Divinity Road Read Online Free Page B

site, is it?
    True. Still, I can put up with the stench. It’s not going to kill me.
    Maybe not, though it’s what it might attract that’s more the problem.
    What’re you talking about?
    Dead bodies. Carrion. Hyenas, lion. Think about it.
    Here? You sure? He looks around doubtfully. He’s suddenly aware that most of the day has gone, that it’s only a few hours until sunset. The thought of spending the night here alone is terrifying.
    Chin up. Someone might turn up at any moment. Still, just to be on the safe side, it wouldn’t do any harm to have another look around, see what you can find that might be useful if you do have to leave. Pack a proper bag. Better safe than sorry, eh?
    And with that, he’s up on his feet, sets about emptying out a backpack he’d noticed wedged between a section of wing flap and a thorny shrub close to the section of storage fuselage.
    He slings it over his shoulder, sets off on yet another scavenging mission.
    It takes him an hour to fill his bag. At one point, when he finds someone’s first aid kit, he stops to take some aspirin, swabs the bloodied side of his face with cotton wool doused in disinfectant, washes off the worst of the grime and gore from his various cuts and scratches. Soon after that he strikes gold. Away near what may once have been the cockpit, he finds a green plastic box marked
    Emergency Survival Kit , cracked but still intact. He extracts a compass, a heliograph, a safety whistle, a folding knife, first aid dressings and some waterproof matches. He adds his mobile phone to the bag, more for talismanic reasons than from hope of making contact, and a handsome pair of binoculars that he recovers from a leather holdall. He’s also packed the supply of food including a packet of dried fruit, some biltong and a tube of boiled sweets. The backpack’s still only half full, and he fills the remaining space with more bottled water. By the time he’s finished looting, his battered body is utterly exhausted.
    Back in the shade, he checks on the woman, then makes a pillow from a rolled up blanket, lies down on a second blanket next to the tent and closes his eyes. He knows he must rest before attempting further physical activity.
    Later, he stirs. His clothes feel soiled and he suddenly wonders whether he can find his own bag in the storage. He’d travelled light – it’d been a last-minute decision to travel to the funeral – and he’d taken only a small canvas holdall. Back amongst the wreckage, he climbs onto the pile of bags, begins to sort his way through it.
    The large metallic case is lying next to his holdall, so when he first sees it he ignores it, focuses solely on retrieving his own possessions. It’s only when he’s picked out a pair of khaki trousers, an olive, long-sleeved shirt, some clean socks and a pair of trainers, stripped off his filthy gear and re-dressed, that his attention returns to the case. It’s oblong, stainless steel, heavy, over a metre in length and protected by two elaborate-looking combination locks. His eye is caught by the fire-red PROHIBITED ITEM stickers plastered on the front of the case, the yellow SPECIAL ITEM tape wound around the handle.
    He hauls the case out, drags it back to the tree and tries to force the locks with the penknife. Sweat runs down his forehead, stinging his eyes. The buzzing of the flies, the stabbing pain in his head, the obstinacy of the locks all combine to turn his curiosity into fixation, his exhaustion into rage. He gets up, hunts the ground for a suitable rock, carries it back to the shade. He begins to pound at the locks with all his strength.
    For a full five minutes he attacks the locking mechanisms. The casing becomes scratched, dented, loses its smart shine, but the locks remain firm. Blisters are forming on his hand. He stops, looks up, notices the first streaks of dusky orange on the horizon as the sun sinks gradually behind the faraway hills, feels a squeeze of panic in his bowels at the