Bernadette: Actual Productive HelpMature

Well, there was Rhubarb cursing Jon because he wasn't being careful and was consequently hurting her ankle. There was Jon complaining at me because I wasn't running fast enough, and there was me whining at Rhubarb to stop moaning.

Productive bunch, we were.

Anyway, the light turned out to be a door, which was good for me, but I did waste most of my energy getting to it as fast as I could, which was why I was currently almost limping through the stitch in my side. Through the door came about three people, hastily looking around. They took a couple of large boxes each and almost shut the door.

"Wait stop!" Jon shouted, and pelted toward them, just a step behind me.

When we got out, the group of about nine people looked at us blankly. They took in my makeshift ankle brace, and the dried blood smeared across my face. They looked at Rhubarb, who appeared to have half her face scratched off, and whose ankle had swollen rapidly. They took in Jon, whose shirt was soaked with Rhu's blood.

"For crying out loud," one of them muttered, collecting our weapons from us. He gave them to someone else, who frowned at the odd collection. "You'd better get in."

So we all piled into the van, which looked like it'd been driven through a war zone. Then, at rocket speed, we were taken to the complete opposite end of town.

One guy slung a now unconscious Rhu over his shoulder, and ran into a building nearby. Jon and I helped unload the van, which took all of five minutes because about six other people appeared and pitched in. Then the van was driven away.

They appeared to be staying in some kind of operating theatre, and two of them were currently sorting out Rhu.

One of them came over to me and passed me a damp flannel. "I'm Owen," he said, unwinding the scarf from my leg. "What's your name and how old are you?"

"Funnel- I mean, Bernadette," I told him. "I'm fifteen. This is Jon, but I have no idea how old he is. And the other girl is Rhubarb, she's sixteen."

"Right, Jon, go over there, get a shirt off one of the other guys, and they'll allocate you a job. May I ask why you said funnel before Bernadette?"

"My surname is Finhill. Easily mispronounced by supply teachers."

"Alright then, Funnel," he grinned. "Your ankle is fine, so go and get washed up, get a different top from Anna, and she'll give you a job."

And that was that. They accepted us and we got on with what they told us to do. I was put on wash duty, and occasionally was a go-between. Anna was on wash duty too, so I got to know her quite well. She was quite cheery, which suited me perfectly. Just get things done, that way nobody got stressed.

Rhubarb kept complaining that she felt useless, and then that her face hurt when she talked, so Owen said she could sort the boxes of supplies. But other than that, she wasn't allowed to do anything because her foot was in a cast and she had stitches in her face that might break if she kept moving it.

Jon found it hilarious, and spent all his time when he wasn't on supply runs taking the piss.

The amount of blood I had to clean from clothing and bandages was almost unreal, but it was OK because at least it gave me something to do. And since I was introduced to everyone by Owen, they all called me Funnel, which I thought was quite funny.

The End

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