The Battle Ground Series: Books 1-3 Page 6

  Bruises

  After dinner I head to the medical centre to see Saunders. Amy is there ahead of me. She barely touched her food, and left the dining room as soon as she could after the meal. Saunders is lucky – the doctor says this is a bad sprain, rather than a broken bone, and he’ll be training with us again in a couple of weeks. For now he’s stuck in the medical centre, and he’ll be treated every day by a physiotherapist they’re bringing in from the hospital in town. I wish him luck, and promise to visit him, before leaving the two of them together and heading out to see Charlie.

  I’m just passing the corner of the medical centre. I can hear the noise from the staff dorm, and I’m smiling to myself because I know that Charlie will be outside, even though the rain hasn’t eased completely. I want to thank her for bringing me lunch, and for getting me out to the assault course before anyone realised I was late.

  I’m safe inside the camp. Saunders is with the doctor, and Amy is keeping him company. I’ve had a hot meal, and I’m wearing fresh clothes and a waterproof coat. I’m warm and dry, and I’m about to talk to Charlie.

  There’s a scuffing sound behind me, and before I can turn someone grabs my arms, and someone else clamps a hand across my mouth and another at the back of my head. White hot panic slams through me as I’m dragged off my feet and pulled backwards, kicking and trying to shout, but the sound dies in my throat. My heart is thumping in my chest, and I try to pull myself out of the tight grips on my arms and head, but I can’t. I’m struggling as hard as I can, but the harder I fight against my attackers, the more they tighten their grip.

  I can’t believe how quickly I’ve lost control of my body.

  They’re dragging me backwards across the training field, and they’re not stopping. I’m fighting panic. I need to escape, but struggling makes everything worse. I relax all my muscles, falling limp in their grasp and landing all my weight in their hands. It throws them for a second, and I nearly make it to my feet. I’m getting ready to sprint back across the field when they grab me again, and pull me onto the ground. I relax, and let them carry me, waiting for a moment when I can twist away and run again.

  We’re heading into the trees at the edge of the training field. The hands on my head loosen, and a voice next to my ear says “Don’t make a sound”, before lifting the grip on my mouth. I scream for help, but even as I cry out I know that we’re too far from the dorms for anyone to hear me. Someone cuffs me hard across the cheek, and another voice whispers “Not her face!”

  We’re into the trees now, and I can’t see the camp buildings any more. No one else knows I’m out here, and my heart races as the darkness closes in. There’s a little light from the security lamps on the fence, but everything is reduced to shapes and shadows, grey on grey. We stop moving, and the person holding my arms pins me in place. They’re strong, and I can’t move except to kick, but my captors are behind me. I stay still.

  There’s a rustling sound, and an “All clear”. The person holding me starts dragging me backwards again, then pushes me down to the floor. I’m lying on my back, pinned by my arms. I can’t see my captors well enough to aim a kick or a headbutt, so I keep still, force myself to relax, and make it as hard as possible for them to drag me over the uneven ground.

  The person holding me switches their grip to my shoulders, and gathers my coat and my T-shirt into their fists. They start to pull me backwards, and I realise that they’re pulling me under the fence. The metal mesh scratches at my face and neck as they drag me through, my hands useless in the dark. I shout out again, and kick out hard, but there’s nothing to connect with. I feel the edge of the mesh tugging across my chest and hips as they pull me underneath, the rainwater from the puddle under the fence soaking into the back of my T-shirt.

  I’m through, and the second captor crawls through after me, grasps my arms again and pins me to the ground.

  “You’re in trouble, Ellman.” And I recognise the voice. Ketty has dragged me out here to punish me – but for what?

  “We keep telling you, Ellman. Save yourself. Don’t be a martyr. Don’t go helping the useless kids who can’t make the grade.” It’s Jackson. “But what do you do? You make friends. You carry them home. You patch them up.”

  “You get us in to trouble.”

  “We don’t like trouble, Ellman. We like things to run smoothly. We like recruits who do as they’re told.”

  “You need to learn to do what we tell you.”

  And the first blow lands, hard, on my ribs.

  So the camp isn’t through with punishing me for helping Saunders. I’m pinned to the cold ground, and there’s nothing I can do to stop this. I take slow, deep breaths, and try to disconnect from the beating that’s coming my way. Ketty pulls my arms up, past my head, and pushes them into the mud with her knees. She leans her hands on my shoulders, and Jackson starts lashing out with his fists.

  “Not her face!” Ketty says again. They’re trying to hide this beating. The bruises will be under my clothes, so no one will know that this has happened. Jackson lands blow after blow on my ribs and belly.

  It hurts. His fists are like explosions against my skin. I try not to give him the pleasure of hearing me scream, but I can’t stop the grunts and gasps for air that mark my efforts to keep breathing. He’s enjoying this, and Ketty is cheering him on. I try to take myself out of the moment – to think about other things. To hide from my fear.

  Slam. I think about Saunders, lying in the medical centre.

  Slam. I think about what would have happened if I hadn’t helped him to get back.

  Slam. Saunders, lying in the mud in the woods, waiting for help.

  Slam. Amy and Jake, stuck on the obstacle course.

  Slam. Dan, my only link to a life where I was happy.

  Slam. Margie, who sided with the rebels.

  The blows keep landing. The pain gets worse.

  And then, suddenly, they stop. The grip on my shoulders disappears, the knees on my arms lift away. For a moment, I wonder what they’re planning to do next. Fear keeps me frozen, lying motionless in the mud.

  “You do this again, Ellman – you get us into trouble, and you won’t be walking home.”

  They both stand up. There’s a rustling as they crawl under the fence, and fading footsteps as they walk away, into the camp. I lie still, taking shallow breaths, waiting until I’m sure they’ve gone.

  Slowly, carefully, I start to move. I pull my arms up, out of the mud, and down to my sides. I start to sit up, but it hurts too much, and I fall back, gasping. Gently, I touch my ribs with my fingertips, and the pain is everywhere. I feel sick. I think my entire torso is one continuous bruise. It doesn’t run as far as my neck, or my arms, so no one will see what has happened with a casual glance, but the pain is real. This is exactly what they wanted – a personal reminder that I should obey orders, stick to my training, and ignore recruits in need. Right now, that’s a tempting suggestion.

  I roll onto my elbow, and sit up slowly. Every breath is a dagger to my injured ribs. I push myself up until I’m on my knees. I’m kneeling, and I’m fighting the compulsion to scream, in pain and frustration. Crawling, I drag myself back to the gap under the fence. I lie down, supported by my elbows, and drag myself through. The mesh fence claws at my back and legs, and my ribs are on fire as I pull myself underneath, grabbing handfuls of grass and heaving my body onto the camp side of the fence.

  I’m through. I flip myself over and lie on my back, belly up. The rain has stopped, and the sky has cleared. I can see stars above the trees. I’d like to stay here, not moving, staring at the stars, but in the distance I hear the whistle that marks ten minutes until Lights Out, and I force myself to move. I pull myself to my feet, gasps of pain marking my progress, and set off across the field. I make it to the dorm with minutes to spare, strip off next to my locker and pull on the camp-issue pyjamas, trying not to cry out as I move my arms and ribs.

  I’m tired enough that I fall asleep in spite of the bruising
, and wake the next morning to stabbing pain – a reminder of what is expected from me at Camp Bishop. I’ve done my best. I’ve passed their tests and I’ve followed their orders. I’ve run and I’ve trained and I’ve worn their uniform.

  But I’ve also helped my friends, and now I know what happens when I break their rules. It’s all I can do not to burst into tears on my way to the showers.

  Monitoring

  For the next week, everything I do becomes a painful reminder of my lesson from Ketty and Jackson. Getting up, getting dressed, and moving around all hurt. Running is agonising, and the assault course is torture at every obstacle. I refuse to complain, or show them that I’m suffering, but my slower runs and assault course times show them that their punches hit their marks. Charlie smuggles me some painkillers, which help with the assault course, and with getting enough sleep, but the pain never really goes away.

  I keep visiting Saunders after dinner every night. Amy’s always there before me, and usually stays until Lights Out. Saunders has managed to find a supply of paper and pencils, so he spends his free time sketching, and gives his favourites to Amy.

  After a week, he comes out to join the weapons training and the briefing sessions, and sits with us for meals. He’s using a crutch for walking, and he’s slow at moving around. While we’re running or training on the assault course, he’s in the medical centre with his nurse and his physiotherapist. I don’t tell him what happened. He doesn’t need to know.

  Ten days after the attack, we’re lining up for weapons training, dressed in our armour. Saunders joins us, still limping, and we’re expecting another round of target practice and gun-handling drills. The Senior Recruits are standing at ease in front of us, two large crates on the ground in front of them.

  Commander Bracken strides towards us, and everyone stands to attention.

  “Recruits!”

  “Sir!”

  ”Today we’re filling in the final pieces to make your armour fully functional.”

  I glance down at the holes in both forearm sections.

  “Today you will each receive a radio module, and a contamination panel. The Senior Recruits will help you to attach each piece to your armour, and then we’ll begin training you to use them.”

  The sidekick hurries towards us, clipboard in hand, and calls out the list of names.

  I step forward when my name is called. I’m given a black box from the first crate and a grey panel from the second crate, and I’m directed to where most of the Senior Recruits are standing. Jackson steps up to connect them to my suit. He flashes me an unfriendly smile, and gives me a playful sparring punch on the front panel of my armour. I try not to flinch away, but he laughs anyway. I swallow my anger, and keep my face blank.

  “Left arm, Ellman.” I hold out my left forearm. He takes the black box and pushes it into the hole in the armour. There’s a click as it slides into place.

  “Right arm.” He clicks the grey panel into the hole on my right arm, then takes my hands, and holds them out in front of me.

  “Left arm,” he says, tugging on my hand. “This is your radio. Activate it by pressing the back of your glove.” He takes my right hand and uses it to push one of the protective panels on the back of my left glove. A light comes on on the radio.

  “Right arm is your contamination panel. Activate it by pressing the back of your right glove.” He uses my left hand to activate the unit. A screen on the top of the panel lights up, showing three coloured bars. As I watch, the colours fade to white. “Red is chemical. Green is biological. Blue is radiation. White is good. Dark is bad. Keep it activated, and keep checking it. Understand?”

  I nod, and try to take my hands back. He holds them out in front of me for a moment too long – a reminder of his power over me – then drops them and turns to the next recruit. I walk back to stand in line, my fists clenched.

  We spend the next hour using the radios, and learning radio protocol. The microphone and speakers are built into the neck sections of our armour. They work best with the helmets on, but we can use them without. We split into groups and send messages to each other across the training field. We learn how to use different channels to decide who to speak and listen to. There’s a scanning function, too. Hold the glove close to another recruit’s armour, activate the scanner, and a robotic voice recites their name, rank, and unit.

  Every fifteen minutes, the Commander broadcasts a radio message to everyone, instructing us to check our contamination panels.

  “Contamination check: red!”

  “Red: clear, Sir!”, we all send back. The common channel is loud with our voices.

  “Contamination check: green!”

  “Green: clear, Sir!”

  “Contamination check: blue!”

  “Blue: clear, Sir!”

  “Thank you, recruits. Continue radio training.”

  “Sir!”

  It’s distracting, but that’s the idea. We need to be able to keep checking our own contamination levels when we’re on patrol, and take action to protect civilians if we see any change on our panels. They’re aiming to drill us in this, and make sure that we check our panels regularly, without being told.

  And they do. Whenever we’re wearing the armour – on the daily run, or during training – one of the Senior Recruits has the job of reminding us to check our contamination panels. Before long, I’m glancing at my right arm several times every day, even when I’m wearing fatigues. I catch other recruits doing the same. Commander Bracken called this the final piece that would make our armour ready for use, and I wonder when we will have the chance to use it on patrol.

  I don’t have to wait long to find out.

  *****

  “Recruits!”

  “Sir!”

  It’s the evening briefing, three days after we plugged in our radios and contamination panels, and Commander Bracken is addressing us. I’m sitting with Dan and Saunders and Amy, and we’re wondering what to expect.

  “You have now had time to adjust to wearing your radios, and you’ve had time to train yourselves to keep checking your contamination panels. You’re all competent with your weapons, and you can all run and train in the suits. It’s time to send you out to do your jobs.”

  A murmur of excitement fills the room.

  “There’s an outdoor concert in Birmingham this Sunday. This will be your first assignment. The organisers are nervous about security. It’s a big event, and they need you to be on patrol, looking out for anything suspicious, and safeguarding the people attending.”

  Anticipation and fear build in my chest as the commander talks. We’re finally finding out what we’re here to do.

  “We’ve covered what this means. You’ve all trained hard to develop the skills you’ll need to deal with the public at a large event. Be there, be visible, watch out for anything and anyone who shouldn’t be there.”

  I think about the bombing in Manchester. Of the danger we’ll be in. I think about our training, and the opportunity to use what we’ve learnt.

  The opportunity to be the government’s front-line dolls.

  “We’ll run through all your training again over the next few days. On Sunday, you’ll assemble here at oh-six-hundred for breakfast. Wear fatigues, and bring your armour and helmets. We’ll assign each of you a weapon before we leave – this will be your personal weapon from now on. Protect it, maintain it, keep it safe at all times. Report any issues to me.

  “Questions.”

  Everyone’s hands shoot up.

  *****

  “It began with bombings. People with grievances against our policies, or our way of life, the way we were interpreting religious books. Every couple of weeks there’d be a bombing, somewhere in the country. A few civilians would be killed, some people injured, and everyone would be outraged. The government would say that they were tracking the terrorists, that they had credible intelligence, or that they’d made some arrests, but nothing stopped the attacks.”

  Dr Richards
’ History lessons were strictly controlled. She could talk about things that happened a long time ago, but she couldn’t talk about the background to the terrorism we were watching on the news every day. Dan and I knew that Margie was talking to her privately, usually at weekends when most of the teachers were away from school.

  One evening, Margie talked her into joining us in the library. We waited until everyone else had left, and then Margie asked her to explain our most recent history. Why the government wanted people like us to volunteer, to join the army and fight the terrorists. Dr Richards was young, and passionate about her subject. She made me feel excited and involved in whatever she was talking about. She was always smartly dressed in a short skirt and blouse, with her long brown hair tied neatly back. And she was genuinely interested in what we had to say.

  She leaned forward in her chair, elbows on the table, and started at the beginning – long enough ago that we couldn’t remember the details.

  “There were more bombings. There were a couple of nasty hostage situations and some personal attacks against people in power. Slowly, the government started to take away our powers. Scotland saw what was coming, and voted for independence, but that left the rest of us to deal with the attacks and the government crackdowns.”

  “Why did anyone put up with that? Taking away democratic rights?” Dan sounded grumpy and impatient. Dr Richards shook her head.

  “People were happy to see them go. People were happy to co-operate with anything that kept the danger away, that kept their children safe – that meant that their lives could continue.”

  I tried to imagine trading rights for safety. We all had a vote on the school council, and I couldn’t imagine giving that away so the school could make decisions for me. “Why? Why would anyone let that happen?”

  “Think about it. Think about your lives. The lives of people out there. Safety at school and at work. Sports, shopping, coming home safely at the end of the day. They – we – accepted all that in exchange for our rights to demonstrate, to protest, and even to vote.”