Read Online Necrocide by Jonathan Davison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Davison
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thinking ahead. Hawkins plucked an apple from the table and proceeded to rummage through a series of small pallets containing supply crates stacked in the far corner. Granger decided however to loot the dead soldiers first and Hawkins noticed him rummaging through their clothing.
“What are you doing?” Hawkins asked. As if the situation was not odd enough as it was, his friend had seemed to lose the plot.
“You're not going to find a Luger or anything like that on these guys.” Hawkins sighed as his friend continued his fruitless search for the prized pistol of a German officer.
Hawkins peeled back some protective brown paper from a crate of canned food and plucked an item to inspect more closely. The can seemed to hold his attention as he tried to decipher the label. It was not the foreign language that caught his eye but a sinister looking picture that prominently sat beside it.
“What do you make of that?” Hawkins asked his busy companion, temporarily ceasing the frustrated looting. Granger looked carefully as the can and read slowly as if translating.
“Something rations...do not something...err...something verboten...that's prohibited...something soldiers only...or things to that effect.” George smiled as he had clearly given up. Hawkins frowned.
“What, so they’re rations that only certain soldiers are allowed to eat?” Hawkins' curiosity grew and he began to rummage through the tables contents for a can opener.
“Something like that.” George replied, as vague as possible.
“I'd better have some then!” Hawkins smiled as he held aloft a can opener like a prize at a sporting contest.
Piercing the can, the contents immediately emanated a foul odour which was difficult to describe.
“Jesus!” Hawkins exclaimed as he turned his nose up. Persisting with opening the can, he worked his way around the circumference and used the tool to flip the lid revealing a thick, dark gelatinous jelly which looked similar to congealed blood and smelled almost as bad.
“I can smell that from here!” George remarked as Hawkins offered his nostrils a little closer.
“Glad I’m not a German soldier having to eat this shit!” He spluttered.
“That's probably why there are crates of it left here!” George replied impatiently.
“It's probably engine oil and I've got the translation wrong.” He added.
Hawkins placed the can on the table and tried to forget the stench as it seemed to cling to his clothes.
“There's not much else here. No radio.” Hawkins said as he considered leaving.
“No, best keep moving.” George agreed that lingering there did no one any good.
Emerging from the machine gun nest, they carefully closed the door behind them and considered their options. To the west was Arromanches, a small town which was part of their original route to the port where they were designated initially. There would be at the very least would be locals who may be willing to aid them or conceal them until such time they could rendezvous with other Allied troops. George began to stride off down the dark road until Hawkins called him back with a loud whisper.
“Where are you going?” He inquired.
“I thought we were going to the next town?” George replied befuddled.
“What about Beach?” Hawkins said incredulously.
“What about it, I’ve had enough of it!” George responded.
“No, not 'the' beach, you daft twat, Beach, the young lad.” Hawkins despaired of his friend sometimes.
“Bloody hell. I forgot about him.” George looked up at the dark overcast skies where only one or two twinkles remained of the stars.
“You know we're better off without.” The corporal said his assessment of the young soldier clearly clouded by his performance that morning.
“It's another gun in't it.” Hawkins reminded George that they were but two soldiers in an area sodden with heavily armed enemy forces.
“Stop being right all the bloody time.” George whispered as they headed with pace back to
“What are you doing?” Hawkins asked. As if the situation was not odd enough as it was, his friend had seemed to lose the plot.
“You're not going to find a Luger or anything like that on these guys.” Hawkins sighed as his friend continued his fruitless search for the prized pistol of a German officer.
Hawkins peeled back some protective brown paper from a crate of canned food and plucked an item to inspect more closely. The can seemed to hold his attention as he tried to decipher the label. It was not the foreign language that caught his eye but a sinister looking picture that prominently sat beside it.
“What do you make of that?” Hawkins asked his busy companion, temporarily ceasing the frustrated looting. Granger looked carefully as the can and read slowly as if translating.
“Something rations...do not something...err...something verboten...that's prohibited...something soldiers only...or things to that effect.” George smiled as he had clearly given up. Hawkins frowned.
“What, so they’re rations that only certain soldiers are allowed to eat?” Hawkins' curiosity grew and he began to rummage through the tables contents for a can opener.
“Something like that.” George replied, as vague as possible.
“I'd better have some then!” Hawkins smiled as he held aloft a can opener like a prize at a sporting contest.
Piercing the can, the contents immediately emanated a foul odour which was difficult to describe.
“Jesus!” Hawkins exclaimed as he turned his nose up. Persisting with opening the can, he worked his way around the circumference and used the tool to flip the lid revealing a thick, dark gelatinous jelly which looked similar to congealed blood and smelled almost as bad.
“I can smell that from here!” George remarked as Hawkins offered his nostrils a little closer.
“Glad I’m not a German soldier having to eat this shit!” He spluttered.
“That's probably why there are crates of it left here!” George replied impatiently.
“It's probably engine oil and I've got the translation wrong.” He added.
Hawkins placed the can on the table and tried to forget the stench as it seemed to cling to his clothes.
“There's not much else here. No radio.” Hawkins said as he considered leaving.
“No, best keep moving.” George agreed that lingering there did no one any good.
Emerging from the machine gun nest, they carefully closed the door behind them and considered their options. To the west was Arromanches, a small town which was part of their original route to the port where they were designated initially. There would be at the very least would be locals who may be willing to aid them or conceal them until such time they could rendezvous with other Allied troops. George began to stride off down the dark road until Hawkins called him back with a loud whisper.
“Where are you going?” He inquired.
“I thought we were going to the next town?” George replied befuddled.
“What about Beach?” Hawkins said incredulously.
“What about it, I’ve had enough of it!” George responded.
“No, not 'the' beach, you daft twat, Beach, the young lad.” Hawkins despaired of his friend sometimes.
“Bloody hell. I forgot about him.” George looked up at the dark overcast skies where only one or two twinkles remained of the stars.
“You know we're better off without.” The corporal said his assessment of the young soldier clearly clouded by his performance that morning.
“It's another gun in't it.” Hawkins reminded George that they were but two soldiers in an area sodden with heavily armed enemy forces.
“Stop being right all the bloody time.” George whispered as they headed with pace back to
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