All You Need Is Kill

160 Pages·2009·1.04 MB·English

by  Hiroshi Sakurazaka

All You Need Is Kill © 2004 by Hiroshi Sakurazaka
All rights reserved. First published in Japan in 2004 by SHUEISHA Inc., Tokyo Cover Illustration by
yoshitoshi ABe
English translation © VIZ Media, LLC
No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written
permission from the copyright holders.
HAIKASORU
Published by
VIZ Media, LLC
295 Bay Street San Francisco, CA 94133
www.haikasoru.com ISBN: 978-1-4215-4244-7
Haikasoru eBook edition
CONTENTS
Chapter-1
Private Kiriya
Chapter-2
Sergeant Ferrell
Chapter-3
Full Metal Bitch
Chapter-4
Killer Cage
Afterword
About the Author

1
When the bullets start flying, it’s only a matter of time before fear catches up
with a soldier.
There you are, steel death whizzing past in the air.
Distant shells thunder low and muddy, a hollow sound you feel more than
hear. The close ones ring high and clear. They scream with a voice that rattles
your teeth, and you know they’re the ones headed for you. They cut deep into
the ground, throwing up a veil of dust that hangs there, waiting for the next
round to come ripping through.
Thousands of shells, burning through the sky—slices of metal no bigger than
your finger—and it only takes one to kill you. Only takes one to turn your best
buddy into a steaming side of meat.
Death comes quick, in the beat of a heart, and he ain’t picky about who he
takes.
The soldiers he takes quick—before they know what hit ’em—they’re the
lucky ones. Most die in agony, their bones shattered, their organs shredded,
leaking a sea of blood onto the ground. They wait alone in the mud for Death to
steal up behind them and wring out the last drops of life with his icy hands.
If there’s a heaven, it’s a cold place. A dark place. A lonely place.
I’m terrified.
I grip the trigger with stiff fingers; my arms shake as I send a rain of scorching
steel down onto the enemy. The rifle kicks as I fire it. Vunk. Vunk. Vunk. A beat
steadier than my heart. A soldier’s spirit isn’t in his body. It’s in his weapon. The
barrel warms until it glows, the heat turning fear into anger.
Fuck the brass and their fucking pathetic excuse for air support!
Fuck the suits and their plans that aren’t worth a damn once the shit starts
flying!
Fuck the artillery for holding back on the left flank!
Fuck that bastard who just got himself killed!
And more than all of ’em, fuck anything and everything aiming at me! Wield
your anger like a steel fist and smash in their faces.
If it moves, fuck it!
I have to kill them all. Stop them from moving.
A scream found its way through my clenched teeth.
My rifle fires 450 20mm rounds per minute, so it can burn through a clip fast.
But there’s no point holding back. It don’t matter how much ammo you have left
when you’re dead. Time for a new magazine.
“Reload!”
The soldier I was shouting to was already dead. My order died in the air, a
meaningless pulse of static. I squeezed my trigger again.
My buddy Yonabaru caught one of the first rounds they fired back—one of
those javelins. Hit him straight on, tore right through his Jacket. The tip came
out covered in blood, oil, and some unidentifiable fluids. His Jacket did a danse
macabre for about ten seconds before it finally stopped moving.
There was no use calling a medic. He had a hole just below his chest nearly
two centimeters across, and it went clean through his back. The friction had
seared the wound at the edges, leaving a dull orange flame dancing around the
opening. It all happened within the first minute after the order to attack.
He was the kind of guy that liked to pull rank on you over the stupidest shit, or
tell you who’d done it in a whodunit before you’d finished the first chapter. But
he didn’t deserve to die.
My platoon—146 men from the 17th Company, 3rd Battalion, 12th Regiment,
301st Armored Infantry Division—was sent in to reinforce the northern end of
Kotoiushi Island. They lifted us in by chopper to ambush the enemy’s left flank
from the rear. Our job was to wipe out the runners when the frontal assault
inevitably started to push them back.
So much for inevitable.
Yonabaru died before the fighting even started.
I wondered if he suffered much.
By the time I realized what was going on, my platoon was smack dab in the
middle of the battle. We were catching fire from the enemy and our own troops
both. All I could hear were screams, sobbing, and “Fuck!” Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
The profanities were flying as thick as the bullets. Our squad leader was dead.
Our sergeant was dead. The whir of the rotors on the support choppers was long
gone. Comms were cut off. Our company had been torn to shreds.
The only reason I was still alive was because I’d been taking cover when
Yonabaru bought it.
While the others stood their ground and fought, I was hiding in the shell of my
Jacket, shaking like a leaf. These power suits are made of a Japanese composite
armor plating that’s the envy of the world. They cover you like white on rice. I
figured that if a shell did make it past the first layer, it’d never make it past the
second. So if I stayed out of sight long enough, the enemy would be gone when I
came out. Right?
I was scared shitless.
Like any recruit fresh out of boot camp I could fire a rifle or a pile driver, but I
still didn’t know how to do it worth a damn. Anyone can squeeze a trigger.
Bang! But knowing when to fire, where to shoot when you’re surrounded? For
the first time I realized I didn’t know the first thing about warfare.
Another javelin streaked past my head.
I tasted blood in my mouth. The taste of iron. Proof that I was still alive.
My palms were clammy and slick inside my gloves. The vibrations of the
Jacket told me the battery was almost out of juice. I smelled oil. The filter was
on its last legs, and the stench of the battlefield was fighting its way into my suit,
the smell of enemy corpses like the smell of crumpled leaves.
I hadn’t felt anything below my waist for a while. It should have hurt where
they hit me, but it didn’t. I didn’t know whether that was good or bad. Pain lets
you know you’re not dead yet. At least I didn’t have to worry about the piss in
my suit.
Out of fuel-air grenades. Only thirty-six 20mm slugs left. The magazine
would be empty in five seconds. My rocket launcher—which they gave each of
us only three rockets for anyway—got itself lost before I could even fire the