Anthony Puyo's The Compelled

by Anthony Puyo

  He scans over the sleeping group, seeing Craig’s By-By-Kitty bag open a crack. He spots the pair of binoculars partially hanging out. The idea of observing the city after last night, up close, is an interesting thought.

  Doc creeps over, picks them out quietly without waking anyone. All he needs now is great view. To the guarded elevator he goes.

  Peering into the face of the soldier on duty, he states. “I want to go up.”

  The guardsman looks him over. “I would, soldier, but I can’t give access without permission from the Cap.”

  A low grunt of displeasure comes from Doc.

  Sitting on the waiting bench, near the doors, is the skinny redhead Staff Sergeant, Blake Edward. The tired guy is smoking a cigarette. “Where you want to go?”

  Doc turns to see where the voice originates from. He peeks over his own shades at Blake. “Roof,” he says, in his slick low raspy voice.

  Edward drops his smoke and mashes it with his heel. “No harm in that. I’ll ride with you.” He walks over. “Doc, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m Staff Sergeant Blake Edward.” The two shake hands. The Sarge gazes at the guard. “Open the cage.”

  The two men walk out of the elevator and onto roof of the ten-story building. The air is cool, crisp, and the sun is just over the horizon. The thin air allows for a great view of the Sierra Mountains in the distance; they’re surrounded by a clear, baby-blue sky.

  Peering over the town, is a different story entirely. The scene of the crumbling, torched city is a sight for sore eyes indeed. Smoke trails are scattered throughout the landscape; most are nearby in downtown.

  One could imagine, it probably isn’t as peaceful as the Sierra’s. Instead of the comforting sounds of down streams, or the melody of the birds in the morning, the only thing that chirped around here, are the occasional gunshots. Nothing like last night, but a few are still heard out in the far reaches of the area.

  Blake takes a deep inhale of the air. It’s still heavy enough with freshness to drown out most of the smoke stench. In a few hours, that won't be the case.

  “She’s a beaut, huh?” Blake says—confident Doc will get the sarcasm in his tone.

  Doc gives a raspy grunt in agreement. He pulls the binoculars out and strolls over to the edge. He examines through them, getting an eagle-eye’s view of the destruction. What he sees would make a lesser man hurl. Bodies upon bodies in all positions; meeting their end in a whole manner of ways. Some looked to have bled out from lost limbs, others are charred to a crisp from explosions and fires, some seemed to have died simple: gun shots to the torso, or a fatal stab wounds.

  The death that took the weirdest, grossest, and shamefulness award; could be added in the mix as well. A poor soul had been inexplicably choked by a penis toy. And yes—it was large, and no—it wasn’t identified to any certain race. It was purple. The owner probably had a fetish for alien wood.

  Gazing to the west, Doc can’t tell if a normal man or an infected is leaning up against a cab-car.

  He adjusts the binoculars vision to get a clearer and more magnified view. As the picture becomes more focused, Doc sees the individual is covered in white pavement dirt—dried blood stains cover his red, white, and blue striped button-up. He bobs his head in exhaustion and probably pain.

  Doc veers his sights to a couple of stray dogs pulling in opposite directions a torso which looked to belong to a woman. The dismemberment makes it hard to be certain.

  Doc moves his view again to which he sees a torn clothed man with scuffs and burns on his arms and face. He’s getting a drink from a damaged hydrant that barely lets out a small stream of water. A young girl, roughly three years of age, finds her way to the same hydrant. Seeing the child alone, Doc concludes she must have lost her caretakers. Chances are slim she will find replacements.

  Doc moves on without mention to Blake. It isn’t that Doc doesn’t care. But being where he’s been and seeing what he’s seen, a successful soldier has to have a trained mind. And Doc’s mind is set on risk-reward. Calculation are keys to success in conflict—and in life. Doc figures, saving the child would only result in more deaths inevitably, so it isn’t worth it. This place, as he sees it, is no place for a child anyhow.

  Blake Edward takes a casual gander along with Doc. He doesn’t have any binoculars. He wouldn’t use them if he had. His intrigue of the situation had grown dull since the milk plant incident, and it shows in his demeanor.

  Edward says to the wind, “The fall of civilization . . . Didn’t think I was going to live to see it.”

  Doc, still sightseeing, answers the non-question. “Civilization is just something we pretended to have. Civilized—is something we pretended to be.”

  Blake stumped by Docs words and even more curious. “How so? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “It’s simple, when you look at it for what it was. Us, Russia, China, what did we have in common?”

  Blake shrugs his skinny frame. “We were all leaders of the civilized world?”

  “That’s right.” Doc smiles, putting down the binoculars and skews towards Edward. “World powers that had big military budgets and a shit load of nukes.”

  Edward stretches his eyebrows in thought. “But that was to keep the civility among the savage countries.”

  “Was it? Or was it to gain what we desired? Nukes added punch to brawn. I didn’t see the Middle East making progress; they hadn’t for centuries. With the amount of oil the Arab nations produced, and for as long as they’ve were doing it, they should’ve been first-world nation eons ago. With all that cash passing through their hands, isn’t it ironic they never amassed nukes? They wanted them, but we never let that happen. Maybe, we were afraid we wouldn’t have been able to get what we needed if they became a world power. How strong would we have been; if the world didn’t need us?

  “So how can we say we were civilized, when we practiced unrest, instability amongst other nations purposely?

  “There’s a lot of people that go hungry; a lot that die because of our policies. Before this, you could have looked it up. There’s only nine nations that have nukes. And the oil rich Arabs were not one of them. Why not? Because nukes and oil made you a world power, that’s why. If the Arabs, Iranians got their hands on NW’s, them along with Russia and China could have ousted us from power—not to mention all our allies.

  “Seven of the top ten oil producing nations hate the U.S. If we had allowed them all to have nukes, we'd have been finished. If it wasn’t for our military might, that would’ve probably happened—give thanks to Operation Paperclip.

  “So to stop the progress of our enemies, we caused insecurity through sanctions and ousted leaders. The sanctions for food, which the Arabs had difficulty growing, and their leaders; to break any kind of unity between them. Mark 3:15: A house divided against itself cannot stand. Those were the ways we stayed on top of the food chain. In other words, if people die because we gotta have ours, then so be it. Now, you tell me . . . is that civilized to you?”

  Blake’s intrigue turns to a nodding grin. He had no idea he was going to get a sermon. Nevertheless, it was entertaining food for thought. Doc had some good points thought Blake, but he wasn’t about to follow the man’s way of thinking, nor was Doc trying to convince him otherwise. Besides, it’s a little too late for politics.

  Blake tries to soften the mood. “That was pretty deep. Suddenly this world doesn’t seem so bad . . . Kidding. Well we don’t have to worry about those issues; we got much bigger fish to fry now.”

  Doc grunts and stares back out onto the city with the binoculars. “Your Captain has a thing for death. There’s an awful lot of bodies out there.”

  The Staff Sergeant scoffs at the remark.

  “Do I sense some cynicism?” Doc implies.

  Edward holds back with a shrug. “The Captain is the Captain; he does what he wants.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “You trying to get me in hot water here, s
oldier?” Blake light heartedly alleges.

  “Don’t worry about me, I’m not one of your Captain’s.”

  Edward sighs. He has plenty to say, but up until now, he had no one to unload it on. The things he felt about Robert, mainly the way he went about things, would definitely put him in a rough spot with Hawks—that was a place no one wanted to be.

  Blake submits. “According to the Captain, if you’re here; you belong to him. Cut and dry.”

  “I’m just riding things out. I won’t be here when I don’t want to be.” Doc replies.

  “Good luck on that. The Captain’s got eyes and ears everywhere, and if you happen to escape, don’t ever get caught. He’s got a thing for deserters, and like you said, the same goes for death.”

  “Is that why you haven’t left?”

  “No.” Blake adjust himself, then leans up against the rooftop’s air conditioner. ”I don’t want to leave. I feel I can do some good still. I mean, that’s why I signed up.”

  “You're a soldier like me, and the only way one of us can make good, is if we eliminate the threat to save the people. Sometimes the enemy can be closer than you think.” Doc removes the binoculars from his eyes. He peeks over his sunglasses at Blake. “Are you willing to do that?“

  The Sergeant shifts his eyes at the rhetorical question.

  Edward smoothly changes the subject. “Why did you want to come up here? Was is just for the mayhem?”

  “I was told, my friends were on their way back last night. Was a bit surprised when I woke, and they weren’t here. Have you heard anything?”

  “Sorry to hear that, but I haven’t. I’m not much in the loop as I use to be. If I do hear anything, I will definitely let you in on it.” Edward stops leaning on the conditioner. “Okay, soldier, I’ll leave you to your rubble watching. If anyone gives you slack for being up here, tell them I gave you permission.”

  “Or I could shoot ‘em.” Doc grins. A gasp-chuckle comes from Edward as he turns and rambles away.

  7:30 a.m., breakfast time for civilian and civilian soldiers.

  The Captain’s voice rings out from the hospital telecomm. “Good morning fellow soldiers and civilians. A quick briefing. Last night was a huge success. The casualties of the enemy were numerous, and the vision to restore the city is underway. Thanks in large part to our great men of the military, and of course, the many of you new recruits . . . women too. We must continue the progress to reach our goal. In saying that, many of you will have jobs today, while select others will start their training. A military officer will gather you in groups and give you direction after breakfast. Be proud soldiers. The New America we will rise!”

  The group, with the exception of Rico and Jason, sit around in a circle eating their small breakfast which consist of half a cup of scrambled eggs, a single strip of bacon, one piece of toast, and a glass of water. They discuss the whereabouts of Charlie and Bodo who should have been back already.

  Chet, with a ball of food in his cheek, “I’m not getting a good feeling on this one.”

  “I don’t want to think the worst, but it’s hard not to.” Craig expresses. Suspicion is starting to creep, and it shows. He also hasn’t told the group of his dream.

  “What was that, Craig?” Chet says, pointing his index finger.

  “I said, I don’t wa—”

  “I heard what you said. I was talking about the look when you said it?”

  Melissa, not sure what Chet is talking about, glances over at Craig. He appears troubled. “What is it, baby?” She asks. Her voice soft, her eyes concerning.

  “Nothing.” If he could only see his own face, he would see why all the fuss.

  “Then why do you look like you're constipated?”

  Craig feels uneasy about revealing what he knows. He feels it’s his fault. The Captain had tested him, and he unknowingly failed. The fact that Charlie and Bodo hadn’t got back, had him undoubtedly troubled. He intended on telling them, but he didn’t expect to do it so soon. There is no use withholding information any longer.

  Here goes nothing! “It didn’t occur to me, till last night; in a dream I had—”

  The groups all ears with Chet nodding and saying, “Let’s hear it.”

  Craig continues. “When I was leaving the Captain’s office the other day, I wasn’t exactly myself. I was a bit distraught from witnessing the murders. Anyway, he stopped me and asked what the weather in Utah was like this time of year. Of course, me being rattled and all, the question came across quite idiotic to me. I wasn’t ready for it. Since I never been to Utah, how was I supposed to know—right? And naturally that what I said ‘I don’t know’. So maybe it’s my fault why they haven’t come back.”

  The dumbfounded look on everyone’s face told Craig the meaning flew a mile over their heads.

  Chet stops chewing, holding the ball of food in his cheek with his mouth hanging loosely. “Okay, so what’s all that mean?”

  Everyone else, with the exception of Doc, supported Chet’s question with “Yeahs.”

  Craig sighs. “That’s what Jack told the Captain we were talking about when I was supposedly ‘not spying,’ but talking with him on the second floor . . . Remember?”

  A pause in the group as everyone seems to be empty upstairs.

  Chet breaks the awkwardness with a smile. “Well, hell, partner, I wouldn’t have remembered that bag of hog-wash myself, so don’t beat yourself up over it. I don’t think not knowing the weather is why they’re not here.”

  Craig, appearing more concerned, reiterates. “What I’m saying, is the Captain did remember. That’s why he tested me. And the fact I was told Charlie and Bodo were on their way back before he asked me, and now they’re not here. That has me wondering. The Captain doesn't take lightly to spies, everyone knows that. If we don’t see them soon, it may be because I screwed up.”

  Chet, in thinking mode, chomps on his bacon. His eyes squint, and he points his half eaten bacon strip. “There’s a lot of terrors out there. Which means, there is a whole host of reasons why they didn’t make it back, if they ain’t going to make it back. Now, the whole spy question, I wouldn’t put a lotta stock into that. I think he was just talking.”

  “Why not?”

  “Simple. If that was a spy test, which I don’t think it is, what reason would he have to test you? They had nothing on you besides this weather thing, which don’t seem like much. They don’t have you on camera, because they didn’t have it set up then. No one knew what you did but our group. So It don’t tie together—definitely—not enough to explain why Bodo and Charlie ain't here. Simply put, he couldn’t just figure you for a spy with that question. I think you’re overthinking it a bit, my friend.”

  “It means something. I know it does. Think about it? None of us could remember, but somehow he did. It’s probably the way his mind works. He’s a control freak. Suspicious of everyone. Why else would he keep something so simple, filed away for a later time? He was just waiting.”

  Eva intervenes. “Why go through all that trouble proving you’re a spy, when he went through all that trouble trying to get you and all of us to conform?

  Craig’s thoughts and memories begin churning again. “That’s what I don’t get myself. Why feed me this whole thing about conforming us, show me the death of the deserters, then test me after all that? I can’t figure that whole part . . . Maybe you guys are right . . . That dream of mine—I don’t know.”

  Melissa locks her arms around his shoulders from the side, comforting him. She too feels he’s a little paranoid but with good reason. It’s awful times. “It’s okay, honey. You’ve seen a lot. You’re tired . . . We’re all tired. The Dream you had took advantage of that.” She kisses his cheek.

  But the wheels in Craig's brain won’t stop. Call it a hunch, but something did not sit right. His eye’s round again. “Unless the whole thing was a test of some kind!” Everyone sighed in their looks, while Chet sighed outwardly.

  The faint sound of the elevator be
ll rings over the chattered lobby. Melissa’s the only one who glances out that way. A few seconds later, the short, stocky Sergeant Brimm emerges. He stops to talk with two privates. The sight is unexpected. Something about it makes Melissa’s stomach bitter. “Look! It’s that little muscled jerk. He’s got a couple of bruises on his face.”

  The group turns, equally surprised. “What the Fuck!” Chet blurts. “Why is here? Where’s Bodo and Charlie?”

  “Something’s not right.” Eva expels.

  The group looks to each other. Confusion and speculation converge.

  “Why don’t you go over and ask him, Craig? Ask him why they ain’t here? Ask him why he is? Pay attention to how he responds. I don’t trust that little jackass.” Chet rants.

  Craig’s mind wonders off. “He isn’t that short. You guys know he’s not but two inches shorter than me or even you, Chet? That puts him about five eight, maybe five nine.”

  Chet asserts. “Maybe it’s because he’s meaty. I read once, and I was told by—”

  Eva rolls her eyes. “Guys, can we skip this issue of Maxim on men’s body types and stick to the issue at hand?”

  Craig nods. “So I should just ask him?”

  “But watch how he responds.” Chet repeats.

  A concerned Melissa interrupts. ”No. It’s a bad idea, babe. If they suspect you’re a spy, and this is proof of it, they will probably have you strung up and killed. And if they believe you’re one, they will believe we all are. It’s not a good idea, guys.”

  Chet shakes his head. “I don’t think so, Melissa. If that was true, which we can’t be sure of, the Captain would have taken care of Craig last night, but he didn’t. Right now he’s seeing if we conformed, like Craig thought before. They’re gonna use us till there’s no more use for us. If by that time we’re not fit to be one his guys . . . or slaves, then he’ll end us. That means we’re safe for now. Right, Craig?”

  “I don’t know anymore, guys. I’m confused. The only thing I can say, is he didn’t kill me, and he could have.”

  “Then he won’t kill you now.”

  Melissa intervenes. “Then why don’t you go, Chet? Why does Craig have to take all the risk?”