Cry Havoc Read Online Free PDF Page A

penetrating my skull.  Even though my back ached from carting this huge box around, I tried to rise to my full height, to puff my chest out in the hopes that it might be mistaken for muscle. Don't get me wrong: I don't think I could be considered in any way, shape, or form to be weak. A little out of shape maybe. Forty hours of pushing a mouse around every week for the last seven years will do that to a man. Your belly ends up getting a little rounder and you lose some of the tone that used to make your biceps as taut as piano wires. But out here on the streets, where violence could break out as easily as you might sneeze, every little advantage helped. So if there was any way I could make it seem like there might be an easier target then, by God, I was going to take it.
    Still, I didn't like being out in the open. I kept thinking that I heard someone's footsteps running up behind me, imaging someone's breath on the back of my neck, mistaking my own shadow for someone else's. Every few seconds I stole a glance over my shoulder and felt a little of the tension in my shoulders release when I realized that the other people were still just standing on the sidewalk or were ducking into their own houses and apartments. So I continued walking. But within a few minutes I wondered: is that the echo of my own footsteps bouncing off the buildings? Or someone else's? Someone trying to mirror my pace, to disguise the sound of their approach beneath my own little noises? And then the entire scene would replay itself like a bad loop film.
    So that's why I'm standing here now, glancing back and forth from the street ahead to the little alley to my left. The street has the advantage of being patrolled by police and soldiers; but there's still no guarantee that I won't be attacked. When the violence flares, the people taking part in it are like a packs of wild dogs. They pounce upon the victim with speed and cunning, their ferocity and the element of surprise helping to isolate their prey even further. I've seen this time and time again on news broadcasts and reality cop shows. One moment it's just like any other day. Everything is quiet, life goes on as it always has. Next thing you know, a mob of people explode in a flurry of aggression, flailing with fists and feet and teeth and nails. If it's not put down quickly, it grows like a force of nature...  like a whirlwind that sucks people into its vortex...  and suddenly the entire street is filled with screams and breaking glass and the blood begins to flow long before the first sirens ever start to respond.
    But if I cut down the alley there's less chance of being seen. Fewer people to covet my box of goodies. And, if I'm not mistaken, I can actually network through these alleys and probably cut a good ten minutes off the trip back home. So that settles it: the less time I'm out here in the streets the better.
    The alley smells like rotten vegetables and is lined with overflowing dumpsters. It's been close to a week and a half since I've seen a garbage truck in this town and trash is starting to pile up everywhere. When the dumpsters can't hold any more litter, people just start piling the bags up around them. Stray dogs and rats come along, shred the thin plastic with their claws and teeth, strew refuse all over the place, and make a damn mess out of everything. On top of this, the bricks walls are covered with graffiti, loops and swirls of some cryptic alphabet that I can never hope to comprehend, and I start to wonder how I'll explain the sour stench of urine wafting from my pants once I get home? Can I really tell Polly and Jane that I stood in line for so long that I pissed myself? That I reverted into nothing more than a small child who couldn't control even the simplest of body functions?
    In a word, this sucks. It feels like I'm the one being punished while the rest of the world just does whatever the hell they want, takes whatever the hell they want whenever the hell they want it.