Devastation Road Read Online Free PDF Page A

shaking gun with little more than curious suspicion. There was a dried smear of mud across each cheek and another across his forehead. His trousers were dusty at the knees, and
he wore a khaki-coloured shirt and black scuffed shoes. The jacket that had been draped over Owen must have been the boy’s too; it had darker patches curling at the elbows. A tatty canvas bag
lay beside him, with loose pockets and buckles, and something drawn on it in faded red ink.
    The boy shuffled and tilted his head, chewing on his lips as if he had something sour in his mouth.
    Owen took a step closer. ‘What do you want?’
    Instantly the boy was on his feet and much taller than he had expected. He unleashed a torrent of words and sounds that Owen couldn’t understand. He came closer and Owen backed away. He
was still talking, fast.
    ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’
    ‘
Hledal jsem vás,
’ the boy shouted. ‘
Dva dny. Dva dny!
’
    ‘For God’s sake . . .’ Owen stumbled backwards over the jacket.
    The boy gave him a hard shove and then another, and then grabbed at Owen’s gun. Owen pulled it away and made for the trees, but before he knew it the boy had twisted him around with
surprising force, tipping him over his foot and bringing him to the ground so that he hit it hard with a gasp and was winded. The boy snatched the gun from his hand, unleashing another string of
words that Owen didn’t understand.
    He stood over Owen, pointing the gun.
    ‘All right, all right,’ said Owen, submitting. He was on his back and still breathless. ‘Look, I don’t know who you are or what you want but I don’t have anything.
I promise.’
    He could see then that the boy was shaking. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye and then, turning away, he threw the pistol down at Owen’s side. He said something but the venom was
gone. He took a few deep breaths as he paced away and then, finding some self-control, came back. He looked down at Owen and then nodded, and Owen hauled himself up on to his elbows. The boy
signalled at the fire.
    ‘
Máte hlad?
’ he said. His anger had almost entirely drained but his frown still puckered. Whatever had happened between them was over. The faintest smile of
acceptance flickered across his face.
    They sat cross-legged across the fire from each other, the boy’s eyes interrogating Owen as they both hungrily ate. Owen couldn’t make him out. Using a small flick
knife, the boy had cut the meat from the animal with a swift and practised butchery that was equally impressive and disturbing, before serving the slices in wooden bowls with a watery broth and
bits of root vegetable that had been simmering in a pan. Owen didn’t know whether to be afraid or thankful. The food was slowly reviving him but doing little to quell his unease.
    Did he know the boy? Had he forgotten? He wondered if more days had fallen away into the abyss. Nothing about the boy looked familiar, yet still he stared with an unflinching curiosity. Only
occasionally did he get up to serve more broth or carve more meat from what Owen hoped was a rabbit and not a small cat. He poked encouragement into the fire while Owen discreetly felt in his
pockets: pistol, paper, button, map. He pulled out the scrap of paper. There were notes he’d written on it in pencil – the words MAX and SAGAN and HARRY and HAWKERS – but nothing about a boy.
    The boy lifted the bowl and drank the dregs, his dark eyes like polished wood still fixed on Owen.
    Not an imp, he thought, but a bird, in the way he cocked his head or turned it at every sound. He had a nervy alertness, as if he and everything around them was balanced on a wire.
    He untied a canister from his belt and, without saying a word, offered it. Owen sniffed it and then took a sip. The water was warm and stale but he took another mouthful and handed it back. The
boy took a swig himself and refastened the cap.
    ‘Do I know you?’ Owen asked.
    The boy said nothing.
    ‘Do you