All You Need Is Kill

by Hiroshi Sakurazaka

  “I’m gonna have to cast my ballot for Yonabaru.”

  “I’ve set this thing to filter out your jokes, so stop wastin’ your breath.”

  “Sounds like Kiriya’s gonna have to step up his training if he doesn’t want Yonabaru to take the piss out of him so easy.”

  “Sir! I think I need to reboot my Jacket, sir! I don’t want it crashing during the battle!”

  “Aw man, I’d kill for a cigarette. Musta left ’em in my other Jacket.”

  “I thought you quit smokin’?”

  “Hey, keep it down! I’m tryin’ to get some sleep!”

  And so it went. Back and forth through the comm link, like it was an Internet chat room. All Ferrell could do was sigh and shake his Jacketed head.

  When you’re so nervous you’ve run out of nails to bite, thinking about something you enjoy helps take the pressure off. They taught us that in training too. Of course, you get a bunch of animals like these together, pretty much the only thing they think about is sex. There was only one girl I could think about, my sweet little librarian whose face I could hardly picture anymore. Who knew what she was doing. It’d been half a year since she got married. She was probably knocked up by now. I enlisted right after I graduated from high school, and she broke my heart. I don’t think the two things were related. Who can say?

  I had signed up thinking I could make some sense of this fuckedup world by betting my life in battle and seeing what fate dealt me. Boy was I ever green. If I was tea-green now, I must’ve been lime-green back then. Turns out my life isn’t even worth enough to buy one of those pricey bombs, and what cards fate has dealt me don’t have any rhyme or reason.

  “Nuts to this. If we’re not gonna dig trenches, can’t we at least sit?”

  “Can’t hide if we’re diggin’ trenches.”

  “This active camouflage ain’t good for shit. Who’s to say they don’t see better’n we do, anyhow? They aren’t supposed to be able to see the attack choppers either, but they knock ’em out of the sky like balloons in a shootin’ gallery. Made for a helluva time at Okinawa.”

  “If we run into the enemy, I’ll be sure to give ’em an eye test.”

  “I still say the trench is man’s greatest invention. My kingdom for a trench.”

  “You can dig all the trenches you want once we get back. My orders.”

  “Isn’t that how they torture prisoners?”

  “My pension to the man who invents a way to fasten your—shit, it’s started! Don’t get your balls blown off, gents!” Ferrell shouted.

  The din of battle filled the air. I could feel the shudder of distant shells exploding.

  I turned my attention to Yonabaru. After what happened in PT, maybe my dream was just a dream, but if Yonabaru died by my side at the beginning of the battle, I’d never forgive myself. I replayed the events of the dream in my head. The javelin had come from two o’clock. It had flown right through the camouflage screen, leaving it in tatters, all about a minute after the battle started, give or take.

  I tensed my body, ready to be knocked down at any moment.

  My arms were shaking. An itch developed in the small of my back. A wrinkle in my inner suit pressed against my side.

  What are they waiting for?

  The first round didn’t hit Yonabaru.

  The shot that was supposed to have killed him was headed for me instead. I didn’t have time to move a millimeter. I’ll never forget the sight of that enemy javelin flying straight at me.

  5

  The paperback I’d been reading was beside my pillow.

  It was a mystery novel about an American detective who was supposed to be some sort of expert on the Orient. I had my index finger wedged into a scene where all the key players meet for dinner at a Japanese restaurant in New York.

  Without rising, I looked carefully around the barracks. Nothing had changed. The swimsuit pinup still had the prime minister’s head. The radio with the busted bass grated out music from the top bunk; from beyond the grave a singer admonished us against crying over a lost love. After waiting to be sure the DJ would read the weather report in her bubblegum voice, I sat up.

  I shifted my weight as I sat on the edge of the bed.

  I pinched my arm as hard as I could. The spot I pinched started to turn red. It hurt like a bitch. Tears blurred my vision.

  “Keiji, sign this.”

  Yonabaru craned his neck over the side of the top bunk.

  “. . .”

  “What’s the matter? Still asleep?”

  “Nah. You need my signature? Sure.”

  Yonabaru disappeared from view.

  “Mind if I ask something a little weird?”

  “What? I just need you to sign on the dotted line.” His voice came from over the bed frame. “Don’t need you to write anything else. No funny drawings of the lieutenant on the back or nothin’.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I dunno. It’s what I did the first time I signed.”

  “Don’t start comparing—ah, forget it. What I wanted to ask was, the attack’s tomorrow, right?”

  “Sure. That’s not the kinda thing they go changin’ up.”

  “You’ve never heard of anyone reliving the same day over and over, have you?”

  There was a pause before he replied. “You sure you’re awake? The day after yesterday’s today. The day after today is tomorrow. If it didn’t work like that, we’d never get to Christmas or Valentine’s Day. Then we’d be fucked. Or not.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “Listen. There’s nothin’ to tomorrow’s operation.”

  “. . . Right.”

  “Sweat it too much, you’ll turn into a feedhead—end up losing your mind before they even get a chance to blow your brains out.”

  I stared blankly at the aluminum piping of the bed frame.

  When I was a kid, the war against the Mimics had already started. Instead of cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers, we fought aliens using toy guns that fired spring-loaded plastic bullets. They stung a little when they hit, but that was all. Even up close they barely hurt. I always played the hero, taking the hit for the team. I’d spring out courageously into the line of fire, absorbing one bullet after another. I did a little jump with each successive hit, performing an impromptu interpretive dance. I was really good at it. Inspired by the hero’s death, his comrades would launch a bold counterattack. With his noble sacrifice, he’d ensured humanity’s salvation. Victory would be declared, and the kids who’d been the bad guys would come back to the human side and everyone would celebrate. There was no game like it.

  Pretending to be a hero slain in battle was one thing. Dying a hero in a real war was another. As I got older, I understood the difference, and I knew I didn’t wanna die. Not even in a dream.

  Some nightmares you can’t wake up from, no matter how many times you try. Me, I was trapped in a nightmare, and no matter how many times I woke up, I was still trapped. That I knew I was caught in a loop I couldn’t break out of was the worst part of all. I fought back panic.

  But was it really happening to me again?

  The same day I’d already lived through twice was unfolding again around me. Or maybe it was all a nightmare, after all. Of course things would be happening the way I remembered them. It was all in my head, so why not?

  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.

&nbs
p; 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.”

  “No—I mean, yeah.”

  “Well, which is it?”

  The clock was ticking. If I wasn’t out of here now, I’d be dead tomorrow. I didn’t have time to stand around grabbing potatoes—or anything else for that matter. But something else was kicking in, an attraction I’d felt for this girl since the first time I’d met her, right after my posting at the base.

  I sat there on the ground, stalling and pretending to be in pain.

  I was just about to give her my answer when I heard the sound of precisely measured footsteps approaching from behind.

  “What are you doing?” came a growl like a hound from the gates of Hell. Ferrell.

  He’d appeared from around the corner of the barracks and was now surveying the potatoes strewn across the concrete path with disapproval.

  “I-I was pushing my cart, and—”

  “This your mess, Kiriya?”

  “Sir, yes sir!” I scrambled to my feet. A wave of vertigo washed over me. He rolled his eyes and fixed his gaze on me.

  “S-Sir?”

  “You’re hurt. Let me take a look.”

  “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

  Ferrell stepped closer and touched my head, right at the hairline.

  A sharp
pain shot across my scalp. His sausage-like fingers pried open the wound. Warm blood spurted from my forehead to the beat of an unseen rock band. The stream ran lazily down the side of my nose, touched the corner of my mouth, then hung briefly on the tip of my chin until a steady drip drip drip began. A rose of fresh blood blossomed on the concrete. The sharp smell of iron filled my nostrils. Rachel gasped.

  “Hrmm. Nice, clean entry wound. What’d you hit it on?”

  Rachel stepped in. “My cart fell over. I’m sorry.”

  “Is that how it happened?”

  “Actually, I’m the one who ran into her, but yeah, pretty much.”

  “Right. Well, it’s not as bad as it looks. You’ll be fine,” Ferrell said, giving the back of my head a playful slap. A spray of blood flew from my brow, staining my shirt. Leaving me where I was, he walked over to the corner of the barracks and shouted, loud enough to scare the cicadas off the walls, “Yonabaru! Get your butt out here!”

  “There some soldierin’ needs doin’? I’m here to—oh. Morning, Rachel. Sergeant, another fine day in the corps, I trust? So fine, it looks like the concrete up and sprouted potatoes.”

  “Shut your piehole and get some men out here to pick these up.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Well he’s not going to be picking anything up, is he?” Ferrell nodded in my direction.

  Yonabaru gaped. “Dude, what hit you? You look like you went twenty in the cage with a three-hundred-pound Irishman.” To the sergeant: “Wait, that means Keiji’s the one who knocked all these over?” Back to me: “Helluva way to start the day, goin’ and ruinin’ a guy’s morning like that.”

  “What’s the matter, don’t you want to help?”

  “Don’t be silly! For you, I’d pick up anything. Potatoes, pumpkins, land mines—”

  “Enough. Is there anyone in this lousy excuse for a platoon whose head isn’t lodged securely up his asshole?”

  “That hurts, Sarge. You watch. I’ll bring the hardest workin’ men in the 17th.”

  “Kiriya! Quit standin’ around like a scarecrow and get your butt over to the infirmary! You’re excused from today’s PT.”