Wanted (Flick Carter Book 1)

by Arnot, Tim

  Smoke and Flames

  FLICK RAN. TREE branches whipped at her face and arms, stinging, unseen in the blackness. Something snagged at her feet, a tree root, sending her sprawling.

  ‘Keep going!’ Shea yelled, pulling her back to her feet. She glanced back, the shouts and flicker of burning torches were getting closer. Dogs barked and snarled. Shots rang out.

  She ran again, pushing through the tangled undergrowth, ignoring the pain, thinking only, ‘They mustn’t catch us; they mustn’t catch us!’

  A voice behind her, silky smooth, ‘Felicity, stop, we only want to talk…’ sounded like Mayor Griffin, but she didn’t dare stop. Loud bangs came from somewhere behind.

  There was a scream. Rosie! She was leaning out of a window, waving frantically.

  ‘The cottage! Quick!’ Flick called, and grabbed Shea’s hand, pulling him towards the open front door.

  Inside, they slammed and bolted the door. The one downstairs room was empty, but the sound of Rosie screaming came from above. Now someone was banging on the door and shouting, ‘Open up!’

  ‘Quick, upstairs!’ she called, and they rushed up the stairs and through the door on the landing. Rosie was at the window, still with her head sticking out and screaming.

  ‘Ro, its all right, we’re here! Come away from the window!’ Flick yelled.

  Rosie pulled her head back into the room, but when she turned around, it was Mayor Griffin. ‘I warned you what would happen if you disobeyed me,’ he said, laughing menacingly.

  Flick rushed back to the door, but it wouldn’t open. There was a crash of breaking glass, and the smell of smoke. She turned back into the room, but it was empty; Rosie was gone; Shea was gone; there was just her, alone. The smoke was thicker, it stung her eyes and made her cough. The floor and walls were getting hot; flames started licking around the edges of the open window. Now smoke was pouring in through the landing door. The window was a wall of flame. She was trapped. She screamed.

  Flick coughed. She opened her eyes but they stung from the smoke. There was a reddish-orange glow coming through the window, giving her bedroom a strange foggy quality, as if she were looking over a sea of mist, only on the ceiling. It flickered. She coughed again. It was the smoke. But the smoke was in my dream… It took her a moment to realise that she wasn’t dreaming, that the smoke was real.

  Fire!

  ‘Fire!’ she yelled at the top of her lungs, and instantly collapsed into fits of coughing.

  She pulled herself out of her bed and wrapped her dressing gown around herself.

  Get Rosie and get out, that’s what she needed to do.

  Still coughing she opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

  The smoke was much thicker out here, and quite black. Flick had to drop to her knees to keep out of it as much as she could. Here and there she could see yellow flames in the walls and the ceiling, which roared and fizzed and popped in a most alarming way. For a moment she just stood there, stunned, not knowing what to do. Her heart thumped in her chest, her eyes were streaming from the dense smoke billowing along the ceiling, and the smell of burning made her gag.

  There was a big crash further down the passageway that sounded like the ceiling collapsing. She felt waves of heat and dust and bits of plaster wafting over her, pushed along the passageway like it was a giant bellows. No way out that way!

  Flick dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to the next door along. This was Rosie’s room. Her eyes stung and she was coughing, but she had to get Rosie out. She reached the door, and stretched her hand up to the handle.

  ‘Rosie!’ she screamed. She tried to open the door, but it was jammed shut. She could turn the handle but it felt hot to the touch, and the door wouldn’t budge. She tried to push it, stretching across the passage, but it was no good; Rosie must have bolted the door–just like Flick had told her to do. She pummelled against the wood, and shouted hysterically, ‘Rosie! Rosie! Wake up!’

  The door didn’t budge.

  A big lump of plaster fell from the ceiling with a crash, showering more dust and sparks. Tongues of yellow showed where it had been, and burning laths crackled and sputtered. She felt tiny pinpricks of pain where the sparks touched her face and hands. The pile of debris was between Flick and her own bedroom door; there was now fire on both sides of her. Another part of the ceiling dislodged in a shower of sparks and several timbers followed. One hit Flick on the arm, sending her sprawling and catching her dressing gown alight. She screamed and started patting it down frantically. Smoke and dust billowed around, making her gag and cough. She doubled over, pushing through the pile of smouldering plaster and laths to get back to her room, barely noticing the pain and heat, and finally slamming the door shut behind her.

  She rolled around on the floor, putting out the last smouldering embers on her dressing gown and lay there on the floor, panting. Now the smell of burnt hair hit her nostrils, and she realised, with alarm, that it was hers. She retched. The air was clearer in here than in the passage, even with the burnt hair and sick, but her room was still filling with smoke, and the fire was only just outside her door, and already she could see black around the edges of it. The stinging in her eyes had become intense, and they threatened to close. If she let that happen, she’d never be able to open them again, and that would be it. She let out a tiny sob.

  It was much quieter with the door shut, but there was an ominous popping and creaking coming from the ceiling. She thought it might collapse at any moment. She looked up. The layer of smoke was much denser now, and lower too; she could see that much from the glow coming through the window.

  The window.

  She struggled to her feet and pushed it open. Fresh air rushed in and smoke rushed out. Flick stuck her head out and breathed clean fresh air. Her eyes started to feel better.

  It was too high up to jump to the ground, but there was a wide ledge outside, and if she was careful she could work her way around the edge of the building to the stable block, from where she could shin down the drain pipe. She’d snuck out that way several times as a child when she’d wanted to go out without her parents knowing. And there was a chance she could get to Rosie’s room by the window, or maybe Rosie had already got out the same way.

  Flick climbed out onto the ledge. The air seemed fresh and clean outside and she breathed it in deeply, gaining fresh energy. Then she started working her way carefully along. She looked back; smoke was pouring out of her window. The next window was Rosie’s. It was shut. She peered in as she edged past but it was dark, covered in soot maybe. She thought she could make out orange flames inside. No!

  She banged on the glass, hoping to see Rosie’s face appear, but there was nothing. Could she break in? She tried to pull the window open, holding on to the sill with one hand and getting her fingers under the frame with the other, but it wouldn’t budge, and she wobbled alarmingly. There was nothing she could use to break the glass with, so she tried using her fist rolled up in the sleeve of her dressing gown.

  ‘Rosie!’ she screamed frantically as she punched at the glass again and again, but the panes were too small and she couldn’t put enough weight into the punch and they didn’t break.

  ‘No!’ she sobbed, leaning her face against the glass, and banging on it again with her hand. She peered inside but she could only see smoke.

  Come on Flick, save yourself.

  She inched further along the ledge, sobbing so hard she could hardly hold on. There was an almighty crash, shaking the whole building and nearly knocking her off. The whole courtyard lit up a brilliant yellow as flames leapt up through a new big gap in the roof, and smoke poured from cracks and crannies everywhere.

  Her arms and legs trembled and she thought she would lose her footing, but finally she reached the end of the ledge. There was a down pipe here, and she forced herself to sit on the edge and grab hold of the old metal pipe. She swung herself off, but the last of her strength had given out and she couldn’t hold on. She dropped to the cobbled ston
es of the courtyard below.

  19

  Rescue

  SHEA DODGED THROUGH the woods. It was a good thing, he thought, that the mayor’s thugs hadn’t brought dogs. He kept the wall on his left and stayed under the cover of the trees. Now he was level with the school playing fields beyond, and he could hear children chattering nervously. There were adult voices mixed in with them, barking at them to stop, or move, or stay together, or keep quiet. Griffin’s thugs probably, he thought. He didn’t dare risk a glance over the top of the wall, just in case they should see him. Rosie went to that school, he realised, and he hoped she was all right.

  He came to the end of the wall. Now he had to cross the Lechlade Road; this was going to be the most dangerous part, because it was long, straight and exposed, and anyone on it could be seen for a long way in either direction. In the distance he could see a horse-drawn wagon on its way into town. He decided to wait for it to pass.

  The wagon turned out to be an ancient flatbed, with metal wheels and rubber tyres that probably dated back to before The Collapse. Wooden planks had been fixed to the sides and it was loaded up with root vegetables. There was nowhere to hide on it even if Shea had wanted to. There was no further traffic coming into town, and Shea used the receding wagon as cover while he darted across the road.

  The far side of the road was a patchwork of fields and hedges. There was some cover, but not much, provided he stayed close to the hedge line. The first field he came to was filled with oilseed rape, its tall tough stems breaking out in bright yellow blooms. The sight was cheering, and he pushed through staying close to the edge, but even so, the pungent smell made his eyes water.

  He looked back towards the town, and could clearly see the folly tower in the distance.

  Damn!

  If he could see that, then anyone at the top of it could see him and raise the alarm. He had a head start, but the view from the tower was such that he’d be visible for many miles around. All he could hope for was that they didn’t look too hard in his direction. They’d be looking for someone on the run, so the best thing to do was not look like he was on the run. Slow down, take it easy, stay on the far side of the hedges.

  There was a farm ahead; Shea figured that if he could make it to the buildings, he’d be hidden and could then work his way around to the far side of several low hills. This would get him away from the eyes in the tower, and then he’d be in the clear.

  Once out of sight, he was able to make good progress. So far there had been no sign of pursuit, but Shea didn’t expect that to last. He reached the Swindon road several miles to the west of the town, little more than a track this far from Oxford, but again there was no traffic. His plan was to make his way back to the derelict cottage beyond the railway and hole up there. Frank Bumpenny had hopefully made contact with the Scavs, and they’d be sending an aircraft to pick him up. The giant white horse carved into the hillside signalled the rendezvous point, so he wanted to stay nearby.

  But first he headed west. He wanted to grab a ride on a cart, or something that would hide his scent in case Mayor Griffin did have tracker dogs that he could put on the trail. His scent would potentially last several days, so there was ample opportunity for the mayor to come after him.

  Eventually someone came along the road, but it was not the vehicle he’d hoped for. It was a chopped off pickup being pulled by a cart horse, and it was going the wrong way, back towards Faringdon, but a few coins and the driver was quite happy for the strange man with the rucksack to get a ride in the back.

  It turned out the man was on his way to Oxford to meet up with his family, and he wasn’t going to stop in Faringdon. This was ideal, because the thugs would not be expecting him to reverse his direction; they’d believe that he’d picked up a ride and headed towards the wilds of Swindon.

  There was a tense moment as they crossed the open area in front of the town gate, but the guard was evidently not part of the mayor’s cadre as they ignored the passing traffic. Some way past the town, Shea jumped off the back of the pickup, wished the man good day and disappeared into the woods.

  By evening, Shea had gone some considerable distance. He set up camp in a clearing close to a stream, but didn’t light a fire in case anyone was watching out for it. He ate cold food from his pack, and slept with his back to a tree.

  The next morning there was a light drizzle when Shea woke. He was stiff and damp and cold, and a little miserable. He struck camp as quickly as he could and set off once more.

  Later that day he crossed the remains of the ancient railway line and reached the base of the ridge. He followed the ridge until he came to the old cottage. Now it was just a matter of waiting.

  Shea set up a routine. Each morning he’d leave the cottage, taking care to hide any trace of his occupation, and climb to the top of the ridge. A prehistoric fortification gave him some protection from the wind and cover from prying eyes, while still allowing him to scan the horizon. Then in the evening he’d climb back down again, check his traps and hunker down for another night in the cottage.

  The rescue aircraft would land along the ridge and pick him up, but he would have to signal it; no signal and it would stay away. Away to the north he could see the town of Faringdon, nestling amongst the farms and woods. On the morning of the second day he thought he could see smoke over the town, as if there had been a big fire, but it cleared eventually, and by the third day there was no more smoke.

  On the morning of the fourth day, Shea saw a speck in the sky out to the west. He watched it for a while and it seemed to be coming straight towards him. It looked too big to be a bird, so, grinning broadly, he took the signalling mirror from his pack and sighted it on the speck. The speck got closer and soon he could see the triangular delta shape of the wing. He waved and jumped up and down, whooping wildly as it passed low over the ridge before turning back to land. Shea wondered who the pilot was; even at this distance he couldn’t make out anything other than faded red overalls and a leather helmet.

  The sky-kart touched down, bouncing along the ridge as it slowed down. Shea ran after it, yelling and cheering, but making sure he stayed well clear of the spinning propeller at the back. It wouldn’t do to be rescued only to be chopped into mincemeat at the very last second.

  ‘Trust my luck to have to come and rescue your sorry arse!’ the pilot called, once the sky-kart had come to a stop. The pilot jumped out and ran across to him.

  ‘Bry? Is that you?’ Shea recognised the voice of his old buddy. ‘Boy are you a sight for sore eyes.’ He gave the other man a big bear hug. ‘I’ve had one massive adventure and you’re never going to hear the end of it!’ He grinned. ‘But let’s get out of here, I’m gagging for a shower and a hot meal!’

  The two men climbed back into the sky-kart and moments later the aircraft rolled along the grassy ridge top and lifted into the sky. He was saved.

  20

  Oxford

  THE LARGE BLACK coach carrying Adam and the two Kingsmen slowed as it approached the imposing rampart surrounding Oxford. He’d tried explaining to them that it was all a misunderstanding, that he’d been trying to bring the radio to them and had been intercepted, but they just growled at him and told him to keep quiet.

  He’d wondered why–if he was a prisoner–they hadn’t bothered to tie him up or handcuff him. He tried to open the door and escape, but even though there was no obvious sign of a lock, the door simply didn’t budge. The two Kingsmen just sat and watched his efforts in silence until he gave up in disgust. Obviously that was why they hadn’t bound him. Eventually he sat back and actually started enjoying the ride. The coach was incredibly smooth despite the roughness of the road, and he found he could barely even hear the horses, although he knew them to be there.

  At the city gate, the coach barely stopped, some unseen signal passing between the driver and the Watchmen on duty. Adam now caught glimpses of the city through the window as the coach rolled through the streets. Stone buildings, brick buildings, market stall
s, people; more people than Adam had ever seen in one place. And the stench… Adam’s nose wrinkled.

  A few minutes later, the coach came to a stop.

  ‘Out, boy!’ the Kingsman barked, and Adam scrabbled for the door handle. This time the door opened.

  He’d barely got down from the coach when the door slammed and it headed off. He looked around and saw he was in a large gravelled courtyard, surrounded on three sides by ornate gothic stone walls, and on the fourth by tall metal railings and a gate to the street.

  ‘Don’t stand there like a bloody tourist!’ a voice shouted from a doorway. ‘Get your backside over here and report. On the double!’

  Adam looked towards the doorway and saw a uniformed figure, clearly female, beckoning him. He trotted towards her.

  ‘Well, don’t leave your effing bags behind!’ the figure yelled.

  Adam stopped, confused, and the figure pointed behind him. He turned and saw a small trunk on the ground, near the place the coach had stopped. He went back and dragged the trunk over to the figure.

  ‘Look, there’s obviously been some mistake,’ Adam said, ‘Only, I was supposed to join the Watch, but there was some mix up with a…’ he hesitated, not sure how much he ought to tell her. He settled for not too much. ‘…well, something, and these Kingsmen grabbed me and brought me here. I want to go home.’

  ‘Name?’ she asked.

  ‘Carter. Adam Carter,’ Adam said.

  She consulted a list, and scanned down it before nodding. ‘Yup. You’re on the list. Says here you’re a recruit.’

  Adam was confused. ‘Recruit? But I thought I’d been arrested. I wanted to join the Watch. It was my Choosing; they just dragged me off.’

  ‘Definitely says recruit here. You were recruited by…’ she whistled, ‘Lieutenant Dixon herself.’

  Adam might have imagined it, but it seemed as if she straightened imperceptibly.