Cry Havoc Read Online Free PDF

All my life I've tried to play by the rules. I graduated high school, got my college diploma and netted a cushy little office job. I met a nice girl, resisted the temptations of other – sometimes prettier – girls and would probably end up proposing to her within a year or so. I wore the right clothes, went to all the right hot spots, read the right books, and listened to the right music. And yet, somehow, life was still a constant struggle. There was never enough money to last from one paycheck to the next, the bills always required juggling, and every time it seemed like a little extra money had come my way some problem or another would rear its ugly head and require even more cash than what I had on hand. But I kept on with the charade so that my friends would never suspect how precariously I was balanced on the tightrope of finances. I kept on pretending everything was fine while those damn hooligans ran free through the cities, satisfying their hearts' every desire, their every whim. I guarantee none of them smell like piss because they spent the better part of the day waiting in line for a friggin' handout.
    Listen to me. I sound like a spoiled child who can't have that shiny, new toy. I need to get home, get some sleep. Or at least a nice hot cup of coffee if nothing else.
    I round the corner and find myself in a new stretch of alley. Up ahead, there's an old man and he seems to be struggling with his own box. It's smaller than mine, probably only enough for one or two people, but his arms are so frail and his back so bent that I'm sure it feels twice as heavy to him.
    Poor old guy. If the world is this confusing to me, how must it be for him?
    He takes these tiny Geisha-girl steps and I wonder how long it's taken him to make it this far? For every step he takes, I cover three times the distance. He's now so close that I can see the liver spots on the back of his head, the wrinkles creasing his neck, and the way his pants seem to be slowly sliding down his hips as if his belt isn't quite tight enough. I don't know whether he's deaf or trusting, but he never looks over his shoulder to see who's coming up behind him. Not even when I clear my throat in an attempt to announce my presence.
    But why am I feeling sorry for him? He's had a long life, this old timer. I'm sure he's seen his share of hardships, but he won't have to suffer through the madness that's gripped this country much longer. By the looks of him, he's only got six months to a year of life left in him. Tops. He'll probably die peacefully in his sleep while I stand in line for another fucking supply box, reeking of piss again. If, that is, there's even still any supplies to go around. By then the whole world could have gone tits up. And I'm not being dramatic. I really think that's a possibility. The violence grows worse with each passing week. The outbreaks happen more frequently, involve more people. And, as the militia members who brought down the helicopter yesterday prove, in some ways they're getting more organized. Six months from now I might consider myself lucky to have a little box like his. I'll be starving and suffering and he'll be laying peacefully within his grave with not a care in the world.
    I'm just behind him now and I can smell Ben-Gay waft off his body like it was damn cologne. And he still doesn't have a clue I'm there.
    Or maybe he just doesn't care anymore. Maybe he's resigned to the fact that he'll die in this alley. Is that why he took it to begin with? An act of voluntary euthanasia, perhaps? Seems to me he would have felt safer in plain view of the police and soldiers. Not back here in this alley where no one would hear him scream.
    For some reason, I think of the soldier at the little tent who took all my information before gracing me with this box I'm lugging around. What was that he said? That this would be enough to last a week...   if we doled it out wisely? What the hell did that mean anyway? What if we didn't dole it out