Cry Havoc Read Online Free PDF Page B

wisely? Was it too much of a stretch of imagination to think that might be a possibility? I mean, it’s not like anyone give me any instructions with this damn box. No one said only eat x amount of food every x amount of hours and you'll be fine. No, I was just given what feels like a container of bricks and basically told to make it last.
    And this old man? There's a good chance that he could drop dead of a heart attack at any minute, the way he's straining with that box of his. I can see the muscles and veins standing out on his neck, can now see how his arms tremble beneath the weight, and can hear his wheezing breath. Even if he does manage to make it back to his home, what happens if he dies tonight? All that food just sitting around in his pantry while flies lay eggs in his eyes...  all that food going to waste.
    I realize I'm holding my own box directly over my head and my own muscles are quivering with exertion. For a moment, I'm confused: why the hell am I walking like this? What the hell am I doing?
    Then, without another thought, I'm bringing my arms down with as much force as I can muster. The edge of my box slams into the back of the old man's head and I see a bright red spray of blood spurt from his scalp as his body pitches forward. His box skids across the alley and he's sprawled on his belly, feeling the back of his head with hands that came away warm and sticky with his own blood.
    He rolls over and his eyes are wide with fear, magnified and distorted by the thick lenses of his glasses. He lips move like he's searching for words but no sound escapes from his frail throat.
    I feel like I'm about to throw up. What the fuck have I done? Why did I do that? What the hell was I thinking?
    Tears well up in the corners of the old guy's eyes as he starts scrambling backward and I see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he struggles for a breath.
    Shit . He's going to start screaming. Start yelling for help.
    What if someone hears him?
    What if a soldier or cop is patrolling the other end of the alley?
    They'll kill me. Shoot me dead on the spot, no questions asked.
    The man's lips quiver and I know the scream is working its way up through his lungs.
    I can't let him scream.
    I don't want to die.
    I don't want to be killed in a dirty fucking alley with pants that smell of piss.
    I don't want to die .
    My box thumps to the ground as I launch myself at the old man. My body crashes into his and I feel the air whoosh from his lungs with a small moan as my knee grinds into his groin. He falls backward again and his throat is in my hands and it feels so thin and fragile, like a chicken bone really. Squeezing, compressing so tightly that my knuckles turn white and my hands throb with pain.
    His eyes bulge as if I'm about to pop them right out of his head and his lips look kind of bluish now and I squeeze harder, feeling the vibration of bones cracking through my palms. Blood begins to trickle from the corners of his mouth and suddenly he's not struggling anymore, not clawing at my hands and clothes with arthritic fingers. His arms hang limply by his sides and his eyes look dull and glassy. But I have to make sure...  I can't risk him telling the authorities what happened, can't take the chance that even a single breath might be hiding down there in his lungs. So I   squeeze his throat until I'm sure there's no chance he'll ever get back up again.
    I look over my shoulder, half expecting to see someone running down the alley toward me. But there's no one in either direction. No witnesses to what I've just done.
    Standing, I brush the dust off my pants and shirt. It doesn't seem right to just leave the old guy laying out in the alley like this....  I toss some of the bags out of one of the dumpsters, just enough so that I can hoist his body over the side and bury him beneath the mounds of garbage. This whole place smells like rot, anyway. No one will ever notice. No one will wonder what that strange smell is as his