Anthony Puyo's The Compelled

by Anthony Puyo

  One of the shackled young women tugs on the rope, getting the attention of the others. It’s their chance. They make a run while the slavers are distracted. It’s a difficult challenge with them being tied together. Twenty-five feet away, one of them falls, halting the others who try desperately to get her up.

  “Gina, get up!” One screams.

  “Get back here!” one of the men shouts, as they take chase.

  Doc, chewing on his toothpick, looks over at Charlie.

  Charlie’s face tightens. What will it be? It’s now or never. “Oh fuck it!” He gives the signal.

  Doc peers through his scope, having a clear shot on at least two of them—he fires—they drop like demolished structures. Three men take cover. One still gives chase, jumping to the floor behind the running women.

  Charlie struggles to get a clear view because of the girls. He aims and fires at the head of one of the men ducking behind a tree. The window of opportunity was small, but he took it—nailing the man in the temple.

  The others are onto the ambush and begin firing back. The women scream and cry. They stay low, crawling away from their capturers.

  “Kill the girls!” a voice yells out.

  Shots zoom over the women. They lie still, covering their heads. Bullets spray the legs and up the back of one of the girls—killing her there. The deathly shots came from the man lying on the street behind them.

  Charlie, being close enough to the frightened women, gets over, shielding them. He quickly aims his pistol at the man on the ground, unloading a flurry of shots, killing him.

  A bullet zings through the air, burrowing into Charlie’s shoulder. Dropping his gun, he groans and grabs for his wound. Doc crouches over to Charlie’s side.

  “Die, motherfuckers!” one of the last of the two thugs hollers out. Bullets resonate through the air but not towards Charlie or Doc.

  The metal from the cars pierce. Windows from both the vehicle and buildings shatter. Horror filled yelling, sounds from the bandits. The infected have found their way to the fight.

  Doc overlooks a bandit struggling with one of the crazies whose hand wields a wooden-desk leg. The infected gets loose from his grip, smashing the man’s head to a mound of flesh. He hits him over and over, long after he’s dead. Doc, sickened with the overkill, takes the evil one out with multiple shots.

  Charlie gets the remaining girls up. Cutting the ropes from their legs, he calls out for Doc, “Let’s go while they’re occupied.”

  An infected toils with the last of the bandits as Charlie and the others get away. They travel south, towards the industrial side. That’s where Charlie knows Craig is headed.

  The two young ladies are terrified. Tears roll down their dirty cheeks. But they run. The ropes still lock their hands, and dragging ends hang from their legs. But with no options, and filled with fear, they follow the men they know nothing about.

  It can’t be worse than where we were. One of them thinks.

  Charlie and company beeline about a block before they stop and take a breath. They glance back. Seeing no one is on the chase, they sigh with relief. After a moment, they gaze around their surroundings. Across the street is a paint shop. It shares a space with latching businesses.

  “No one will expect us to hide in there,” Charlie utters.

  They cross the lane. Doc kicks the door in, and they quickly go inside.

  At first, there isn’t much talking between them. The late-teen girls look baffled, and they’re obviously scared. They stand there, crying, gazing over the men.

  They’ll be like the rest? One thinks. I know it.

  “It’s ok, girls, we’re not going to hurt you.” Charlie assures them.

  Doc cuts the ropes off their wrist, then gets down to one knee and cuts the dangling ropes off their ankles. Charlie introduces themselves, with only Isabell, the Hispanic girl, responding. The other one, Misty, she doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t even make eye contact. She keeps her head down, her hands covering her mouth and eyes. She’s very distraught.

  “You’re free to do what you like. If that means leave, you can do that too. But I can’t advise that because . . .” Charlie stops his explanation, recognizing the girls surely knew why, he didn’t want to reiterate what they already knew, especially if it was going to add salt to their wounds.

  Misty, the petite blond, without hesitation scurries out of sight into a corner where she balls up shaking and crying.

  The other, Isabell, speaks with a Mexican accent. “Can I stay with you?” She’s soaking wet, hugging her body.

  The young woman is nineteen, dark-brown skin, black hair sitting past her shoulders, little, but plump protruding lips, thin nose, and perfect raindrop eyes. The college student is five-five, dressed in jean shorts with a school pride shirt that reads: Fresno State.

  Doc peeps over at Charlie to see his response. Charlie gazes in the girls frightened eyes, “No family?”

  She nods no. Her eyes water heavily, till a drop rolls down in a straight line.

  Charlie’s shirt is getting drenched red, around his shoulder. He doesn’t notice. He’s more worried that he struck a chord with the young lady than he is about the wound. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, with concern.

  The young Isabell notices the man is bleeding. Her eyes light up, “You’re hurt!”

  Charlie looks, “Huh? . . . Yeah. I’ll have to take care of that.”

  The girl quickly reaches down for some rope, then begins to tie it around Charlie’s wound.

  He stares straight, a sort of confusion engulfs his face. “Why thank you. I appreciate it.”

  Doc grins the side of his mouth, knowing the source of Charlie’s expression. He knows who Isabell reminded him of. Doc knows, because it reminds him of her too.

  Isabell is done with the tie. Charlie turns to her. “You girls are more than welcome to follow us, but there isn’t a guarantee that any of us will make it. You need to know that.”

  Doc interrupts. “Looks like we’re staying here for the night.”

  Charlie nods in reply. “Let’s check the back alley. I don’t want us to be caught with our pants down in this place.” Charlie’s “pants down” comment makes Isabell sigh. The old soldier quickly recants. “I didn’t mean it like that. It was a figure of speech.”

  Doc pulls Charlie’s good shoulder. “Come on, man.”

  They stride quietly out into the alley.

  “Hey, look at that.” Charlie murmurs, with enthusiasm. He points to a parachute that hangs from the roof of a nearby secondhand store over a trash bin.

  “Maybe he’s still around here,” Doc adds.

  The two men head over towards the building in the narrow, short alley. Upon getting there, they notice the door is missing its knob.

  Charlie expels, “It’s been purposely removed.”

  Charlie tries to push it open, but it’s blocked by something heavy on the other side.

  “Someone’s keeping safe . . . What should we do?” Doc asks.

  Charlie thinks for a minute. “He’s definitely Air Force,” Charlie declares, inspecting the parachute insignia. “I know! Let’s write him a message. Let him know we’re on his side. Well slip it under the front door and knock. That should get his attention.”

  “Good idea, Boss.”

  Charlie leans over the paint counter writing the note. He witnesses the two girls sitting off in the corner, struggling to stay up. Charlie knows they’re still a bit frightened. Misty more than Isabell. He makes his way over to them.

  “You have nothing to worry about here. Get some rest. You’re going to need it for tomorrow.”

  The guys go through with the plan. Charlie’s note implies to the Pilot, they will come the next morning and knock three times. It explains they mean no harm, and they too are of military pedigree.

  Their hopes are to get some answers, or at the very least, an update on the government's positions. The former green beret is optimistic that the horror will be over soon. He wou
ld soon find out; it’s wishful thinking on his part.

  15

  Love & the Inspiration of Hope

  The morning air chills to the bones. The rain the night before helped in this regard. But the cold won’t last long. The sun will have warmed things up by noon, and the hours between three and five p.m. will have most survivors forget that it was coat weather just seven hours ago. That’s how the weather works in the valley in early February: cold mornings, warm afternoons. Unless the sky changes drastically, which it has been known to do as of late.

  The days haven’t offered much to be happy about, and today’s start appears to be following the same narrative.

  It’s Isabell who finds the body.

  A little after 7 a.m., the young lady wakes up from something wet touching her cheek. She opens her eyes and glances over at its source.

  It all must have finally reached its boiling point for the young blond. Misty’s pale body lies balled up on its side—her wrist cut. She must of fell over sometime in the early morning.

  “Oh my god. Misty?”

  Isabell’s surprised, but it wasn’t totally unexpected. She cries quietly to herself.

  Isabell didn’t know Misty all that well, but they shared the same traumatic experience. She goes over, shuts her young counterpart's eyes and prays for her. Staring at her for a moment, she notices how peaceful Misty looks. The young woman’s hair lies out like the shine around the sun, her mouth rests normal, dried mascara down her cheeks.

  The world has turned ugly, and the girls witnessed this first hand.

  Could things get worse? Isabell once asked herself.

  Many have asked that same question. Things were so bad, at one point, she didn’t think so—unfortunately, she’s wrong. Misty seemed to know this, and if she didn’t, maybe she had a hunch. Whatever the case, she chose not to stick around and find out. Sometimes, one real horrendous experience is all one can handle.

  Doc is dead asleep in another area while Charlie is in the restroom this morning, putting on a homemade bandage. It dawns on him, Boy, am I lucky.

  The bullet wound could have been worse. It happens to be, the hot lead missed the bone completely; it only went through and tore his muscle. It’s always a good thing to have less things wrong with you. Charlie could attest to that. But he’s a little astounded he never fainted. He’s a tough one, but not immortal. The sandy-blond beret is just pleased he hasn’t lost all mobility in the arm. Relishing in his luck, he smiles.

  Time to wake sleeping beauty.

  Doc’s eyes give tight, short blinks, “I hope you’re getting me up for breakfast.”

  Charlie replies. “That does sound good. Denny’s?”

  “Only if you pay.”

  Charlie gives a light chuckle. “Get yourself up. Water’s working in the restroom—well—just barely. Wash up, and let’s go check on our air-boy. We can scavenge for a meal after.”

  Before the men can leave the paint shop, they are confronted by Isabell and the sad news. They didn’t know the girl. Never even heard her speak. It’s a shame: so young and no future. But that’s the way it is now. Another life, on the long list of them, that has been taken by the calamity of the time. There isn’t much to do but move on; it’s the new law of the land. Death came in many forms and left little time for grieving. Even the burial of people was no longer an option in the city. For one, it requires land, secondly, it requires much energy. And both come at a premium.

  Charlie, Doc, and Isabell stand at the door of the secondhand store. Charlie knocks three times loudly, as he wrote he would. They wait. After a few seconds, a pair of fingers part the blinds of the barred front window, and a pair of eyes see through. The three wear friendly faces, hoping it will help in getting passage. A moment later, the unlocking of the door commences.

  A short, dark-haired man dressed in an Air-Force jumpsuit stands in the doorway. Jack Day is his name. He’s a clean shaven, blue eye, round cheeks, pointy chin man.

  The guys and Isabell wait a few feet out the doorway not proceeding any further. As if going into someone’s house for the first time; they wait for an invite.

  “Well don’t just stand there, come on in,” Jack says, with a slight southern accent. After they move past him, Jack takes a quick, paranoid scan around outside before closing the door. He locks it and turns to them. Everyone starts to introduce themselves. It’s then—a voice familiar to Charlie reverberates across the room, down an aisle.

  “Charlie? What are you doing here? I told you I just want to get to my family. We’re not looking for trouble here.”

  Jack, pulling his handgun, moves to the front of the three. “What’s going on here?! You guys came to cause trouble?”

  “Not at all, Jack. I didn’t even know he was here.” Charlie peers over at Craig. “We were looking for you; I won’t deny that. But we didn’t come to fight or stop you, Craig. We want to join you. We made a deal . . . You came through on your part. I’d like the chance to come through on my end . . . If you don’t want our help, I understand.”

  Craig comes closer to group. Charlie hid things from him before. How could he truly trust him? It came from inside. Craig remembers the things Charlie had said in his defense. Now that Charlie stands before him, staring him in the eye, he can see what he felt was true.

  Craig cracks a smile and puts his hand out. “Nice to see you, Charlie.”

  Charlie, whose face was serious, breaks a grin. He shakes Craig’s hand and with cheer his voice, he says, “That-a-boy, Craig.”

  Craig looks over to Doc. “I’m sorry about the gun,” he utters, with sincerity.

  Doc shakes it off with his body language and suppressed laugh. “It’s okay, man. I knew you weren’t going to shoot anyway.”

  They all share an under-the-breath laugh.

  “Where’s the other one, the one who tried to kill me?” Craig asks.

  Charlie answers. “I’m sure somewhere sleeping on a bed of money.”

  If they only knew.

  An hour has passed. Most of the attention is on Jack, the Air-Force pilot. Charlie and Doc had got their weapons. They decided to clean them as they asked questions and shared stories with the new entry.

  Jack has some food he carried in his backpack and is kind enough to share. They sit in a circle, sitting on buckets, and anything else that would support their weight. They eat, drink and occasionally have a laugh.

  “So what happened up there, Jack? It looked like you took a shot in your engine,” Charlie asks.

  “Engine failure, malfunction. Everything was fine till I hit twelve thousand feet—”

  “That’s not very high.”

  “Tell me about it. All my gizmos went bonkers. Got shocked trying to move the damn yoke. Felt like static energy up there. It had a sound with it. I don’t know, it was really bizarre.”

  Everyone bewildered. “What was it you think?” Charlie asks.

  “When this all happened, there was some early video of a large number of planes crashing down. The most common explanations were that the pilots were probably overrun by infected passengers, or they went crazy themselves. It was a logical thought. But there were some reports out of Utah that weren’t verified, stating jet pilots reported at about twenty-five thousand feet there was an electric resonance in the air. Rumor had it, engine failure would occur if you reached that height. My Lieutenant Colonel didn’t buy into them reports much. After all, they weren't confirmed. But I can tell him different now.”

  “Why didn’t he believe those reports?”

  “There was a host of problems with the reporting. For one, no radar tracking was conveyed. No radar equals no record of any thing. And most communication between bases were lost fairly quickly. Leaving us with incomplete information, sometime none at all. It was a train wreck. Whatever forces we have left, are trying to gather new solid info and pass it around, but it’s getting harder to do so. The phones are down; satellites are not working either. CB radio is okay, but lines of communicatio
n can only stretch so far. We can’t even revert to snail mail. And if we lose the sky—we’re doomed.”

  Charlie sighs, at the situation. “Why not at the time of the hearsay didn’t your LC get them reports verified himself? Maybe they could have found something out.”

  “Not enough man power, I suppose. Only three of us survived at our base. Maybe he felt, if those reports were true, why find out on our own. Risk losing another pilot. It’s easy enough to avoid that climb in our F-15s.”

  “But yours went down at less than twelve thousand.”

  “I have every reason to believe those reports now. It leads me to conclude: whatever is in our skies—is dropping.”

  Doc shakes his head. “I don’t know about you guys, but this is some off-the-wall shit.”

  Charlie asks. “Maybe we were hit with a EMB?”

  Jack pulls back his head. “An electromagnetic bomb? I’m not so sure of that. It would take a hell of a huge bomb, or a lot of them, to accomplish that feat. To my knowledge, neither exist. And Let’s not forget this thing is going on all over the world.”

  “What else can it be?”

  “It’s hard to say when you don’t have the people that can study this thing; the people that know and understand the atmosphere. This is primarily a guess from me. But it feels like the ionosphere of the planet is being disrupted. Maybe even falling lower. It’s not supposed to be possible, but I don’t know what else can disrupt our radio signals the way they’ve been.”

  Craig jumps in the conversation. “Where were you headed?”

  “It’s classified. Not sure why, there isn’t a whole lot of government left. But that’s my orders, and I am a patriot?”

  Charlie disappointed, “I know you got your orders, and in the past, I understood why things were classified. But now—it’s different. We’re in this, man. There isn’t going to be any mass hysteria that don’t exist already, or any national security that’s not already been breached. We deserve to know . . . Everyone does.”