Anthony Puyo's The Compelled

by Anthony Puyo

  The cowboy takes his shot before replying. “We live in peace. Start over. I don’t know if the world will ever go back to being what it was. So we’ll make our own normal. Stay here, live off the land like some true settlers. Plant crops, find a cow or two. Farm.” He puts the glass and bottle down on the coffee table then turns to Craig. “Whattaya think, bud?”

  Craig scoots to the edge of the couch. Looks Chet right in the eyes with his finger pointing stiff with authority. He opens his mouth then stops. Blitzed by the alcohol, he lost his thought. He snaps his fingers in frustration. “I don’t know . . . I forgot what I was going to say. But yeah. We live here. Do all what you said. But we should never give up hope.”

  “Hope in what?” Chet asks. Wood crackles from the furnace.

  “That what we know . . . or knew, will come back.” He gives a one breath, partial laugh. “I was like most. Took things for granted. Bitched and moaned about plenty. If we only knew how good we had it.” Another one breath laugh.

  “Amen to that.” Chet sits up, pours the last of the vodka into three half shots. He passes them before raising his own. “Let’s make a toast.” The guys join in. “To hope,” he says, and they repeat. They clink their glasses together, throw back the drink, and get back to their resting spots.

  It’s quiet for a couple of minutes, as each one delves into their own minds. Then suddenly, Jason blurts something that spills from one of his thoughts. “I miss my grandma.”

  Since Jason is a man of few words, Craig and Chet take notice.

  Craig asks, “Is she . . .”

  “I don’t know.” Jason removes his glasses to rub one of his eyes. The guys think nothing of it. Then out of nowhere, the man begins to sob, putting his face in his hands. He resembles a child the way he whimpers. His body trembling with each grieving gasp.

  Chet and Craig glance at each other with shrugged eyes. The left-field, one-eighty mood swing surprises them. But it wasn’t only that. Jason is a bit different. The guys didn’t know he had these kind of feelings or emotions tucked away. But it’s apparent now, making them come to the conclusion; they shouldn’t have judged the book by a few pages. After all, Jason is human—just like them.

  Jason’s feelings don’t come to the surface much; like they do for most people. Been that way for most of his life. Since the age of nine till now, Jason has only cried four times. Most people could fill a few liters with the amount of tears dropped in that time span.

  Here are the four times Jason recollects crying. At the age of nine when his dog Burden died. That same year, his parents passed too—But he didn’t cry on that day.

  Hence the name “Burden” for the dog. He was named that by Jason’s mother. It was the only thing she ever gave him, and she chose to name it that. Why? We’ll get to that in a minute.

  Another time he sobbed, is when his gaming-computer console was stolen. He was twenty-four when it happened. That would be a silly reason for most to weep, but not for Jason. He had one hundred and thirty-three games saved on that system. So when it was stolen, so were all his works and accomplishments. All seven years of it.

  The most recent of the four despairing moments, was when Eva was getting raped by his so-called friend: the dirt bag Rico. That was one time he got to undo his grief.

  There was one more moment he remembered shedding some tears—it relates to his dog, Burden—again . . . Or partially I should say.

  Chet consoles. “It’s okay, man. It’s okay to let your emotions out.”

  Craig adds, “Why don’t you tell us about grandma? It might make you feel better.”

  Jason removes his hands from his face, wiping his nose with his forearm. He keeps his vision to the floor. “She was nice. Shh . . . she was always nice to me. Shh . . she always said don’t listen to them. That I wasn’t fat, or stupid . . . When I was bruised or had cuts because of them, she would put ice and medicine on my hurts.”

  Chet and Craig glance at each other, the same way as before. A mystery is unraveling. The thought in their minds floated the question. Them? Who’s them? You couldn’t possibly mean . . .

  “Cuts and bruises? Were you bullied?” Craig asks.

  “That happened when I went to school. At home it was different.”

  Chet’s eyes shrink, along with his mouth, as he turns his head to the side trying to understand.

  Craig digs a little deeper, “What do you mean, Jason? Did your brothers and sisters fight with you?”

  Jason whimpers again. His nose secretes snot, and his mouth drips saliva. “I don’t have brothers and sisters.”

  Craig, about to badger again, but Chet gently squeezes his bicep to get his attention, then waives him off.

  Jason continues. “My grandma got tired of them hurting me. She would cry when they did, but I never . . .”

  Craig couldn’t help but ask. “What happened to them, Jason?”

  Jason zeros in on Craig, as if he waited a long time for someone to help lift the boulder that had been placed on his chest. “My mom and dad are dead. She killed . . .”

  Craig tries not to act too surprised. “Who Jason?” But Jason doesn’t respond. He goes back to staring at the floor. “Jason? Why are they dead? Who killed—”

  Jason tightens his eyes, bobbing his body back in forth. He wants to say, it tears at him. A flashback of his parents beating him in a dark messy kitchen, seemingly as the infected look. It horrifies him. They were monsters.

  “My grandma. Grandma killed them.” Jason blabs.

  Chet and Craig are totally blown away by the revelation.

  Craig asks. “What?! How?”

  “She stuck a needle in them. It had the stuff they always used. She gave it to them while they were sleeping, and they never woke up.”

  The guys sit back in their seats—completely and utterly astonished.

  Back to the dog’s name and the missing time the young man cried. It happened to be the second of the four, and it was the most scarring. Jason’s mother told him on the day Burden died, which happened to be a mysterious death by the way, she gave that dog that horrible name to remind him what his existence was to her.

  Jason at the time, didn’t know what the word burden meant. Till one day, three years later, he came across it in his sixth grade class. It was a startling disclosure to him, after he had pondered and fully understood the meaning of it, and then coming to find out why she would refer it to him. After all, he was a little slow. Due to his mostly traumatic upbringing.

  None of the beatings ever pained him as much as that one word did. His parents had been dead for three years at the time of his findings. That night, he told himself a secret. One he was to bury afterwards. In his bed, gazing up at the ceiling, he diagnosed his parents as evil people. They hated him for the simple fact he was born. The day he saw his grandma shoot up his parents, was no longer a guilty day for him. It was a good day. He cried himself to sleep that night and not a single night after for them.

  Before today, he had never told anyone of his parents. And with good reason. In his mind, they didn’t exist—so they weren't a burden to him anymore. And after tonight, they will be buried forever in the past.

  Chet and Craig, still awestruck, would have never guessed the rough life the young man had gone through. The old world wasn’t perfect, but Jason’s story is deeply tragic to them. It solidified man’s cruelty, vileness and perverseness towards each other—even when there wasn’t a need for it.

  Neither of the guys relay their thoughts on the matter to Jason. They never even speak of it to one another. The only communication on it, was tonight. Solely through agreeing body language.

  More than few moments of silence pass. Ironically, it’s Jason who breaks it again. He gets up, goes to a door in the hallway. And after a few noisy seconds, he comes back with a banjo.

  Chet straightens up with new life. “Boy, what you got there?”

  Jason sits down and starts to play. And to their amazement, he plays good—damn good.


  Chet and Craig clap to the happy chords. It’s as if the tide came in and washed all the badness of the world back into the sea. The men start laughing, joking, even dancing with Chet falling on his drunk rear more than once.

  The night didn’t turn out half bad. When their tired and drunk bodies had enough, they collapsed on their seats that welcomed them to a deep slumber. The flames of the furnace burned on, warming them all the way till morning.

  Days have gone by with no incidents, making life easier. And everyone pitched in, one way or another, to the livelihood of the whole.

  The place was becoming a godsend. It has a well for fresh water, a garden that was already being grown when they got there. Passed the field are orange trees, they won’t bloom till August, but the area is good hunting ground for small animals. And since things have been so positive. The group is considering a search for livestock.

  It’s as if they’ve gone back in time in some respects. There’s no electricity in the house, which means they’re secluded from the outside world almost entirely. Phones can’t be charged—they lost their signals sometime back anyways. No electricity equals no internet.

  Their only reach, and I do mean reach, is the truck. Chet mucks around with the radio a couple of times every day, searching for a broadcast. But so-far, all he’s gotten is static. If there’s a silver lining to all this, is that they didn’t serve as lighthouse to the likes of those who had bad intention. They’ve had enough of that.

  The women keep the place neat. Violet’s mom, Rose, washes the dishes, and Violet herself sweeps the floors. Ryan makes the bed in his parent’s room and help fetches chopped wood for the furnace. Melissa and Eva wash sheets and clothes.

  Jason and Chet do most of the hunting and wood chopping. Craig goes out with them sometimes, but usually, he stays behind to garden and build things around the place. He tries to at least. He isn’t the handiest, but he’s learning.

  The garden is more of his passion. It especially shows during dinner time. All them years being an ag-broker, he learned a thing or two about growing.

  His appearance has even changed. From smooth skin, clean cut guy, that always wore a suit, to letting his curly hair grow out a bit, letting his beard do the same. His body had a makeover too. Craig’s the slender type, that will probably never change, but there’s a firmness to him now. His hands are stronger, his forearms are tighter, and he had a nice vein across both his biceps.

  That’s the best part for Melissa. Sometimes in the night, she would touch his tight arms and sigh. If the moment struck her, she would gently graze his abs with her fingertips. They too had gotten shapelier. Usually, if she wanted to explore him more, the heat below would get too much for her. If that was the case. Melissa would wake him for a late night walk, so to speak, and he never refused.

  Other days, she would look out the hall window from the top floor and watch her scruffy man at work. It was one of her daily pleasures. Her love, which was plenty, grew ever more with the passing time. And with each fleeing day, she conformed—both to him—and the new life they were living.

  The day is Tuesday. Everyone is doing their chores. Craig has finally fixed the wheel on that old wheelbarrow. He had been wanting to put a broken statue of a woman holding some fruit in his garden, but it was too heavy to move. Being that it is near five feet tall and made of a sturdy clay, he needed the contraption to move it from the barn to where he wanted it. He could have asked for help and gotten it, but he had seen the wheelbarrow and figured he could do it himself. The project became his motivation.

  The statue is all grey, the dress is Victorian, and she holds the fruit bowl over her shoulder with a warm smile. Her right arm, which is supposed to rest on her hip, is half missing. There is some age to it as well, but it’s still in fairly good condition.

  When Craig first seen it, it was half buried in the weeds and dirt of the barn. He dusted the face off, and in doing so, he felt an immediate attraction to it.

  You’re perfect. Don’t tell my wife I said that.

  As usual, Melissa stands by the window of the second floor, watching her husband. Craig wears a t-shirt with the short sleeves rolled up, dirty blue jeans that have their share of holes, and some black rain boots which he found in one of the house’s closets. Most of the stuff is too big except the boots. But in these times, he couldn’t complain. It was certainly better than wearing the same ragged, dirty clothes. Even if they were exchanged for more of the same—the ragged part that is. The logic being: more pairs of shabby clothes are better than one.

  Craig struggles moving the statue over the soft ground. He gets it to where he wants it and stands it up in the middle of his garden. He happens to stare up to the sky. It’s blue with a transparent mist underneath the clouds. It’s not normal by any means, but normal seems to be going the way of the dodo bird. If things are to keep up this way for a few years, or even sooner, the abnormally of it would eventually become the new normal.

  Craig sees the sun peeking through a cloud. From the corner of his eye, he notices he’s being watched. He puts his hand up, blocking the sun. He smiles at his beautiful wife, giving her a wave. Melissa leans close to the window, touching it. She smiles back, her breath moistening the glass in front of her soft lips.

  A beautiful day. A beautiful maiden.

  Craig takes a step back, unexpectedly, he falls to the dirt. Melissa begins to chuckle adoringly.

  You silly man. Anything to make me laugh.

  In older times, he would do things like this. He loved to make her laugh. It was a pleasure of his.

  Melissa’s laughter suddenly stops. There’s something wrong. She notices the affliction on her husband’s face.

  Craig reaches for his rain boot, taking it off slowly—painfully. Blood flushes out from the neck of the boot as he sets it down. He moans in agony.

  “Fuck!”

  His sock is drenched. He peels it off. The wound is on his hill. That’s where the large, rusty nail entered.

  In a rush, Melissa and Eva come out the house. Right behind them, come the other women and the kids.

  “Honey, are you okay?” Melissa asks, jogging up. Extremely concerned, she gets down near him. The amount of blood catches her by surprise. “Oh my god, babe, you’re bleeding!”

  “Shit, I stepped on a freaken nail. Went in there pretty good too.”

  Melissa holds his foot, to get a better look. It’s bad. Three of the five inches of the nail is entrenched in his foot.

  Eva gets down on her knee. “We need to get you to the tub.” She turns to Isabell, “See what kind of medicine you can find.”

  “Okay.”

  Ryan stands above his father. “Are you okay, Dad?” Fear is prevalent in his tone.

  Craig, in deep pain, doesn’t want to terrify his son any more than he is. “I’m fine, Ryan. Just got a cut, that’s all.”

  Melissa and Eva help him up. He holds on to their shoulders all the way to the downstairs bathroom. Once there, they place him on the toilet seat. Melissa washes his foot off with room temperature water over the tub.

  “Pull it. You have to pull it out.” Craig orders.

  The two women gaze at each other.

  Eva utters, “I can do it, if you can’t.”

  Melissa sighs. She’s a bit squeamish. “No. I’ll do it.”

  Eva nods in return. “Okay then. I’ll get some bandages.”

  Melissa gently rounds her fingers over the exposed head of the nail. Craig grunts, bracing for the moment.

  “On three,” she tells him. “One . . . two—”

  The oldest trick in the book.

  Melissa never gets to three. She yanks the rusty thing out. The swish of cut flesh and blood make her cringe.

  Craig growls and his body stiffens. “Mother-fucker, sonofabitch!” He punches the wall. “Damn, damn, damn!” All his fussing brings him little comfort.

  Melissa takes a gander at the wound. The hole is a little bigger than a centimeter. “It’s big, Craig.”


  Craig winces as she cleans it with a damp rag. The blood keeps streaming out. “It’ll be okay, don’t worry,” he responds.

  “You need antibiotics. This could get infected.”

  “It’ll be fine, I said. You worry too much.”

  Eva walks in with some strands of torn bed sheets. “I heard him from upstairs. How is it?”

  “It’s not good. It’s really deep.” Melissa answers in regret.

  Craig runs his hand through his hair, frustrated at the whole mess. “It’s fine, just wrap it up, please.”

  Isabell steps in the doorway. “All I found was this.” She has a shoe-box with various medicines in it.

  Eva goes through it. The only thing worthwhile is a capful of peroxide. “It’s only one dosage.”

  Craig states. “If that’s all there is, it will have to do.”

  Rose talks in Spanish to Isabell and Eva. She’s adamant with her words.

  Craig agitated. “What’s she griping about?”

  “Craig?” Melissa says, not liking his tone.

  “She says we should burn the wound. It will help stop the blood, and kill the germs.”

  “Will it work?” Craig replies.

  “If you can handle it, you should do it. We don’t have medicine—”

  “If you say it will work, that’s good enough for me.” Craig adjust in his seat, “Let’s get it over with.”

  33

  Thorns on the Road

  The middle of the next day.

  Craig sits on the living room couch, smoothing out a makeshift crutch he made from old garden tool handles. He’s focuses on the hand grip till he hears steps up above.

  Melissa stands at the top of the stairs. They lock eyes. Craig stops and watches her walk down. She’s a goddess to him. The white, old-fashioned gown-dress she’s wears, the bounce in her wavy strands of hair; shimmer in the sun rays that pierce in. Everything about her is perfect to him.