Hiroshi Sakurazaka - All You Need Is Kill

This was ridiculous. I punched the mattress.

Had I dreamed that black point flying at me? Was the javelin that shattered my breastplate and pierced my chest all in my head? Had I imagined the blood, the coughing up bits of lung?

Let me tell you what happens when your lungs are crushed. You drown, not in water, but in air. Gasp as hard as you like, crushed lungs can’t pass the oxygen your body needs to your bloodstream. All around you, your friends are breathing in and out without a second thought while you drown alone in a sea of air. I never knew this until it happened to me. I’d never even heard about it. I definitely hadn’t made that up. It really happened.

It didn’t matter if I never told anyone, if no one ever believed me. It would still be true. The sensation it had imprinted on my mind was proof enough of that. Pain that shoots through your body like a bolt of lightning, legs so damn heavy it feels like they’ve been stuffed with sandbags, terror so strong it crushes your heart—that’s not the stuff of imagination and dreams. I wasn’t sure how, but I’d been killed. Twice. No doubt about it.

I didn’t mind listening to Yonabaru tell some story I’d already heard before. Hell, I’d do that ten times, a hundred, the more the better. Our daily routines were all filled with that same repetitive shit. But going back into battle? No thanks.

If I stayed here, I’d be killed. Whether I died before or after Yonabaru didn’t really matter. There was no way I could survive the firefight. I had to get away. I had to be anywhere but here.

Even saints have limits to their patience, and I was no saint. I’d never been one to blindly believe in God, Buddha, any of that shit, but if somebody up there was going to give me a third chance, I wasn’t about to let it go to waste. If I sat here staring up at the top bunk, the only future I had ended in a body bag. If I didn’t want to die, I had to move. Move first, think later. Just like they taught us in training.

If today was a repetition of yesterday, Ferrell would be around any minute. The first time he showed up I’d been taking a dump, the second I’d been chatting it up with Yonabaru. After that we’d be off to a ridiculous session of PT, and we’d come back exhausted. That got me thinking. Everyone in the 17th Armored would be in that PT. Not only that, everyone else on the base with time on their hands would be gathered around the field to watch. I couldn’t have asked for a better chance to sneak out of the base. Considering how tired I’d be after training, it was the only chance I was likely to get.

If I hurt myself, that would probably do it. They wouldn’t send a wounded soldier to PT. I needed an injury that looked bad enough to get me out of PT, but nothing so bad it would lay me up. A man with even a shallow scalp wound would gush blood like a stuck pig. It was one of the first things they taught us in First Aid. At the time, I wondered what good first aid or anything else would do after a Mimic javelin had sliced off your head and sent it flying through the air, but I guess you never know when a little piece of knowledge will come in handy. I had to get started quick.

Fuck! I had a whole day to repeat, but I didn’t have enough time when I needed it. That blockheaded sergeant was on his way. Move! Move!

“What’s all that noise down there?” Yonabaru asked casually.

“I gotta head out for a minute.”

“Head out? Hey! I need your signature!”

I dove into the space between the bunks without even bothering to tie my shoes. Concrete slapping under my feet, I turned just before hitting the poster of the girl in the swimsuit. I darted past the guy with the porno mag lying on his bed.

I wasn’t headed anywhere in particular. Right then my top priority was making sure I didn’t run into Ferrell. I had to get somewhere out of sight where I could hurt myself, then show up covered in blood around the time Yonabaru and Ferrell were finishing their conversation. For a plan I’d cooked up on the fly, it wasn’t half bad.

Shit. I should’ve brought the combat knife I kept under my pillow. It was useless against Mimics, but for opening cans or cutting through wood or cloth, it was something no self-respecting soldier should be without. I’d cut myself with that knife a thousand times during training. I wouldn’t have had any trouble making a scalp wound with it.

I’d made it out the entrance of the barracks, and I wanted to put as much space between me and HQ as possible. I let my speed slacken as I rounded the corner of the building.

There was a woman there. Terrible timing.

She grunted as she pushed a cart piled high with potatoes. I knew her: Rachel Kisaragi, a civilian posted over in Cafeteria No. 2. A snow-white bandana, neatly folded into a triangle, covered her black wavy hair. She had healthy, tanned skin and larger than average breasts. Her waist was narrow. Of the three types of women the human race boasted—the pretty, the homely, and the gorillas you couldn’t do anything with save ship ’em off to the army—I’d put her in the pretty category without batting an eye.

In a war that had already lasted twenty years, there just wasn’t enough money for all the military support staff to be government employees. Even at a base on the front lines, they filled as many noncombatant roles with civilians as they could. The Diet had already debated the possibility of handing over the transport of war matériel in noncombat zones to the private sector. People joked that at this rate, it wouldn’t be long before they’d outsource the fighting to civilians and be done with the whole thing.

I’d heard that Rachel was more of a nutritionist than a cook. The only reason I recognized her was that Yonabaru had been chasing her skirt before he hooked up with his current squeeze. Apparently she didn’t like guys who were too forward, which pretty much ruled out Yonabaru.

I smirked at the thought and a mountain of potatoes slammed into me. Desperately, I stuck out my right foot to catch my balance, but I slipped on one of the potatoes and went sprawling on my ass. An avalanche of spuds pummeled my face, one after another, the eager jabs of a rookie boxer on his way to the world heavyweight championship. The metal cart delivered the finishing blow, a hard right straight to my temple.

I collapsed to the ground with a thud sufficiently resounding to give a fuel-air grenade a run for its money. It was a while before I could even breathe.

“Are you all right?”

I groaned. At least it looked like none of the potatoes had hit Rachel.

“I . . . I think so.”

“Sorry about that. I can’t really see where I’m going when I’m pushing this thing.”

“Nah, it’s not your fault. I jumped out right in front of you.”

“Hey, don’t I know you?” Rachel peered down at poor flattened me with her green eyes.

A sheepish grin spread across my face. “Looks like we ran into each other again . . .”

“I knew it! You’re the new recruit in the 17th.”

“Yeah. Sorry for all the trouble,” I said. A spud rolled off my belly.

With a hand on her hip, Rachel surveyed the damage. Her delicate eyebrows sank. “Couldn’t have spread them out farther if you tried.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s their fault for being so round.” She arched her back slightly so her chest stuck out. It was hard to ignore.

“I guess.”

“You ever see potatoes that round?”

I hadn’t. Not among the tubers littering the floor either.

“Shouldn’t take that long to grab them, if you help.”