Conscript: Breaking Bond Season 1, #1

By C.K. KANE

BREAKING BOND

A multi-episode YA dystopia from an Amazon bestselling author

'Far more violence has been done in obeying the law than in breaking the law.'
- Robert Frost

 

SEASON 1

EPISODE 1

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.
Episodes 2&3 out now; save by buying the Volume 1: Episodes 1-3 box set.
 

Episodes 4-10 publishing regularly throughout 2023. Episodes 4-6 available on preorder now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.K. KANE
• Release date: Feb 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215133705

Book preview

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