Anthony Puyo's The Compelled

by Anthony Puyo

  “. . . There’s some interference, but yes, I can hear you.”

  “Good. We have a situation that needs your utmost attention—”

  25

  The Third Eye

  Craig walks out of the elevator in a hurry, staring up at the ceiling in search of cameras. As he suspected! They’re up and running, and the people are being watched.

  Hawks was probably keeping an extra eye on us the whole time!

  Craig steps by Chet who’s in a card game with Eva. He taps the table. “Both of you, meeting in the restroom.” He then continues to Isabell who sits next to Ryan and Melissa. “Isabell, can you watch Ryan for few minutes?”

  “Sure, Mr. Bainy.”

  “Thank you. Ryan, stay here with Isabell for a little while. Me and mom have to talk.” Ryan adjusts his ear-muffs and walks away with Isabell, spider-man figure in his hand.

  Melissa notices the concern on Craig’s face, which in return, makes her alarmed. “What is it, honey?” She asks.

  “Not here. Meeting in the restroom. Where’s Doc, anybody see Doc?” His eyes wary, scanning the place; mainly at where the soldiers are positioned.

  Chet answers, “I don’t know, he wandered off somewhere.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll talk to him later. How about Rico and Jason?”

  Eva replies, “They went out front, where to, I don’t know.”

  “That’s becoming a recurring theme. I guess we’ll do without them.”

  They take stance around the sinks of the filthy men’s restroom. Hawks appeared to have most things figured out, yet he neglected the basics. Like having someone on clean-restroom duty.

  Melissa and Eva wore disgusted faces plodding in the nasty place.

  “Oh, wow! You couldn’t have picked a better place for a meeting?” Eva remarks.

  Craig sarcastically answers back. “I tried, but the convention center was booked.”

  He makes a quick check in the toilet stalls, making sure there is no one there that could pose trouble. A couple of vagrants sleep near the far side walls, but they aren’t a threat.

  Chet’s tiredness shows, mainly around the eyes. They’re dark, wrinkled, and puffy. “What’s going on, Partner? That weirdo put the scares in you?”

  Craig, very tense, “He didn’t know I heard his plan before—in the basement. He doesn’t care about the people. He’s using us to get what he wants. After he accomplishes his goal, we’re going to be slaves in his regime. Like he’s some fucking emperor or something.”

  The group shares the same confusion. “If that’s what you heard, why didn’t you say something?” Chet asks. The women chatter the same rhetoric.

  “I wanted to make sure we kept a level head. I saw what he had in store for those who hid the food. I didn’t want that to happen to our group.”

  “I’m not sure I like the decision you made without us. But I can see why you did it. And maybe you were right on that. What did he tell you up there?” Chet asks, stroking his stubble chin.

  “He wanted to know if he could trust us. Wants us to share his ideology—conform to his way of thinking. He told me it was patriotic for us to follow. The psycho wants us to fight for him.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No. After that, he lied again, he told me food and water were running out. Feeling future unrest from the people, he expects us to help make them understand and use it as a recruiting tool for those who are thinking of running. But I’ve seen it. There’s enough food and water here to last a few months maybe longer. He’s trying to reach his goal by whatever means necessary, and we’re strong enough to be a threat in his eyes. The food thing is just a ploy to give the people a reason to fight. When the war is over, he’ll enslave us, or discard us, which ever suits him best.”

  “Not that I don’t believe you, Craig, but if he fears us like you say, why doesn’t he just have us killed; now?” Chet replies.

  Craig runs his fingers through his dark tight-curled hair. “Because he sees use in us still, because we’re strong, I don’t know. It doesn’t make total sense for me either. But if we don’t conform, there’s no doubt in my mind, it will eventually come to that.”

  Melissa, with her mind on the safety of her child, interjects, “We should go away then. We have to leave this place.”

  Eva steps in. “You heard what he said in his speech, he’d have us killed if we tried to leave.”

  “Do you believe that, Craig?” Chet asks.

  Craig brings up the three slain escapees, the horrific story sends shockwaves down the groups spines. “I told you so you know what he’ll do if he catches us. But It could very well be the same outcome if we stay. Unless—we conform, or he keeps having a use for us.”

  The life lifted from the room after hearing Craig’s story. And that’s not what he wanted. It’s not good for the moral. So he needed to lift their spirits somehow.

  “Listen guys. We can’t weaken over this. We have to be positive. We’ll eventually get out of here. You all have to keep believing that.”

  They gaze at him, somber in heart. Melissa asks. “How are we going to do that, when you just said they would kill us?”

  Craig’s eyes round. “That’s because I didn’t tell you the good news yet.”

  Hope seeps back in them. They ask him all at once. “What is it?”

  “I was told that Charlie and Bodo finished their mission. They’re on the way back!” The group lights up with cheer, then quickly hushing themselves; making sure their excitement doesn’t leave the room. “I know, I know. I’m happy too. When they get here, I’ll fill them in. I believe with our team back together, and a solid plan, we can still depart this place.”

  Chet’s ecstatic like the rest. “Hell yeah! I knew our boys would come through. Yeah! And here I thought it was gonna be all bad news.”

  Craig’s demeanor changes with Chet’s last words. His face slightly droops, and his tone becomes softer. “I should mention; Jack won’t be coming back with them. He didn’t make it out there.” The mood quickly gets somber, and everyone quiets down.

  After a moment, Chet breaks the silence. “Well hell, he weren’t that popular anyways.” His remark garners a punch in the arm from Eva. Chet holds his arm. “What I say?”

  Eva gives him a stare.

  This night, like the last, food is passed out in small portions. Enough to sustain but hardly enough to quench the hunger that engulfed the many empty stomachs. Afterwards, the weakness blooms, making for an easy night's rest—even through the loud mayhem that endures outside on the streets.

  It’s late, most of the lights in the lobby are turned off making the large area faintly dark. The rays from the outside yard lamps, come forward through the windows, casting light-shadows over the tiled floor, and the people who sleep on them.

  Sweat—beads on the forehead and neck of Craig. He shivers before turning to his side. His closed eyes rapidly move back and forth. He breathes hard, giving off slight moans of uncomfortableness. Unsettled, Craig finds himself tossing to his back—whatever is in his subconscious approaches him.

  The night terror is a montage of things that come across in the form of an acid trip. The images start out bearing a resemblance of watching an eight-millimeter film. First; he sees the Kesburg’s place from a view from the street—in a flash, he finds himself inside, sitting on the couch. The aspects are exaggerated. Craig’s fidgeting, distress in demeanor, contrary to how he really was at the time.

  Mrs. Kesburg offers him a slice of cheese on a platter. His nervous eyes are stuck on the nine-inch knife. Up close, in an instant, Mrs. Kesburg’s face is all he can see. Her eyes completely black, saliva sits on the rims of her mouth. His hearing magnifies: the spit-sounds slithery, her lips smack. She speaks with a passion that jumps from happy to insane sending the liquid in a spray.

  The woman laughs wickedly. “Only cowards kill women. Are you a coward, Craig? Hahaha!”

  Craig turns to Mr. Kesburg. The room darkens in shades till nothing can
be seen except the Kesburgs who stay highly visible. A shimmering of brightness outlines them.

  Mr. Kesburg supports a wicked grin with a metal candelabra in hand, ready to attack. “You killed my wife, Mr. Bainy!” he says mockingly, as if he really could care less.

  Craig sees himself in full body, as if he’s a spectator in the room. Paralyzed with fear, sweating, mouth gaping, eyes rattling in movement, he gasps for air. Craig’s sight shifts to the dead body of Mrs. Kesburg which lays face down in a puddle of her own blood. He peers to his hand, he surprised to see the knife in it, both are bloody. He drops the knife as if it is a highly contagious disease.

  Feeling his heart pound, he yells, “I’m sorry!”

  Once again, in a blink of an eye, he sees himself in the third-person running into the kitchen then slipping on the white tiled floor.

  “Get up!” He tells himself from above.

  Then came the heavy, exaggerated footsteps of Mr. Kesburg. Craig slowly gets to his feet, too panicked to act fast.

  “What’s that you have there, murderer?” Mr. Kesburg taunts.

  Craig looks to his hand. There again, is the bloody knife. Baffled, he turns slowly—the candelabrum comes into view striking him. Groggy vision, in a panic, Craig swings the knife—hearing and feeling the slice. Mr. Kesburg’s throat parts, spraying blood. The madman ignores covering it. He takes a few steps forward, being drained of life. The conniving grin ceases leaving him. Craig never sees him fall as he runs, stumbling out the back door. Feeling faint, he collapses in the pasture passed the wine vineyard.

  His dream switches to an earlier time. His beautiful wife, Melissa, stands in her black sexy underwear and no top, exposing her tight, swollen, perky breast and protruding belly.

  Craig sits at the edge of the bed kissing her round stomach softly. Melissa rubs the side of his face gently with love in her eyes. Craig stares up at her. She whispers: “Always take care of our son . . . Promise me?”

  He nods with deep sincerity.

  Craig, about to lay his head on her belly. Before his cheek meets her warm, soft flesh—it splits open sending him back to the floor in shock. Two grayish baby hands, bearing long sharpened nails, come from within. They grab for him. Craig, from the top of his lungs, hollers in horror.

  Ryan, as a baby, comes out swiftly, snarling with dark eyes and jagged teeth. Craig still yelling, closes his eyes tight. When he opens them, he witnesses himself all alone on the bed, weeping. His vision fades into darkness with a baby melody from a music box, playing in the background.

  Silence. A blurred image begins to emerge. Talking is muffled. Gradually, everything comes clear.

  He along with the rest of the group are tied up, readying to be executed by Robert and his men. The gun barrels are excessively close to all their chests. Hawks stands arrogantly over all of them with Craig’s son to his side. The Captain looks down to Ryan and asks, “What do we do with spies, soldier?”

  A monotone Ryan stares at his father. “Kill them.”

  The Captain pleased, smiles. “You heard the boy. Fire!”

  Blasts come from the barrels of the guns. Everything squeezes in closer, tighter, warping the image, blurring it as it fades then re-clearing back to normal.

  A spotlight over the sweaty frantic face of Craig. He yells. “Noooo!”

  The guns keep firing, but no bullets every penetrate anyone’s skin. Once again, darkness ensues. In it, Craig hears whispered words. He can’t make them out. In time, they louden and come clear. He recognizes the voices. They belong to Hawks and Jack.

  Hawks voice asks, “What were you and this curly haired fellow discussing?”

  Jack replies. “The weather this time of year where I’m from; Utah.” The last part, echoes in the darkness over and over. “From, Utah. Where I’m fro..m U..tah Wh..ere I..m fro..m Utah.”

  It makes its way to the front of Craig’s mind—dramatically waking him.

  Craig inhales and exhales heavily. Sweat, rolls off his body. It is suddenly clear. His eyes enlarge—he faces the ceiling of the building, right into the cameras.

  The words lift like steam over his breath: “He knows!”

  26

  Mystery Man

  The carnage and damage in the land, is a sight America has not seen since Pearl Harbor. The magnitude of death and destruction throughout the states, is far greater than any time in history; far surpassing the British invasion of the founding of the country, and even the civil war.

  The midsized city of Fresno, California is in shambles. The population once over 500,000 has dwindled down to a fraction of that. The city’s chaos is a sample of what was going on all over the globe. Many cities, in many countries, are damaged, destroyed, while others are completely wiped off the very ground they were erected on. If there is any difference, it would be that Fresno is one of the few cities that is winning their battle to survive.

  Through the eyes of the military and the many survivors in Fresno, there cannot be any laxing. The enemy is still there, waiting for an opportunity to annihilate them. And they are evolving—becoming smarter—becoming more of threat. Even with its losses in numbers, they are more dangerous than ever.

  The infected and the non-infected are on a path to collide; to crush each other; bent on destroying each other's very existence. As the night becomes day, the heavy fighting diminishes. The loud eruptions, sporadic gunfire was like an ultra-violent storm. It left many dead and unmeasurable damage. And like a storm, it has passed—making way for the calm.

  Doc, is a quiet man. Been quiet most of the time since the beginning of everything. This isn’t uncharacteristic of the special forces soldier. He has always been this way. It has nothing to do with being shy or weak neither—he is far from that. Dockery James just thought more than he ever spoke, and for the most part, it was probably best. If he shared his views, it would probably be unpleasant to whoever was hearing them. In his mind, most people didn’t have a clue.

  Doc’s feelings of being trapped in the hospital, were not as bothersome as they were to the others. Not that he enjoyed it, but he didn’t have nothing else going on. Most of what he knew was being a soldier anyways, so the situation fit the bill. He happened to take on the role of a military man much more fluid than he ever did a civilian.

  Doc’s fondest memories came a decade earlier, in the jungles of North Korea. There he did infiltration stealth missions, trying to locate Kim Jong-Il’s nuclear warhead silos, and if possible, sabotage them.

  They were dangerous missions in wet musty jungles. Crawling through mud, over wet tree roots, with at times; equally dangerous creepy crawlies around him.

  Nothing was more pleasant to his ears in those days, than the sounds of large raindrops pattering on the huge leaves of the surrounding fauna. And when the rain subsided, the mist would come up from cool ground, due to the hot and humid air that hovered above. It gave him perfect, natural cover. He lived for those moments. “Adrenalin of the hunt,” his superiors called it.

  Doc was a part of a tight crew. That goes for any specialized unit in the military. They’re put together that way purposely, for obvious reasons. He would remember their faces for as long as he lived, but remarkably, Doc could barely recall any of the dead that came from their hands. That to was purposely installed.

  The units are taught not to see their human counterpart as an equal, but rather an obstacle in front of their proposed target and goals.

  It was business out there. The parties involved didn’t know anything personal about the other. Didn’t know if they were married, had children, what they drove, what they like to eat. Nothing. The only common denominator was, whoever was in front of them were in the same game known as war. And a game it was. One that even has rules set up by the Geneva convention. But like anything with rules, they are often broken—by all parties.

  Doc was never bothered by any of the mind manipulation. He knew the propaganda that was being fed to him. It was no secret to him that most countries fought thei
r wars on the seat of their leather chairs. Where the ones pulling the strings wore suits and watched popularity polls while moving their flesh and blood pawns into positions—using them to complete their agendas.

  Doc knew alright, but he didn’t let it affect his decision of why he enlisted. The reason being, he knew regardless if he served or not, the war missions would take place.

  In his views, the ultra-privileged ran the world. They created the suffering, repression, poverty, despair around the globe. So rather than being an activist marching with a picket sign for a cause, he tried to change outcomes in the world by physically being there.

  Doc felt the suits in Washington had to protect their interest, and at some point, that meant they had to protect themselves from the trouble and unrest they would cause in other countries. This also meant everyone in the country was in danger from the elites menacing decisions. And it was the “everyone” Doc wanted to protect.

  He felt the powers that be, were going to take their course no matter what the public wanted; hence, the secret covert missions often called black opts. They hide behind the shield of national security—a shield they invented. That being known, the best way Doc felt he could help the public, was to ride the unstoppable train and help clean up the secret mess that followed. In this way . . . he made a difference.

  Doc, sitting up, surveys the place. It’s barely awake. There’s a few waking yawns, a handful of soldiers walking about with coffee in their palms.

  Military is always the first to be up. That’s part of the reason why Doc is. Another reason why he’s wide eyed, is he’s feeling bothered because his friends, mostly Charlie, hadn’t arrived yet, and it’s starting to make him wonder.