of an ancient fortification and stopped for breath. This was the highest point for miles around and the view was breathtaking. Complex shadows played over the short grass, which rippled in the breeze, but today she couldn’t appreciate beauty of it. She shivered, banging her arms together against the cold, slapping the leather of her jacket, and sending more chalk dust into the air. The sun had gone, hidden behind clouds that were scudding in from the west. More rain would be coming soon and it was best to be off the ridge when it did.

  Time to go.

  She kicked off along the track that would take her down the side of a steep valley to the lane leading back into town. As her bike got up speed, a ray of sunlight blasted its way through the clouds, striking the hillside opposite and lighting up the giant horse carved into it a brilliant white.

  At the bottom of the hill, something caught her eye, snagged in the branches of a tree and flapping in the wind like a big black flag. She stopped and stared at it for a moment before deciding to set off across the field to investigate, cutting a trail through the long meadow grass. She wasn’t a Scav–far from it–but that didn’t mean she wasn’t above the odd bit of illegal scavenging when the opportunity arose. After all, whatever it was could be valuable.

  Twisted metal poles thick like scaffolding hung from the tree, caught up in pieces of fabric and rope. Higher up in the canopy there was more of the shiny black fabric that had originally caught her eye. Close up she could see that the fabric itself wasn’t black, but it was covered in hundreds of small black glinting squares joined by tiny brown strings. But how on earth did it get up there? That was a mystery.

  On the ground was more mangled wreckage. A small two-seat three-wheeled buggy had bits of broken tree lodged in its twisted and scratched up tubing. If there had been anyone driving it, they were long gone; hers were the only tracks through the long grass. It almost looked as if it had fallen through the trees. That was another mystery.

  She walked around the contraption, tugging at it. Some of the poles dislodged from the tree. They were surprisingly lightweight, not steel or iron–something else–but far too big and awkward to do anything with. Then she spotted something in the grass a little way away. It was a small box. She picked it up. It was quite heavy, but fitted comfortably in her hand. There were small knobs and a big, bendy rubber stick on one end. On one side was a clip, possibly designed for a belt. She shook the box; it didn’t rattle. Shrugging, it went into her bag; she could figure out what it was later.

  In her mind, Flick was already calculating what the wreckage could be worth. The poles could go to Dad in the forge, along with the carcass of the buggy: metal was always valuable even if it wasn’t steel or iron. The seats and wheels would be good for trade. The fabric sheeting with the strange black squares? Well, it would come in for something.

  It would take several trips to transport the wreckage back to town if she did it on her own, and she’d have to come back with a trailer, or maybe a wagon. She could always get help–Adam would do it, or Joe possibly, but she’d have to swear them to secrecy and share whatever money they got for it.

  She pulled the rest of the black shiny fabric down from the tree. It was too visible from up on the hills–that was how she’d spotted it herself–and the wreckage would need to be hidden while she made multiple trips to the town.

  Another movement caught her eye, over towards the trees at the far edge of the field. She looked across, and could see something red in the grass. As she ran towards it, it became obvious what it was; wearing strange red clothes and a leather helmet, it was a body.

  The body lay face down, as if it had been crawling away from the wreckage. It wore one-piece overalls made from some sort of red fabric, smeared with grass stains, and a hat made of leather that completely covered the back of its head. Flick looked at it for a moment, wondering what to do, then nudged it with her foot.

  The body made a low groaning noise. She nudged it again, and it groaned again. Then it moved.

  Flick jumped back in alarm, wishing now that she’d brought the bow and arrows from her bike, but glad she at least had a knife in her belt.

  She waved the knife in the general direction of the body. ‘You okay?’

  The body moved its arms as if trying to push itself up.

  ‘No sudden movements; I’ve got a knife,’ Flick said.

  The body worked itself over onto its back. It was a boy, a few years older than Flick, with dark hair poking out from the edges of his leather hat, and the beginnings of what might one day become a proper beard. There was a big bruise under one eye.

  He looked up, obviously trying to focus, His eyes settled on the knife and he shrank back, but as he moved he cried out in pain.

  ‘You’re hurt,’ Flick said, putting the knife back in her belt and kneeling. ‘What happened?’ The thoughts of salvage evaporated from her mind.

  The boy didn’t answer, his eyes were wide with fear.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,’ Flick said. She held her hands up. ‘See?’

  When he saw she wasn’t going to attack, he calmed down a bit. ‘Leg… can’t move…’ he said, pausing between words as if the effort of talking was too much.

  His voice was thickly accented, and Flick struggled to understand what he was saying, but she smiled at the boy. ‘I’m going to help you,’ she said, and thinking if I can. She looked him up and down. Nothing seemed obviously broken, but under all that clothing it was hard to tell. ‘I’m going to have to touch you,’ she said. ‘It might hurt a lot. Do you understand?’

  The boy nodded.

  She knelt down and put a hand gently onto his leg, feeling carefully up and down one leg then the other. The boy winced, but didn’t cry out. She couldn’t help but notice how firm his muscles felt.

  ‘Well, you still have two legs and nothing obviously sticking out sideways,’ she told him. ‘I don’t think it’s broken.’ Her hand moved up to his thick muscular chest and the boy winced again. In other circumstances… She caught herself. Stop it!

  She held up a finger in front of his face and moved it from side to side, watching his eyes as they followed it. Then she pulled off his leather cap and gingerly felt around his head.

  ‘Your head seems okay too, but I’m no doctor. I can go and find you one, but it’ll take several hours, and he’ll want paying in advance…’

  ‘No… doctor,’ he managed.

  ‘Let’s at least fin
d you somewhere to rest up. I suppose you crashed that contraption that’s wrapped around the tree. Going too fast, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Flick said. ‘Can you walk?’

  He tried to get up, but cried out and flopped back down.

  ‘I guess that’s a no. Let me give you a hand then.’

  The boy looked at her warily.

  ‘There’s an old cottage through those trees,’ Flick said, pointing. ‘We’ll take it slow and steady, it shouldn’t take long. There’s still a roof on it, though it’s a bit rickety, but it’s dry and out of the weather. I used to play there sometimes when I was a girl.’

  With her help he eventually managed to stand on one leg, his arm held tightly over Flick’s shoulder. Flick held his arm tight with one hand and wrapped her other arm around his chest, and they started off, slowly and carefully, into the trees.

  ‘I… thought you were a ghost,’ he said as they walked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A figure in white.’

  Flick looked down, her leathers still had some of the chalk dust on them from earlier, and it clicked. ‘I had a little accident in a chalk pit,’ she said, laughing, ‘but it was nothing serious. Got covered in chalk dust though.’

  They continued in silence for a while.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Flick said after a while.

  ‘What question?’

  ‘What happened.’

  ‘Crashed,’ he said.

  They walked a bit further, but he said nothing else.

  ‘I suppose you’re not going to tell me, and I won’t press,’ she said after a while. ‘But you don’t look like a Kingsman or a Scav, though your clothes are a bit strange.’

  He became quite agitated at that. ‘No Kingsmen…’ he managed.

  ‘No Kingsmen,’ Flick said quickly, and he relaxed. Another mystery, she thought. Why should he be so upset at the mention of Kingsmen; was he in trouble?

  They pushed on, and after several stops to rest, they came to the derelict cottage. It had no door and the windows were empty, but the roof was still attached, even though it sagged alarmingly in the middle. Ivy covered large sections of the walls, almost hiding it among the trees. They went inside and Flick helped him down to the floor.

  ‘Shea,’ the stranger said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Name. Shea.’

  ‘Oh. Flick. Pleased to meet you,’ said Flick, shaking his hand formally.

  ‘I come in pieces,’ Shea said, and passed out.

  After checking that the boy was okay, Flick went back to her bike and grabbed the bread and a metal water bottle she had stashed in the panniers. Ok, so the bottle held small beer rather than water, but it’d do. She spied the small black box that she’d picked up earlier and her hand lingered over it, but she left it where it was. Then she turned her attention to the wreck. The sail: she rolled that up. It would be useful as a tarpaulin or to cover the ground. She looked around quickly to see if there was anything else of use. A leather bag containing an empty water bottle and some folded blue plastic sheet. And that was it.

  She returned to the cottage with her spoils. Shea opened his eyes as she entered the room. ‘Still here? How are you doing?’ she asked. His face was still pale, but he managed a slight grin. She set down the bread and bottle beside him. ‘Good. Last trip. Won’t be long.’

  This time she went in the opposite direction, towards the stream that ran past the abandoned village. She collected small branches and twigs that she could use for a fire. At one tree she pulled out her knife and scraped off some bark. She put this separately into her leather bag.

  Under the trees it was getting quite dark, and Flick felt the first drops of rain. She hurried back to the cottage. Once inside, she built up the twigs on the hearth, and quickly had a cosy little fire going. She sat back against the wall, watching the flames. Shea was asleep.

  Flick wanted to wait until the rain had passed, but she was needed back at the inn, where Maggie was preparing dinner and waiting for the meat she’d promised to bring. No chance of that; home was still an hour’s cycle away, and the town gates would be locked at dusk.

  ‘I’ll come back when I can,’ she said to the air, and left.

  5

  A Scav on the Loose

  FLICK CYCLED ALONG the rough track until it reached the narrow, overgrown lane that led back to town. Woods eventually gave way to more open ground, and there were patches of tarmac visible where the dirt had been worn away or blown by the wind. Once or twice tree roots crossed the track, forcing Flick to dismount and push her bike around them. After passing under the old railway bridge, the lane started to get better. Here and there grassy banks ran alongside, and clumps of daffodils glowed yellow in the early dusk light. Sometimes there were low stone walls or rusted iron posts, signs that there had been houses and farms and stables at one time. It had never been a major road, and now only led to the old railway line and the ancient ridgeway. Flick was one of the few people that still used it. After a while the lane crossed the wide clear area that surrounded the town.

  The gate was shut as Flick approached. Her heart quickened. Had she missed the curfew? She didn’t relish the thought of a night stuck outside in the wild. If she banged hard enough on the gate, would anyone let her in, she wondered. Just then two green tin hats popped up above the gate, and Flick stopped. If there were heads under the hats, it was hard to tell, but at least the gate was still manned.

  ‘What’s for supper then, sis?’ one of the hats yelled.

  Flick groaned. Adam. ‘What are you doing out on the gate?’ she yelled back. She ought to be grateful; she wouldn’t be locked out with her younger brother on the gate, but even so, he shouldn’t be there. ‘Adam Carter, you’re not in the Watch yet. Just you get home before Dad catches you. You know you shouldn’t be out after curfew.’

  ‘And nor should you,’ Adam shouted back.

  Fair point.

  She dismounted as the gate opened, and pushed the bike through. ‘Evening, Fred,’ she smiled at the other guard, who grinned back.

  ‘Evening, Miss. You’re just in time; we was about to lock the gates for the night,’ he replied.

  ‘Thanks Fred,’ said Flick. ‘There’s a pint for you at The Crown tonight.’ She knew that it must be after curfew and the gate should already have been locked.

  Fred looked at her bike. ‘No luck with the coneys then?’

  For a second, Flick was confused. Then she remembered the brief exchange on her way out. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No luck today. Maybe another time.’

  Adam walked beside Flick as they crossed the grassy field going down into the town. ‘You should have been home hours ago,’ he said. ‘Dad’ll be worried.’

  ‘Dad probably hasn’t even noticed; you know what he’s like these days,’ Flick replied, ‘but Maggie is probably going spare in the kitchen.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘There was a rock fall down in the chalk pit and I got plastered with rubble. Had to dig myself out,’ Flick said matter-of-factly. She was careful not to mention Shea or the wreckage, although she didn’t know quite why.

  ‘You really should be more careful. One day you’ll go down that mine and never come out…’ Adam said.

  ‘Like you care!’

  ‘I’m only thinking of Rosie…’ Adam said in a hurt voice.

  ‘You’re only thinking of Adam,’ Flick replied.

  They stopped beside the football pitch to watch a group of lads playing five-a-side. After the ball had been up and down the pitch a few times, one of the boys missed a pass and the ball sailed off the pitch in Flick’s direction.

  ‘Here, hold this.’ Flick passed the bike to Adam and trotted off after the ball. As she came back to the pitch with it, one of the boys ran over.

  ‘Chuck it back!’ he panted, stopping about ten feet away. His short dark hair glistened, and he was sweaty from running about. His features had a hint of Afro-Caribbean about them, and although not actually fat, he ha
d the look of someone well fed.

  ‘Joe.’ Adam nodded.

  ‘Adam.’ Joe nodded back. ‘Come on, Flick’ He had both hands out and gestured towards himself with his fingers.

  Flick smiled, but kept hold of the ball. ‘You have to kiss me for it, Joe Griffin,’ she said.

  ‘Not in front of me mates,’ Joe said, his face turning bright red.

  ‘I can’t watch,’ muttered Adam, turning away.

  ‘Or tell me what your dad is doing with all those men,’ Flick said, planting her feet firmly apart and tossing the ball from hand to hand. At least I’ll have something to tell Maggie, she thought.

  ‘Men?’ Joe said, sounding confused. Then he twigged. ‘Oh, the Estate Workers. Yeah, he’s been hiring. Don’t seem to do much work though, just a lot of running around and shouting.’

  Flick wanted to ask more, but Joe darted in, grabbed the ball and ran back onto the pitch, amid shouts and wolf whistles from his fellow players.

  Still, it was something. She sighed. ‘What is it with boys?’

  Adam just shrugged. He remained silent as they continued the walk back to the inn. Eventually Flick broke the silence.

  ‘So you’re really going to join the Watch then?’

  Adam thought for a moment. ‘I reckon. It’s steady work, and it’s a lot safer these days, despite what they say. I was on the wall most of this afternoon and there were just two wagons went past.’

  ‘Yeah, but you were on the south gate, and that’s always quiet,’ said Flick.

  ‘True enough but I’ve been chatting to Fred and he knows all the stuff and that, and he reckons I’ll get in, no trouble.’

  ‘We’re going to be short at the inn you know.’

  Adam didn’t answer. They crossed the last street and walked across the town square, pausing to look at the notice board nailed outside the small pillared town hall. The list of wanted criminals was new since this morning.