All You Need Is Kill by Hiroshi Sakurazaka Read Free Book Online

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