Anthony Puyo's The Compelled

by Anthony Puyo

  Charlie holds the small flashlight, Brimm works quickly setting up the C-4. Charlie’s anxious, he peers both ways down the darkened tunnel. Nothing can be seen except the cone of light coming from the open manhole, and it too is beginning to fade as dusk approaches. Vague, unexplained noises can be heard down the hollowed darkness. This makes Charlie jumpy. Sweat forms on his head and face even though the weather has cooled dramatically.

  “Hurry up, Sergeant, this place gives me the creeps, and I’m not fond of the smell either.”

  “Got it. I’m setting it for two hours. We need to get the rest set up in their spots quickly, then head back for the firework show.”

  The two jog towards the exit. Getting close, they hear some arguing up above; trailed by several gun shots.

  “Hurry!” Charlie says, moving up the ladder.

  He peeks his head out the manhole, carefully, not wanting to lose it by being hasty. To his chagrin, Charlie sees Bodo and Kelly kneeling over Jack, both in a frenzy. The blood puddle that’s forming around their boots, indicates why.

  Charlie, succumbing to grief, scurries to them. He knew it was bad even before he could see Jack’s face. The positive clichés coming from Bodo and Kelly only confirmed his thoughts.

  “It’s not that bad. You’ll be fine. Just hang in there,” they say.

  Whatever happened, happened quick. The first thing Charlie sees when he stands over, is the fading color in Jack’s face and hands. Charlie rubs his own face in sorrow. It’s bad, really bad. Jack’s groaning and grunting, trying valiantly to suppress the pain, but he’s no match; he’s in extreme discomfort while fighting for his life.

  Sergeant Brimm, out of the hole, strolls up. “What the fuck happened?” He yells, sounding almost angry.

  “What the hell does it look like? We got a man down.” Bodo replies, emotional-disappointment shrouds his words. It’s not a personal response aimed towards Brimm, it is aimed at the drama that took place while they were gone, and maybe a little bit of everything else.

  Eli Kelly answers distraughtly, “A group of armed looters came out of nowhere and began to fire on us. For no reason! Captain Day got shot. We fired back, but they got away!”

  Jack lies on the pavement, bleeding from his left rib cage. Bodo’s hand is over the wound; trying to slow down the exiting, his other hand holds Jack’s head up.

  Jack coughs a few times, wads of blood shoot out his mouth. Next to his blue skin, the red is vibrant.

  “Those sons of bitches,” Jack grunts.

  Bodo rests the pilot’s head down and shushes him. Jack’s eyes begin looking up loosely. His vision hazes and darkens. It’s apparent to the others; he isn’t going to last like this, he needs medical attention.

  Charlie gets down on his knees, wanting to help. Gary Brimm didn’t budge in his stance, watching with very little emotion.

  He’s dead anyway, he thinks. So he didn’t give two flying fucks anymore. If it wasn’t for the sake of having one less man on this deadly mission, he wouldn’t of bothered checking on him in the first place. Why would he care? He wasn’t one of their men, “their” Meaning Hawks’ men. Brimm didn’t trust Jack. Mostly because Hawks didn’t trust Jack. Why else would the Captain ask Brimm to watch him? Better like this, then with Hawks, buddy.

  “It’s okay, fella, you're going to be fine,” Charlie conveys to the wounded Air-Force pilot.

  Jack, feebly, tries to sit up, but he is urged to lie down and conserve energy.

  “What are we gonna do?” Bodo asks, with his head tilted to the side, sensing Brimm behind him. But it’s Charlie who answers, and that doesn't sit well with the leading Sergeant.

  “Let’s get him in the Hummer and head back to the hospital. If we move quickly, we may be able to save his life.”

  Brimm quickly rebuttals, “You or I can’t make that decision. I would have to get authorization for that.”

  “Well you do what you have to, and we’ll do what we have to,” Bodo says. “C'mon?”

  Him and Charlie begin to lift the injured man. The not so enthusiastic Sergeant, points to Kelly. Kelly, understanding the signal, reacts by pointing his M-60 at Bodo and Charlie.

  “Sorry guys.” The private cocks his gun. There was remorse in his voice, but he has to follow orders.

  “I can’t believe this, Sergeant, we have a dying man here!” Charlie argues.

  Sergeant Brimm gets on his radio which radiates a considerable amount of static. “What the hell,” he cants. He shakes it, as if the static is just going to fall out like loose change. He begins to talk into it, “Captain Hawks, Sergeant Brimm, you copy?” The voice is blurry but understandable.

  “Ten-four, what do you need, Sergeant?”

  “We got a man down, wounded, requesting to go back to base?”

  They all listen for the decision. Static for a moment, then the Captain speaks, choppy, but again, understandable.

  “You know the mission, Sergeant, it cannot, I repeat, it cannot be aborted. The battle has begun, and I need you to finish your mission or more lives will be at risk. Sorry, but there is no stopping now.”

  It didn’t feel right, but the Captain is telling the truth. The battle is growing, and the mission the guys are on has become highly pivotal. But Bodo and Charlie can’t see past Captain Hawks the asshole.

  Charlie Bodine feels more effort is needed. He snatches the radio from Brimm’s hand.

  “Captain, we need to get Jack medical attention—fast, or he’s going to die.”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “You know who this is, Captain. Tell your men we have the greenlight.”

  “I should have known it was you. The answer hasn’t changed, soldier. His life will cause more casualties. No one’s life is worth many.”

  You got that right. How many lives have been lost due to your heart still pumping?

  “Let that be motivation for all of you. Watch your backs or go to your graves. Now follow your orders,” the Captain barks.

  Bastard! Charlie, flaring with anger and about to say something, gets the radio torn from his grasp by Brimm

  “You had your chance. And you got your answer.” He then talks into the radio. “Ten-four, Captain, we will finish our mission.”

  The Sergeant puts the radio in his holster. The men stand there, perplexed.

  “What? You heard the Captain; there is no going back till the mission is complete. C’mon, time to go.”

  Bodo’s enraged at the lack compassion. He wasn’t fond of Jack. He blamed him for sabotaging the groups plan to leave the city in search of peace. And at one time, he wouldn't have mind giving Jack a fist to the gut because of that. But that being said, he didn’t wish ill will towards him—not on this level.

  The pilot wasn’t all that likable amongst the group. Not because he was a bad guy, which he wasn’t, it was the way he thought, mostly, that ruffled their feathers. Like the other military men, he had faith in a system that the regular Joe didn’t trust a whole lot. And instead of those people, Bodo being one of them, being proved paranoid or just plain wrong, Captain Hawks and his men didn’t do Jack justice. They were more like the government dictators, liars, reaching arms; the supposed crackpot conspiracy theorist warned about.

  “They want control,” they use to say. “One day the military will turn on us. They will be the tool the ruling elite will use to enslave us, you watch,” was another one.

  If only Craig had said what he heard in the basement, the cracked-pots wouldn’t have looked so cracked. And possibly, Jack and the guys wouldn’t be in this predicament right now. But of course, that could’ve opened the doors to many other unforeseeable outcomes, and who knows if they would have been any better. The butterfly-effect is always an interesting theory.

  “Fuck that motherfucker on the radio, and fuck you! We’re taking this man to the hospital—with or without your approval.” Bodo ganders over to Charlie. They pick up Jack who’s resting. “Let’s go man.”

  Brimm pulls his
hand gun and points it at Bodo’s chest. “Take one more step, and I’ll kill you for being a traitor . . . You choose—Your life . . . or his?”

  “We can’t let this man die out here. I know you can understand that, can’t you?” Charlie pleads.

  Gary responds, “Orders are orders, whether we like them or not. Put him down and get in the truck?”

  The men hesitate.

  “I’m not going to ask again . . . Put him down, now!” He fires a shot in the air, “Last warning. The next shot goes through your skulls.”

  The displeasure is thick on Bodo’s and Charlie’s face, but what can they do, the cards are in the Sergeant’s deck.

  Whimpering begins to erupt from Jack. Tears begin to roll down the sides of his face as he battles for his life. Charlie shushes him gently. They begin to lower him down.

  A whisper comes from the disorientated Jack. “Guys don’t—” he pulls Charlie close with his shaky grip. “Du-don’t lea-ve me. Du-ont-t leave me, please?”

  Sadness and anger converge in Charlie. He glares up at Gary. The two exchanged flared eyes. Both men’s emotions are as strong as the others, but forge in opposite directions.

  Bodo exchanges. “That’s the last time you will ever point that gun at me. The next time—”

  “Yes, yes, now get your asses in the Hummer. We got work to do,” scoffs the Sergeant.

  The guys rise up, whispering “sorry” to Jack.

  With fading eyesight, Jack watches the two walk away. He lifts his hand, reaching for them, but catches nothing. They don’t stop. Jack knows. The footsteps, the quietness, the waning figures. He musters his energy. “Don’t leave me!” His voice, sharp. The pilot recaptures his breath, then repeats the yell.

  No answer comes to him.

  He stares deep into the dark-grey clouds. He yells again. He begins to feel cold in his core, it spreads to his legs and arms. Another shout, watching his steamed breath leave his mouth.

  His mind wavers, Jack almost forgets why he’s crying out, but he keeps on. Sadly, it falls on deaf ears. A cover of loneliness shrouds over him. Jack begins to cry.

  A super-bright, gold colored lightning splits the sky around the clouds above. It’s heavenly to the dying Jack. Its beauty causes him to smile. The hair on his arms stand from the brush of energy that grazes over him. He giggles at the feeling. Near a certain cloud, he sees a small blinking light—green in color.

  Bodo’s, Charlie’s, and even Kelly’s heart bleeds at the call of the dying man. They did nothing. Getting closer to the Hummer, Jack’s voice diminished to a whimper. If they were still by him, they would see his words are no longer making any sense.

  Standing a few feet from Jack, Brimm never moved. He observes the men get into the vehicle. The Sergeant finds his way near the convulsing pilot. Jack breaths become sporadic. He says many things: thanking his mother, calling out an unknown woman's name. His last gasps come with a vague sense of reality.

  Brimm daggers at him coldly. Perhaps the times have gotten to him, making him callus, or maybe he was always this way. The Sergeant pulls his gun, watching the man squirm. Blood spouts from Jack’s mouth as he coughs.

  In the Hummer, Bodo’s tears fall. He looks out the window, the opposite way of Brimm and Jack. Charlie lies back—tired, feeling too old for this. His sight aims dead ahead, knowing why Brimm didn’t accompany them. Kelly, having second thoughts about everything, peers through the side-door mirror, watching his comrade stand over the pilot.

  Everyone grieves in silence, waiting for it, and a moment later—the sound comes.

  23

  Crisscross

  Rico is driven. He’s also on the edge on being drunk. The young man stumbles into the elevator. Seconds later, he and the Chubby gamer get out on the second floor; the army’s floor.

  As they step out, a soldier greets them with a stern look. “State your business?”

  Rico giggles; his most common reaction to authority. “Here to see the head cheese. I got some news for him,” he says, almost slurring.

  The soldier gazes suspiciously over the giddy clown. Rico’s body wobbles, being partially held up by Jason.

  “Are you drunk?”

  Rico slow in response. “I had a drink . . . yeah!” He begins to feel like he’s being disrespected. “What's it to you? I’m a man. Maybe you should have one t-too. Bet it’ll make you smile more.” He begins to lighten up, chortling at his own words.

  The soldier rolls his eyes with a sigh. “You’re not going to see the Captain. I doubt you have anything important to report. And he doesn’t like his time being wasted. I suggest you leave before you get yourself in trouble.”

  “Oh! How would you know that, buddy? I got good information, really good.”

  With slight irritation, the soldier pushes the elevator button and escorts them back into it. Rico’s eyebrows tighten, he puts his hands on both edges of the door keeping it open.

  “Why the hell did you do that? I got information on a spy. The Captain would want to know about that. Don’t you think? How would he feel if you kept it from him?”

  The gun is black, sleek, with a red-wood colored handle. The barrel lengthy, smooth, shimmering with a casual sexiness like the long legs of a mysterious woman. The revolver chamber gives it its character—its strength. The piece would make Dirty Harry smile with envy. A good, old classic by Smith and Wesson for sure.

  Ryan searches through the By-By-Kittie bag. His eyes light up when he sees it. He loved to play guns, and it looked like the toy version of one. The kid doesn’t notice it’s much bigger. He picks it up, examines it.

  It’s heavy.

  An exhausted Melissa and Craig nap just two feet away.

  Ryan spins the revolver. The smooth clicks sound cool to the young lad. Vivid thoughts of cops and robbers race through his mind. Ryan closes one eye, aiming at guarding soldier who sits on a chair fifty feet away; sleeping with a hat over his face. Ryan puts his small finger on the trigger. The aim is perfectly aligned with the unsuspecting heart. Ryan slowly squeezes.

  Click.

  The bullets move up a notch without him realizing it. He keeps his aim. Steady . . . Steady. He says in his mind.

  The child’s finger squeezes once more. This time—the bullet explodes into the soldier’s chest, sending him off the chair. But only in the kid’s imagination. Another click, and again the bullets move up the six shooter.

  “Bang, bang,” Ryan says, “Take that you zombies!” He rests his finger on the trigger, but this time he doesn’t squeeze . . . yet.

  Eva, walking up from behind, could see Ryan on his knees playing with something she can’t identify. She grins as she moves, having a surprise for him. Eva found a spider-man figure, and she’s plans on giving it to the unsuspecting child.

  As Eva approaches, she hears Ryan muttering strange words. Not thinking anything of it, as these sort of things are not unusual coming from a playing child. But as she gets closer, his words clear.

  “Take that! You're dead—bang!” he sounds.

  Curiosity seeps in, tingling her spine. There is something wrong with that sort of playing. Following her hunch, Eva moves her way to the boy a little quicker. Bang! Repeats in her mind. His movements—could it be? Her stomach sours as she picks up the pace to a jog.

  “Ryan? Ryan!”

  She needs to get his attention, but not startle him. Not if he holding what she thinks he is.

  Ryan, faintly hearing his name, begins to turn. A teeth showing smile forms when he sees her. The kid’s arms come into view . . . then his hands. The gun points accidentally towards her abdomen; his index finger on the trigger. The bullet sits comfortably in the barrel. From fifteen feet away, Eva acknowledges it. Horror, dread—it happens fast, but the moment feels slow.

  “Ryan, no!” Eva drops the spider-man figure as she sprints to the child.

  Ryan startles, Eva’s heart skips a beat. He didn’t mean to. In reflex, he squeezes the trigger. She stops in her tracks in front of
the child. Her eye’s close. She’s prepares for the bullet. The shot blasts with authority, ripping through the air, through her stomach, and out her back. She can feel the internal explosion of her organs. Then—complete silence comes. All she heard is her own gasp, as if she made the noise in an empty room.

  Eva opens her eyes and peering down at her abdomen. Nothing. Remarkably, the bullet never came.

  “Oh God,” she whispers, grateful that life had not left her.

  Eva grabs the gun from Ryan, holding him tight. The tears wanted to come, but she keeps control. With her cheek on his head, it hit her. Why? Eva knows guns well. Revolvers are extremely reliable, known for their rarity of not jamming. She looks over the gun. It didn’t appear dirty, crooked—It has very few scuffs. It’s more than a solid piece in her opinion.

  Eva rolls the revolver, pulls the trigger, it clicks. She does it once more—same result. She lies it on the floor, flowing thoughts race around. She holds Ryan tighter. I don’t understand. But one day; she will.

  Ryan’s dumbfounded by Eva’s reaction. He senses he may have done something wrong.

  Eva speaks lightly into his ear. “Ryan, that was not a toy you were playing with.” She kisses the top of his head. In the background, Craig and Melissa begin to wake. Eye to eye, low voice, “Promise me, you will never do that again?”

  There’s no hesitation from the child, he nods in agreement. “I won’t, Eva. I’m sorry.”

  “I think we both learned something today.”

  “What’s going on, you two?” Craig relays in a yawn, lifting himself on his elbows. He begins to focus, seeing the gun on the floor and Eva and Ryan’s reactions to one another. It slowly dawns him.

  “Is that my gun?!” Craig gets up immediately, ready to give his son an earful. “Ryan? What di—”

  Eva interrupts for the sake of Melissa. “It’s okay, I’ve explained it to him already.” She says her remark respectfully, with a calmness about her. She gazes up at Craig. Her demeanor settles him. Like a mother, she still has Ryan in her grasp, protecting him. In her eyes, the boy was already traumatized.