Day of the Damned Read Online Free PDF Page A

need telling. Of course I’m facing death. I’ve faced it every day of my life. It’s what keeps me alive.
    He translates my reply slowly.
    Beside me, Lieutenant Bonafont nods. Sweat beads his face, dark patches disfigure his uniform. The heat rises with every fraction of an inch the sun climbs in the sky. And the lieutenant’s been holding his gun to their chief’s head for five minutes. But if he stinks of sweat and alcohol, he doesn’t stink of fear.
    Their leader unwraps his face.
    He has tattoos, like his translator, although their ink is fading. His beard has gone grey in places. Half of his teeth are missing when he grins. Those that remain are yellow enough to be old bones, and his breath smells sour.
    ‘How old?’ he demands.
    The gun my lieutenant holds on him might as well not exist.
    His translator relays the question. Just as he relays my answer.
    I tell their leader his world is prettier than mine. He says that’s why he wants it back.
    ‘What happened then?’ Aptitude asks.
    ‘We leave at noon with a single camelback of water between us. It takes eight days to reach Fort Libidad, which was where we started. For the last three of those I’m supporting my lieutenant. For the last, I carry him on my back.’
    ‘Fuck,’ she says.
    ‘Aptitude.’ Debro’s voice is sharp.
    ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I know. All the same . . .’
    Anton reaches for his wine. Lunch hasn’t begun and his glass is almost empty. He’s soaking up the alcohol in his gut with hunks of bread torn from a fat loaf the size and shape of a small rock. Aptitude’s contribution to the meal.
    ‘This is good,’ Anton says.
    Aptitude scowls.
    We’re supposed to know it’s good. She made it.
    A waft of garlic hits us the moment the door opens. An old woman whose name I don’t know carries in a serving dish, four plates and a bowl of water with petals floating in it.
    ‘Gathered these myself,’ she says, placing the dish on the table.
    ‘Aptitude,’ Debro says, ‘how many?’
    The girl’s good manners fight her wish to say none.
    ‘What are they?’ I ask.
    I mean, I know what they look like. But I’m assuming this is a bluff and the snail shells are stuffed with pine nuts or something fancy. It’s not a bluff, they really are snails.
    Won’t be my first, of course.
    But the last time I was starving and my sister told me if I didn’t eat them I’d die of hunger anyway.
    ‘Sven?’ Debro says.
    I hold out my plate. She has that effect on me.
    I can kill without thinking. Run until my ankles are raw and my boots full of blood. And I can smash any barrier that pain tries to put in my way. But have Debro offer me snails . . .
    ‘What?’ Aptitude asks.
    Anton’s grinning.
    We’re halfway through the first course when the old woman returns to whisper in Debro’s ear. Debro glances at Anton, who follows both women out of the room.
    ‘Subtle,’ Aptitude says.
    Her smile fades when they return. Must be the man behind them.
    Tall and bearded, he’s older than Anton, who’s older than me. A scar runs down his right cheek. Since it would cost little to remove, choice obviously keeps it there. He’s wearing uniform with the purple flashes of a staff officer. The flashes are edged with pewter thread. A wolf skin is draped over one shoulder.
    ‘Shadow’s here in his official capacity.’
    ‘Although it’s always a pleasure . . .’ The words drawl from his lips. This man is high clan. One of the oldest families. People like him talk only to their own. I might as well be furniture.
    ‘He’s been asking about smugglers,’ Debro adds. ‘Apparently they might have crashed near here. Don’t suppose you’ve heard about it?’
    ‘No one’s said a thing,’ Aptitude says firmly.
    Anton ignores the question. ‘General Luc,’ he says, ‘may I introduce Lieutenant Sven Tveskoeg, Obsidian Cross, Second Class.’
    The man stares at me.
    And I remember why his brigade is called the Grey-Eyed Boys.
    They have their irises