The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3 Page 12

  “Sure. Thanks. Just … don’t lose her.” He grins, puts his newspaper on the chair, and walks down the corridor to the dining room. As soon as he is out of sight, I run to the far end of the building and unlock the back door. I leave it cracked open, and run back to Margie’s room.

  She’s lying on the bunk in the corner, bruises on her arms. She has a graze on her forehead, the beginnings of a black eye, and another cut on her lip. That’s why Ketty and Jackson were here. Commander Bracken’s go-to thugs. I feel sick at the thought of them beating my friend.

  “Margie! Margie, it’s me.” She stirs, and looks at me, one eye swollen almost shut.

  “Bex?”

  “You need to get up. Sit up. Let me help you.”

  She looks confused, but she eases herself up until she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. There’s a sound from the corridor, and Saunders, already dressed in white, puts his head round the door. He walks quietly into the room, and holds out another camp staff uniform.

  “Margie, you need to put these on. Stand up.” Saunders and I help her to stand, and then Saunders retreats to the corridor while I help Margie out of her dirty T-shirt and trousers, and into the white scrubs. There’s a pair of lightweight canvas shoes under her bed, which I help her to put on and lace up.

  “We have to leave now. We’re going to help you, but you need to walk. Can you walk for me?”

  She nods, and I pull her arm round my shoulder and help her towards the door. In the corridor, Saunders, still limping himself, takes her other arm, and we half walk, half carry her to the back door.

  Outside, Dan is waiting with our belongings in kitchen crates. He looks uncomfortable, dressed like me in white kitchen scrubs. I can hear Jake and Amy talking to the guard, round the corner of the building. They’ve distracted him for this long with questions about working for the army, but the conversation can’t last much longer. We need to start moving.

  I hand the chocolate bar and water bottle to Margie, pull her hair forward to cover her black eye, and check that she can walk on her own. Dan, Saunders, and I lift a crate each, and make sure that the armour is invisible inside. We set off across the field, walking purposefully, but not quickly enough to attract attention. Margie and Saunders, both limping, do their best to keep up, and I slow down to make sure no one is left behind.

  We walk between knots of recruits, discussing their excitement about working for the army; kitchen staff, carrying crates like ours to vehicles in the parking area; and Senior Recruits, stacking equipment into piles and checking items off on their clipboards. Margie keeps her head down, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face. With our camp staff uniforms, we are invisible in all the activity.

  As we reach the parking area, Amy and Jake catch up with us and jog past, still in their fatigues, rucksacks on their backs, heading for the main gate. Their appearance means that the guard is back on duty at the back door of the dorm, and we only have a few minutes before the welfare officer heads back to Margie’s room. We need to find Charlie.

  I look around the parking area as we walk. There are maybe twenty vehicles here – Land Rovers, armoured cars, cargo vans – and people walking in all directions, shouting to each other, carrying crates and boxes and weaponry.

  “Where is she?” Dan is looking nervous.

  I’m trying to look as if I know where I’m going, but I’m looking around, trying to spot Charlie, and the vehicle she’s grabbed the keys for. And then I see her, on the far side of the parking area, supervising the kitchen staff loading crates into the back of a camouflage pickup truck. We hurry over and join the back of her queue. She glances up and gives me a quick nod, then jumps up into the back of the truck. The man who has been stacking the crates looks confused, but she says something to him and he jumps down, walking back towards the kitchen. We hand our armour and belongings up to her, and she stacks them carefully next to the kitchen supplies before jumping down, closing the tailgate, and covering the back of the truck with a canvas sheet.

  “Help me with this?” She asks, and I step over to tie the canvas down. “Is this her?” She asks, nodding towards Margie. I nod. “Good. Get her into the back seat.” I signal to Dan, and he takes Margie to the far side of the truck, next to the fence, and helps her into the cab. I send Saunders to sit with her, and Dan helps him climb in before closing the door.

  I glance around. No one has noticed what we’re doing yet. Charlie directs another member of kitchen staff to a different vehicle with her crate, and hisses in my ear.

  “We need to go.”

  I nod. Charlie runs round to the driver’s door and climbs in. Dan climbs into the passenger seat, and I’m about to open the back door of the truck when I recognise a member of kitchen staff loading a crate into the vehicle next to ours, and she recognises me.

  “Hey!” She shouts. “It’s Charlie’s puppy!” She puts down her crate and swaggers over to me, taking in my kitchen uniform and marching boots. “That’s not your style, honey,” She says, a nasty tone to her voice. She prods my shoulder, hard. “You chickening out, recruit? You trying to get out of fighting?”

  She turns to her companions, and shouts.

  “We’ve got a deserter!”

  A couple of heads turn, but most people are concentrating on delivering their crates to the right places, and running back to fetch more. I’m fighting panic. We’re so close to getting Margie out of here, and I don’t want to screw up now. I open my mouth to tell her to mind her own business, but we are interrupted by the sound of a whistle. Three blasts, followed by someone shouting about the prisoner. Now people are starting to pay attention.

  That’s it. We have to leave. There’s a loud blast of noise from behind me as Charlie starts up the engine.

  I turn to open the door, but the girl from the kitchen grabs my arm. Before I can think about it, I swivel towards her and land my fist in her shoulder. She cries out, and I pull away. I open the door and drag myself up as Charlie puts her foot down hard, and the truck jumps forward. Margie grabs my arm, and holds tight until I can pull myself inside.

  The truck is lurching and bouncing as Charlie drives across the grass towards the main gate. There are people running towards us – guards, recruits, kitchen staff – and people running away from the path of the truck. I manage to fasten my seatbelt, then lean out to try and close the door. I see the Commander running out of the nearest building, shouting. Ketty and Jackson follow him, wearing fatigues but carrying guns.

  For the first time, I realise that someone could get killed in this confusion. I lunge for the door and pull it closed as Charlie pulls the truck onto the gravel roadway and turns us to face the gates. Through the windscreen, I watch as Jake unlocks the gates, and steps back to wave us through. Amy is standing with the guards, obviously acting as the distraction again, but as they see us driving towards them, and realise that Jake is letting us out, they grab Amy’s arms and hold her between them. She screams my name as we speed past them, spitting gravel and dust from our tyres. Charlie sees the look on my face in her rearview mirror.

  “Sorry, Bex. We don’t have time to stop.” And I know she’s right. The gates are in front of us now. Jake has opened one, and the other is hanging loosely on its hinges. I glance behind us, over the crates, and see Commander Bracken shouting. Ketty and Jackson raise their guns, and I shout to everyone to get down. There’s a rattling noise as bullets hit the tailgate, and then the back window explodes. We’re showered with glass, ducking down in the back seat.

  Charlie keeps going, smashes through the gate, and hurls the truck onto the road, tyres screaming. I risk a glance back, and I see Jake, holding his arms out to us. Amy, slumped between the guards, her hands cuffed in front of her. Commander Bracken takes Ketty’s gun, and sprints out of the gates to where Jake is standing. He’s watching us drive away as he puts his gun to Jake’s head.

  And we’re round a corner, into the trees, and I don’t see what happens next.

  Escape

&n
bsp; Charlie drives us for an hour, speeding down tiny country lanes, blasting the horn to force other traffic to get out of our way. We stay off the main roads, and lose ourselves in a maze of tracks and narrow, winding back roads. We’re heading north, with detours to the east and west as we trace a route through villages and farms. Charlie slows down through the villages, hoping that no one will remember a sedately-driven camouflage truck if the base tries to track us down.

  The sky clouds over, and it starts to rain. Charlie pulls off the road onto a forest track, and parks the truck out of sight among the trees.

  “So where are we going?” She asks Margie.

  None of us has spoken since we left the camp, except to shout warnings to Charlie as we see signposts or other vehicles on the road. We all start talking at once.

  “That was incredible!”

  “Is everyone OK?”

  “Did you see …?”

  Charlie cuts us off. “There’ll be time for this later. We’re not safe yet. Margie – where do we need to get to?”

  Margie names a forest, somewhere in mid-Wales. “There’s a track. If we drive down it, they’ll see us, and they’ll decide whether to let us in.”

  Charlie searches in the door pocket, and pulls out a road atlas. She hands it to Dan. “Figure out where we are, and where we’re going. Congratulations – you’re the navigator.” She opens her door. “Ten minutes, and then we’re back on the road.” And she jumps down and walks away until I can’t see her between the trees.

  I want to hug Margie, to thank Dan, to apologise to Saunders, but to my surprise I burst into tears instead. Margie puts her arm round me.

  “You did it, Bex. You got me out. Thank you.” I’m nodding and sobbing and gripping her arm with my hands. It is a while before I can speak.

  “But Jake and Amy …” is all I can say, and I’m sobbing again.

  “Hey!” Dan shouts from the front seat. “Bex. Don’t. They helped us, they got us out, but if we’d stopped, we’d all be back there, locked up with Margie.” Or worse, I want to say, but I’m not sure that anyone else saw the Commander with Jake as we escaped. I keep quiet.

  I take some deep breaths, and rub the tears from my cheeks. I reach over and put my hand on Saunders’ arm. There are tears on his face, too, and he hasn’t said anything since we drove away from Amy.

  We all climb down from the truck. I fetch a branch from a fir tree and use it to brush the broken glass from the back seats and foot wells. Saunders leans against the cab, staring into the trees. Charlie comes back from the woods, and gives me a quick hug before reaching into the truck and bringing out a cloth and a bottle of water. She wets the cloth and gently cleans Margie’s face, then hands her the cold, soaked cloth to hold against her injured eye.

  “I’m Charlie. You must be Margie?” Margie nods. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for getting me out.”

  “Thank these crazy kids for that,” she says, waving her hand at us. “Without them, I’d still be packing crates and sending underage fighters off to help the army. I’d rather be here.”

  I can still see Jake, reaching out to us. “But Commander Bracken …”

  “Stuff Commander Bracken. He was trafficking you lot into front-line combat. His recruiters kidnapped you, and you just kidnapped yourselves right back. And his enemy spy.” She nods at Margie, and looks around. “We should go. Do you know where we are, navigator?” Dan nods. “Think you can get us to where we’re going?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  She opens the door and climbs back into the cab. We all climb in, and she starts the engine and turns the truck round, Dan giving directions from the end of the track.

  *****

  We drive for another hour or two, on country lanes and quiet roads. We’re heading west, towards Margie’s rebel friends. Dan and Charlie are concentrating on getting us there without being found. Margie holds my hand and watches the road ahead. Saunders leans back in his seat, eyes closed. I can’t tell whether he’s awake or asleep. I rest my head on the window and watch the countryside as we drive. Hedgerows and fields, farms and woodland. This is what I thought we were trying to protect, and here we are, driving through it, doubtless reported as dangerous criminals ourselves, now.

  I’m trying to understand. Have we done the right thing? If the government is destroying its own cities, and blaming it on the rebels, who were we working for? And who are we running to now?

  Who are the good guys, and who are the bad guys – or is it all just shades of grey? Are the rebels planting bombs and attacking the government? If so, why are we looking to them for shelter? Is the government faking all the attacks? If so, why? And why is there a rebellion at all?

  What am I missing?

  Terrorists

  “You’re up, kid,” calls Charlie. “Where are we going?”

  Margie leans forward in her seat. “You’re looking for a sign to Makepeace Farm. It’s along here somewhere. Pull onto the track, and let me out to open the gate. Head down the driveway, slowly. They’ll be watching you.”

  After a few minutes, we find the sign. Charlie turns off the road, and stops to let Margie out.

  “Stay where you are, Saunders. I’ll climb over you. Mine needs to be the first face they see.”

  She climbs down, closes the door, and walks slowly towards the gate, her hands raised in front of her. She’s looking straight ahead, and giving whoever is watching plenty of time to recognise her. She reaches the gate, unhooks it from the gatepost and pulls it open. Saunders shifts over into the middle seat. Charlie drives slowly through, and stops to wait. Margie closes the gate, and hands still up in front of her, walks back to the truck. She climbs in, and straps herself into Saunders’ seat.

  “Drive slowly.” She says, quietly to Charlie. “If I shout, you stop.” Charlie nods, and sets off along the track.

  From the road, the track leads into dense conifer forest. Fifty meters or so past the first trees, the track bends to the right, and we are no longer visible from the road. Charlie keeps up the slow, careful pace as the track swings left again, and continues towards a building ahead of us.

  “When you reach the farmyard, stop the engine, and put your hands up where they can see them. That goes for all of you. Hands empty and visible.”

  There’s a slapping sound as the atlas drops from Dan’s knee to the floor. His hands are above the level of the dashboard. I put mine against the window to my left. We crawl closer to the farm buildings.

  We reach the concrete farmyard, and Charlie stops the truck and kills the engine. She slowly brings her hands up and holds them above the steering wheel.

  There’s no one in the farmyard, and we sit for a while, waiting. Then the door to the farmhouse opens, and a man walks out, holding an old-fashioned rifle.

  “Don’t move,” whispers Margie. “Just wait.”

  There’s another man with a rifle, walking round the corner of the barn. I glance behind us, and see a man and woman, also armed, walking out of the trees. They walk up to the truck, guns trained on us. The first man opens the driver’s door and points the rifle at Charlie.

  “Get out!”

  She shows him her hands, and then carefully jumps down from her seat onto the concrete. She keeps her hands where he can see them. He reaches out and grabs her by the hair, pushing her to her knees.

  “You’re not Margie. Where’s Margie?” He shouts, pushing the gun in her face. She tilts her head towards the back seat.

  Margie taps, lightly, on the window, and shows her empty hands. The woman opens the door, and moves the gun aside when she sees Margie, and the state of her face. She grips the gun with one hand, and offers Margie the other hand to help her down. She looks hard at Margie’s face, then pushes her away across the yard.

  “You!” The woman shouts at Saunders. “Get down here. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Saunders unclips his seatbelt and
shuffles over to the door. He jumps awkwardly down and stumbles as his bad ankle hits the ground. He catches himself with his hands, and I hear the woman shout to get his hands up. I can’t see him, kneeling next to the truck, and I’m hoping he’s OK when the door next to me opens, and I’m looking into the barrel of another shotgun.

  “Down!” I reach for the edge of the door, and carefully lower myself to the ground. Before the man can force me to my knees, I kneel, and put my hands behind my head. He keeps the gun pointed at me, and I tell myself to stay calm. Keep my hands up. Don’t say anything.

  The last gunman pulls Dan from the front seat, and makes him kneel on the muddy concrete.

  There’s a moment of silence, and I hear Margie’s voice.

  “Let them go, Will. They’re my friends.”

  Someone laughs.

  “They broke me out of the camp, and they got me back here. They’re not armed.”

  “You’re guaranteeing that?”

  “I am.”

  There’s a pause. “OK.”

  The man next to me grips my elbow and hauls me to my feet.

  “Keep your hands up.”

  He leads me across the farmyard, after Dan and Charlie. Saunders is limping badly again, and Margie and the woman with the gun are helping him towards the house.

  They push us inside, into a spacious farmhouse kitchen. There’s an Aga, and a large wooden table surrounded by mismatched wooden chairs.

  “Sit down,” Will calls, as he leans his gun next to the door and cleans his shoes on the mat. “Keep your hands on the table, mind.” His soft Welsh accent is at odds with his gruff, direct manner. He’s an older man, his face lined and tanned from working outside.

  The woman comes in with Margie and Saunders, while the others melt back into the trees with their rifles. Margie pulls out a chair and helps Saunders to sit, then fetches another chair and a cushion so he can elevate his foot.