Anthony Puyo's The Compelled

by Anthony Puyo

  Charlie murmurs, “This should keep us warm tonight.”

  Craig tired, sits back and opens his backpack pulling some crackers, cheese, and drinks he had gotten from the grocery store. He offers to Charlie who gladly takes him up on it.

  Charlie chortles, “Is that a Bye-Bye-Kitty backpack you got there?”

  Craig chuckles back, answering sarcastically. “It’s a fashion statement.” They both enjoy a relaxed snicker. The first either has had in the last couple of days.

  After eating, Craig lies using his folded arms for a pillow. Charlie, across from him, sits up against a wall smoking a cigarette.

  Craig peers into the flames of the fire and asks, “Where were you when this all started? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  The tip of the cigarette brightly lights as Charlie takes a drag. He gazes straight up at the ceiling. Ravaging noises down in the store are heard, which breaks their attention for a moment, but they quickly disregard it. It has become a commonplace for looting. It started shortly after the incident, and till things straighten out—it’ll stay common.

  Charlie answers. “I was at the station on University, talking to Jim Howard—”

  Craig interrupts, “The Chief?”

  Charlie squints his eyes, “Yup . . . You know him,” scratching his temple with his thumb—smoke drifting up above his hand.

  “No, but I know of him. My wife’s sister went to high school with him. I was told he was a good man.”

  “Well he is . . . or was, I should say.”

  Craig takes a glance over to Charlie. “He turned?”

  “No . . . he didn’t turn.” He flicks his cigarette and snorts his running nose. “I was doing a ride-along with him, and we ended up there. We were talking about my hunting trip last weekend. He’s big on hunting you know. We'd go out from time to time. Hunting everything: bears, boars, wild turkey, you name it. Don’t waste any kills. Jim’s not big on wasting, neither am I.”

  Charlie pauses, putting his cigarette out by twisting the bud on the plank wood floor. He continues with a very serious and reflective tone. “I was telling him about this nice whitetail that my brother Billy bagged up in the Sierras, when I happened to notice the clock on the wall behind him hit three o'clock. I would say ten, fifteen minutes after—we heard gunfire.

  “It was a shock no doubt. Who shoots in a precinct? Jim pulled his gun. We were in the Deputy Chief's office with the door closed. He crouched down, turned and opened the door.

  “Jim thought some nut came in there trying to get revenge or something. But neither of us was prepared to witness what we were about to . . . cops shooting cops. In what world? You tell me? Jim didn't know what was going on. Shit, I was just a bystander, didn’t have any advice on the matter. Jim did what he felt was right. He went out his door, stood up, and yelled ‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’ That proved to be a bad Idea, he was pumped full of lead where he stood—right in front of me.

  “I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know who was good, who was bad. I stayed low, took Jim’s keys from his dead body, and escaped by jumping out the window. Thought I was lucky to have made it out alive, but then I saw the situation was the same out there.

  “I fled in some bushes, waiting—watching. Tried to get a handle on the situation. I made my way to Jim’s car, barely managing to get there. It was horrible. I escaped several crashes on the way home. When I arrived there, I found myself defending it. That’s when I realized something vile was happening . . . something that was, for lack of a better word, paranormal.

  “I got a call from Jay, who’s a policeman. He said his family was killed and wanted to come over. We watched the news to see what was going on. It was crazy. This shit was apparently happening everywhere.

  “Knowing it wouldn’t be long before government instituted martial law. We decided to help out, get things in order. Unfortunately, Jay didn’t make it. He was killed defending the chest.”

  Craig sighs in sympathy. After a moment, he says, “It’s amazing isn’t it?”

  “What’s that?”

  The shadows from the fire flames move along the room.

  Craig locks eyes with Charlie.” How everything we knew . . . we were use to . . . gone—instantly. With no reason; nor care. What we need—want—it doesn’t even matter.”

  Charlie nods in agreement. “You’re telling me, Fate can be a bitch.”

  “And your brother?”

  “Haven’t heard from him. I don’t want to think the worse, but it’s kind of hard not to. I’m sure I’m not the only one in this predicament. I know you got a story—but excuse me for sounding rude, but I can’t hear it right now. My mind is about to implode with this bull. We should get some sleep. It'll do us both some good.”

  The morning is chilly, crisp. A beam of sunlight makes its way through the ceiling opening, forming a square over Craig’s chest and face while he sleeps. His body tenses, moving uncomfortably. Sweat droplets try to form, but the cold air dries them. Hollers in the distance, and an explosion combined with a night terror, wakes him.

  “Get off me!” Craig spasms, swinging his arms wildly in front him. Up on his elbows in a panic, the frightened man scans around the room.

  It was just a dream! Calm down.

  He lays back down with a thud and takes a deep breath. He blocks the sun out with his hand. A few seconds later, his eyesight clears. He glances to where Charlie was last night. It lies empty.

  Charlie, in military fashion and in blood, is already awake—if he even slept. His nature probably kept him up, keeping watch, configuring. He’s not a man to stay still.

  Craig walks out onto the roof. He sees the back of Charlie who has one foot on the building’s roof curb, leaning on that knee. He overlooks the city, smoking a cigarette.

  He looks comfortable, Craig thinks.

  Ten feet away from Charlie, Craig scopes around. A breeze blows through his tight curls. It’s a cold wind, hard on the skin.

  Dark smoke-stacks litter the city’s backdrop, and in harmony, occasional gun blasts echo in the distance, giving the scenery a bit of flare. Around where they’re at, it’s quieter than the day before. The violence has mostly moved on from this area.

  “How’s it look?” Craig asks, rubbing his arms for warmth.

  Charlie turns, wearing a good news grin. “We’re clear over here.”

  Craig walks closer to where Charlie is, so he can get a better view of the streets. “What’s happening?”

  “I think they’re following the populace . . . like a water ripple moving away from the source, but in this case, the source is following.” Charlie throws down his cigarette. “I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Okay . . . shoot.”

  “Notice your clothes are full of blood, was curious as to why?”

  Craig puts his hands in his pockets, “Ready for my story now are you?”

  Charlie nods.

  Craig goes through the motions of his story—again. Hating it more with the repeat. He also tells Charlie why he’s heading downtown: to reunite with Melissa and Ryan.

  Charlie has both thumbs tucked in his belt buckle, listening. “Damn, that’s a hell of story. I think we oughta get you some clothes before you’re asked to tell that one again, yeah? There’s a place right next door. Sure you can find something in there.”

  “That would be nice,” Craig exudes, his eyebrows arched.

  “And about your family, I’m sorry about that. I see why you’re determined. I had a family once . . . lost them a long time ago. It’s not something I care to share right now, but I definitely can say, I know where you’re coming from. We’ll leave soon. Just let me try to reach one of the boys out that way. Haven’t had much luck so far.”

  Charlie grabs his CB. He’s been monkeying around with it all morning. Doubt was starting to seep in.

  “Blade Runner, Doc, Darkman, this is West Eagle, do you copy? Does anyone copy?” Only static is heard, and Charlie’s shoulders begin to sag with every secon
d. Before any more hope is lost, there’s an answer.

  “Yes, sir, West Eagle, Blade Runner speaking. Sorry for the delay. We had to handle some business. Got real tricky around here. Sorry to report, Darkman was lost.”

  Charlie truffles his lips. “The poor bastard. We lost Crimson . . . Jay too. Is Doc alright?”

  “Yeah, he’s still kicking. How about you, do you got the package?”

  “Hey, can you give a minute? You just said we lost another from the team.”

  “Well don’t get too sentimental over there. It’s war. We know what happens in war. We show our respect to the fallen by finishing the mission.”

  Mission? Craig thinks.

  Charlie looks at Craig from corner of his eye and turns. His voice stiffens.” Yeah, okay. Will talk about that later. Anyways, that’s a positive on package? And to let you know, I found me some help. And as soon as I can find a vehicle to load the chest in, we’ll be on our way.”

  “Can you run that by me again? I thought I heard you say—”

  Light at first, the air begins to thwart, getting louder and closer quickly. The heavy sound came from above, and as it approaches, the rooftop vibrates.

  The guys look up.

  Two U.S. Apache helicopters pass overhead, roughly fifty feet, pushing wind over them.

  “What’s going on over there?” Blade Runner asks, forgetting his earlier query.

  The choppers fly low enough that the men see the pilot look down at them, but it’s as if they didn’t exist. They keep their path, not slowing for a second.

  “Apaches flying low. Bastards didn’t even nod—ahh fuck ‘em,” Charlie says, over the radio.

  Blade runner replies. “Governments got their own agenda. Don’t expect any help from them anytime soon. ‘We the people’ are on our own.”

  “Looks that way. Well, we got to get going.”

  “Roger that, West Eagle. We’ll be looking out for you.”

  Charlie puts the CB down and turns to Craig, “You call your family yet, Craig?”

  “Phones dead.”

  Charlie points north. “There’s a truck about half a block away from here. Hopefully it has the keys still in it. Along the way I’m sure we’ll find a phone on some unfortunate soul.”

  Craig ditches his wardrobe for some blue khakis, grey t-shirt, black vest-jacket, and a snug pair of sneakers.

  Charlie keeps his hunters outfit; he seems to feel comfortable in it. He did, however, put some new socks on. It was the one part of his body he couldn’t stand if it had something dirty on for too long. It may have brought memories of the painful trench foot he had once gotten in the humid jungles of North Korea.

  Craig and Charlie walk down the ravaged city strip, each holding one side of the chest. It’s a war torn sight. The burning of every kind of material, along with cooked flesh, made the air smell dirty.

  The dead were killed every way imaginable, and the scene, undoubtedly, was becoming the new norm. They lie about like leaves on a lawn on an autumn day, and in a few more, the birds will have their way with them. And soon after that, the flies and the pest would finish the corpses off. It would be a slow process if disposed of this way, and if so, it could ultimately lead to the re-emergence of many long and forgotten diseases.

  The war-veteran and the slender-man press on, on alert. There is still some movement here and there from scavenging looters, but for the most part, it’s quiet where they’re at.

  Craig glimpses down at Charlie Bodine’s hand that carries the chest, wanting to get a better look at the skull over the crossed guns he saw last night in the dark. He’s seen that picture before . . . but where? It’s not coming to him and there’s no point on dwelling, so his brain gives it a rest.

  If the man wanted to tell his story, he would.

  There is no sense in prying. The last time Craig took that path, it came to be a very uncomfortable encounter. One not worth repeating.

  “What do you think is going on, Charlie; do you feel we’re in end times?”

  Charlie, keeping constant head and eye movement, answers, “I’m not much of a believer in those things, and I’m not ready to call it quits. I don’t think you should worry about that too much yourself. Questions like that, the ones with no answers, can get a man off his focus then before he knows it, he’s grave stricken.”

  Craig slows to a stop, forcing Charlie to do the same. “I know what you’re saying, but I’m in it for my family. It would kill me to know there’s no chance for a normal life. This is not what I wanted for my son, Ryan, to be born into. Do you believe the government is going to get this thing solved?”

  “Those are good questions. But you’re asking the wrong man. I hadn’t had much time to think it over. But if I had to bet, I would say as bad as it is, it will sort itself. Government will get the wheels turning again. Now let’s head out. This chest is heavy for one. Secondly, we’re sitting ducks as long as we’re out here. So let’s pick up the pace and get to that truck.”

  5

  A Mother’s Decision

  Melissa, thirty-three, is of normal size with an almost pale white skin. She has brown, wavy hair with thick bounce, thin lips that are stretched like a wide heart, soft face features and a pointy nose. Her smile is warm; her brown eyes are hard shaped—the kind that can reflect sexy or anger on a dime; the way Michelle Pfeiffer can. Overall, she is more than just a pretty woman. She is a loving wife and equally loving mother.

  Her seven-year-old son, Ryan, shared most of her features—with the exception of three. His hair is straight, kept short and neat, cheeks are round, and his eyebrows are straight with a slight arch pointing down towards the brunt of his nose.

  He’s a good kid, respectful, a little ingenuous than some kids but bright in other ways. Him being naive has helped Melissa in this ordeal so far. The woman has had tremendous amount stress placed on her. The world has decayed, and in it, she worries for Ryan, and she worries for Craig, but with Ryan not realizing or grasping the whole situation, she hasn’t had to spend much time calming him. This has assisted her in keeping focus in staying strong for the both of them.

  While Craig and Charlie slept the night before, life wasn’t so cheery for Melissa, Ryan, and Ruben.

  On the basement floor, Melissa lies on a mattress spooning Ryan. The sick boy cuddles in his mom’s warm embrace. He wears his puffy, blue jacket and baby-blue plastic earmuffs with furry wool covers.

  Ruben lies on another mattress a few feet away. He is a husky man, tall in size, clean cut, and in his early forties. He’s a well-mannered, good man that always wears collars or polos. When Jessie was alive, she called him her teddy-bear because of his physical size and likewise of his matching heart.

  Ruben lies to one-side, leaving Jessie’s side empty. Something he always does by habit. Whenever she worked late, he would sleep this way, expecting to hug her sometime in the early morning hours. He never saw a day where he would wake up, and she wouldn’t be there. But that sorrowful day came, then went, but his habit remained. How he misses her. Even with all that is going on, he laments for her. Dreading the upcoming mornings where he will wake wanting to grab for her, and by tendency, will probably do so, but sadly, from now on he will only be grasping the empty spaces of his arms, rather than Jessie’s warm, comfortable body he has come to know for so long.

  Sometimes, it’s the little things people who lose loved-ones miss. Things you get habitual to. At the time, you may not even know you’ve got accustomed to them. Like the smell of someone’s hair, skin, or feel of it. The way they smiled, talked, laughed. Even things that were annoying. Like the way she always wanted that pesky massage when you just got comfy on your side of the bed. Or the way he pinched your side when he wanted to whisper something in your ear. If he only knew how much it hurt, and maybe he did.

  Up until yesterday, Jessie was Ruben’s healthy heart, and later that day—she was gone. You can do the math on that one. But what kind of love would he have for her if he just quit, knowi
ng he had her sister and nephew to look out for. There is still something he can do, something she would have wanted.

  A warm glow hovers over them from the flickering candles. The light ranges from dim to complete darkness beyond where they lie.

  Worn and tired from the physical and mental exhaustion; they sleep.

  All is quiet till an electronic screech is heard.

  Melissa opens her eyes and looks towards the source: a police scanner that sits on the table against the grey bricked wall of the basement.

  Ruben gapes. He sits up quickly.

  It wasn’t the scanner at all, Ruben had turned that off hours ago. So what was it?

  Melissa's sister, Jessie, wasn’t expecting, but she and her husband were definitely planning. They were just very particular and cautious when it came to it. They were looking for the right time to expand the family. It was something they took very seriously. Some would argue—too seriously. But that’s how they were. If it was up to everyone else, they would have been planning their second, third, or fourth child by now.

  For family and friends, it was almost a crime Ruben and Jessie hadn’t conceived. Not just because of their age, but because they knew them as good people, and everyone knew they wanted children. It was obvious to all of them, they would be very loving, great parents.

  On top of the scanner rested a baby monitor. It was given to them last Christmas by Melissa and Craig. A proverbial baby nudge. Looking at it now, it would surely bring tragic thoughts of what could and would have been for Ruben and Jessie.

  Static comes from the monitor, voices follow with sounds of things being searched through: “There’s no food here, or the ones to kill,” a voice says, with a slow sharp tone.