Breaking Bond Volume 1 - Episodes 1-3: Breaking Bond Season 1

By C.K. KANE

A hard time in teenage jail

BREAKING BOND: a multi-episode YA dystopia from an Amazon bestselling author

CONSCRIPT, CONVICT, CONDUCT - this volume: EPISODES 1-3

 

EPISODE 1 - CONSCRIPT
Decision: foolish.
Consequences: lifechanging.

I get out, or I leave here in a coffin.
If I'd known what was yet to come, I'd have arranged the coffin myself.

 

In the Britain of the near future, teenagers are locked up under the laws of the new Regime.

For crimes, at first. For misdemeanours, next. But always without trial and always under the guards of the Patrol, the new military force tasked with cleaning up the streets and jailing offenders under the mandates of Youth Laws 1-3.

15-year-old Cal Kane has been a Runner for months. He's not stupid, or so he thinks. But one rainy November night, he's very stupid indeed. Which lands him at the 'Centre', the Regime's flagship jail where things are worse than he ever imagined. Much worse.

Trust no-one. Especially yourself.

Episode 1 in Breaking Bond, a multi-episode YA dystopia by a bestselling Amazon author. Each episode approx 10,000wds. This volume: Episodes 1-3. Episodes 4-10 publishing regularly throughout 2023.

 

EPISODE 2 - CONVICT

A rough start to a hard time…

 

He grabs the collar of my T-shirt, jerking me back.
So I punch him.
Then he comes for me.

First day in jail? Always a mindf*ck.

First day in teenage jail? Mindf*ck squared.

And that's without making any mistakes.

15-year-old Cal Kane faces his first day in teen jail.

It does not go well.

 

First days are the worst days...

Episode 2 in Breaking Bond. Part of Breaking Bond Season 1 – Volume 1: Episodes 1-3.

 

EPISODE 3 – CONDUCT

How bad can it get?
Very f*cking bad indeed.

 

Eventually, the shaking slows. The shock ebbs, just a little. I force deep breaths, over and over until I've counted in hundreds.
I tell myself I'm okay.
But I'm not.
Something in me has broken.

Cal Kane thinks he's figured out the worst the Regime can throw at him.

That's yet another of his many recent mistakes.

Now he finds out just how brutal teen jail can get.

Now he's keeping his head down.

Coward.

Coward.

Cal can take anything – he thinks. Used to think. Until a brutal punishment and a new arrival has him facing his biggest challenges – and his biggest shock – yet.

 

When you've fought with every fibre of your being. But the hardest fight is yet to come.

 

Episode 3 in Breaking Bond. Part of Breaking Bond Season 1 – Volume 1: Episodes 1-3. Episodes 4-10 publishing regularly throughout 2023.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.K. KANE
• Release date: Feb 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215587874

Book preview

CONSCRIPT

CONSCRIPT

BREAKING BOND SEASON 1

VOLUME 1 - EPISODES 1-3

C.K. KANE

Unlocked Books

CONTENTS

EPISODE 1

Truths

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

EPISODE 2

TRUTHS

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

EPISODE 3 - CONDUCT

TRUTH

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

THE STORY CONTINUES

About the Author

EPISODE 1

CONSCRIPT

TRUTHS

There is no Prison big enough to hide the Truth.

- Macaulay Oluseyi

I fought the law and the law won.

- The Clash

FOREWORD

They don’t know I’m writing this.

From their – academy, or jail, or whatever the hell this place is. I can never figure their real agenda. They fuck with us.

Many of them are out and out sadists. The ones that aren’t still choose to be here, which is almost as bad. I didn’t choose. None of the ‘cadets’ did.

And those ‘cadets’? Most of them are fucked up too. (Which doesn’t say much for me, haha.) Freckles and a few others are all right, but if this place is allegedly the cream of the crop, then the crop is mightily fucked.

So much for an ‘academy’. So much for ‘elite’. The entire ‘Centre’ is rotten to the core.

But I’ll write this, and hide this, and maybe someday it’ll get out.

Maybe.

This is what happened.

CHAPTER 1

YEAR ONE

November 8

Fifteen’s a little old to be a Molotov cocktail virgin. But that’s all about to change.

If I can get the damn things made, that is.

Bombs are next.

Resistance is – futile? Maybe. Probably. But I’m doing this for Billy.

Grimly, I hold onto that thought. It’s so pitch black I can hardly see by the dim light of the torch between my teeth, it’s pissing down like only a British November can, and rain runs down the collar of my jacket to pool in the waist of my jeans. Best of all, my fingers are numb and going blue, which makes this part of the procedure even more fun.

I should have stolen bigger bottles. I should have stolen a funnel.

Again, I tip the purloined jerry can towards the four milk bottles lined on the ground like soldiers. Again, the petrol spills onto the ground and my boots. If I ever get lighting these I’ll probably blow up along with them—

It must be nearly 10pm, which means I’m taking too long. I need to get these filled and hurled towards a base before the siren goes off.

Fuck it.

I tilt the jerry can and let the petrol pour all over the bottles, reckless like Allie dumping tequila into shot glasses. One of the bottles falls over.

Fuck it. Three is enough.

I stuff rags into the bottle necks, check for my lighter, then lift the bottles to fit snugly inside my jacket.

Then—

CLANG!

The curfew siren peals through the rain.

My heart hammers. I fit the bottles snugger under my arm, ready to take to my hideout. It’ll have to be tomorrow for the petrol bombing; I took so fucking long to find and steal a full jerry can then make my way the three miles to this alleyway close to the base—

The siren cuts off everything. There’s no other noise, hardly even any thinking because its blare gets into every cell of me. When it finally stops, the rain splatters harder. So I miss the noises I should have been peaked for.

Shouting comes from my right, beyond the patch of wasteland bordering the east zone. From my left, over towards the west side, an engine roars.

I’m attuned to the sound of the jeeps by now, just as I’m attuned to Billy’s voice when he’s near tears and to my dad’s when he’s about to go off on a rant.

The Patrol are out already. And they’re close.

I click off my torch. I back slowly towards the wall, pressing myself against it. They’re close, they’re really close—

So close now that jeep headlights flare right outside the alleyway, splashing across the wet road just feet away. The jeep engine stops. Booted feet hit the puddled concrete. Voices shout orders and Yes Sirs. I swear I hear a rifle hoisted onto a shoulder.

The voices are seconds away and I’m caught, I’m caught and I’m screwed—

I’m frozen to the spot – and with evidence in my jacket that’ll lock me away for years.

The thought of Billy, only that, makes me move. I lift the bottles gently from inside my jacket and place them behind a few of the sacks of garbage littering the alleyway. If the Patrol catch me here and search, obviously they’ll find them.

But even that Hobson’s Choice is better than being caught with three Molotov cocktails in my jacket.

I can’t move until they do, so I press against the wall again. Bootsteps rattle closer. Then a light at one edge of the alleyway hits my face like a punch.

It’s an industrial torchlight – a floodlight almost – making me stagger along the wall under the force of its suddenness and weight. The murky figures of at least four Patrol are outlined behind the beam.

They’ve seen me. Of course they have; this light’s like a miniature vengeful sun.

‘Got one!’

‘Over here!’

I jump then sprint, out the other end of the alleyway and into the pelting rain. My boots slip on wet concrete and I fall. The crash is heavily onto my dodgy knee, but I’m up and running again before the flare of pain hits.

I duck my head against the rain and run for my life.

My hideout’s on the east side of town and I’m running in the opposite direction, but I’ve no choice. The four Patrol charge the length of the alleyway and out into the dilapidated streets, right on my heels. The night sounds are shouts and rain and my own thumping heart. The booted feet clattering behind me – so close, so fucking close – sound like an army.

But I know these streets. The Patrol, not so much, despite their relentless searches over the past months. My old school is in this part of town and I often crashed overnight after parties or when I knew it wasn’t safe to go home. There were plenty of days bunking off school too, finding a hidden spot to burrow into and drink beer with others or alone. I know these streets—

I dodge into a narrow lane, throw myself at its wall and leap over to land at the derelict cottages by the old Lincoln railway line.

It buys me a few seconds. But even as I scramble to my feet, the ferocious torchlight hits the wall of the lane and the hellish sound of boots grows louder. They’ll be on me in seconds—

I don’t know how it happens, because I’m running hard. But as I’m sprinting down and slipping on the tiny cobblestone street of the railway cottages, my jacket collar chokes me and I’m hauled nearly off my feet. Hands grip my collar and belt.

I’m thrown through a door, into somewhere dark and stinking. The door slams shut. I’m in the hallway of one of the cottages.

‘Bloody hell, Kane, cutting it a bit fine for curfew, aren’t you?’

I blink in the dark.

‘Phil?’

‘The very same,’ agrees my former classmate, Phil Ng. He plays – played – centre-forward to my striker in our school football team. I haven’t seen him for months – he disappeared from our school just before I got kicked out.

The white teeth of his wide grin wink in the dim light. ‘What the hell are you doing playing Cinderella at this time?’

Another voice comes from the darkness. It’s a low hiss, urgent and pissed off.

‘I think the question is what the hell are you two doing gossiping right by the door like you’ve all the time in the world? They’re right outside! Move! Quick!’

I don’t see the speaker. They turn and plunge into the darkness, then Phil shoves me forward and we plunge into the darkness too. We hurry along the hallway, into a small room, and towards a tiny steel half-door set into a closet by one wall. The door’s on rails rather than hinges, and the pissed-off person wrenches it upwards in a cold screech that vibrates in my bones.

‘Coal-hole. From years before. Go!’

Practically tangled together we’re going so fast, the three of us squash through the small steel door. There’s a tiny space like a half-sized closet – only big enough for one person, bent double – then nothing but yawning blackness.

Phil jumps. I take a deep breath. Then I jump too.

Phil strikes a match, holds it to a candle and sets the flame on a packing case. Small mounds of coal and walls streaked with dust flicker in the sputtering light.

The room is empty. Apart from the three of us. The pissed-off person, just landing on the floor, is