Divinity Road Read Online Free Page A

Sudan. Maybe even further north. A long way from home, anyway .
    And then he remembers his mobile phone. It’s still in his breast pocket, flat, silver and sleek. He takes it out, checks whether it’s working. It’s apparently undamaged, but he can’t get a signal. He gets up, limps over to the nearest body, a male flight attendant, takes a deep breath, bends down and begins rifling through his pockets. He’s examined four bodies, tried out two more phones, before he accepts that he’s not going to communicate electronically.
    Back under the shade he feels restless. Despite the heat, the shock, the gore he’s witnessed, he feels the first pangs of hunger.
    If I’m going to be here a while. I’d better sort out some food.
    He heads back to the section of fuselage that contained the meal preparation area. Amongst the remains of the chicken trays and dessert pots, he finds some portions of processed cheese, three or four rolls, a box of cellophaned crackers, packets of peanuts, a stash of undamaged water bottles. He empties a plastic carrier bag lying nearby and fills it with the provisions.
    In the earlier sweep he’d come across other scattered food – some sweet biscuits, more crackers and peanuts – and he limps off to fetch them, adding them to his bag.
    On the way back to his tree, he comes to an abrupt halt. On his previous sweep, away next to a section of the aircraft’s wing, he’d noticed an old-fashioned rucksack with what looked like a tent strapped to the frame. He totters over, retrieves the bright orange baggage, carries it back to his base.
    As he side-steps one of the bodies that he’s recently covered in a navy-blue blanket, he notices an almost imperceptible movement from beneath the fabric. He stops, bends down, pulls back the blanket more in hope than expectation.
    The body, that of a middle-aged woman, is lying face up. She looks Middle Eastern, short black hair greying at the roots, thick eyebrows, olive-skinned, faint downy hairs on her upper lip, a large brown mole on her chin. Her mouth is slightly open, her lips and teeth stained with fresh scarlet blood. And as he crouches down and peers at her face, a small pink bubble forms between her lips, then pops feebly.
    Jesus. She’s alive.
    He racks his brains for hazy, half-forgotten first aid directions. Don’t move her. Don’t give her anything to drink. Call an ambulance and reassure the casualty while you wait for its arrival. He almost smiles.
    He swipes away a cloud of flies, considers what to do.
    If I get the tent up in the shade, she can rest there. It’ll keep the flies off her at least. I’ll have to carry her over and she’ll just have to take her chances.
    Despite the damaged ribs, the bruised legs, he hurries back to his tree and sets about erecting the tent. It’s an amateur effort, the tent pegs refusing to penetrate the unyielding soil, but he eventually gets it raised. He returns to the woman and tries to pick her up but in his weakened state he can’t manage. In the end he clasps her under her armpits and drags her to the tent, pulls her inside, lays her gently on the bed of blankets he’s prepared. Apart from the bloody bubble, she shows no other signs of life.
    Disregarding his earlier directives, he fetches a bottle of water, tries to pour some into her mouth, but most of it trickles down her chin. He feels for a pulse, cannot find one, yet he’s sure she’s still alive. He zips up the flap of the tent, sits down outside it. The heat’s reached its zenith and the fetid odour is becoming increasingly difficult to bear. He pictures the stomachs of the other bodies swelling, notices the clouds of flies thickening. He cannot relax, his senses overwhelmed by the stench, the relentless buzzing.
    So you’re just going to wait it out, are you?
    You got a better idea?
    Well, you might want to consider making a move.
    Really? What about the cavalry?
    Yeah, well, they might come. But in the meantime, this is no picnic