Anthony Puyo's The Compelled

by Anthony Puyo

  She’s lovely.

  Her grin is warm, exposing her teeth. “Are you done gawking?”

  The white gown doesn’t show much skin, but Craig knows what’s hiding behind it.

  She brushes her hair, passing the last wall of rays that give her a gold outline on the last step.

  The place, for the meantime, belongs to them. Eva, Isabell, Chet, and Jason, went out into the fields to check on the traps they had set for rabbits while Rose and Violet are taking Craig’s place, keeping busy in the garden.

  “Wow, you are gorgeous,” Craig relays to her.

  She smiles from the compliment. “Am I?” She walks up to him, her stomach a foot away from his face.

  He reaches out, touching her belly. The material of the dress is thin. He can almost feel her skin through it. Her waist is small—soft. He slides both hands to her hips, gripping them firmly. Melissa could read his mind. She holds his wrists, moving his hands to her small, but shapely end as she tip-toes one foot forward.

  Craig’s pulse rises. “You’re like a present that I want to unwrap.”

  Melissa unlatches two buttons from her waist and spreads the cloth. Her soft, melt-in-your-mouth naval is asking to be kissed, licked, maybe a little bite of the teeth.

  The seduced man gulps. “Where’s Ryan?”

  She sways left to right, her fingers spreading into his hair, to the back of his head, slowly rubbing his face into her stomach, feeling his beard.

  “He’s asleep.”

  It’s go time! “Is that so?” Craig pulls her arms, signaling for a kiss. She gives him one, making sure it had just the right amount of moisture. Her lips were all he could take. “Lead me into the bathroom.”

  Melissa stays bent, tenderly kissing his upper cheek, inch by inch, in a line up to his forehead. Then, in a whisper that sent her warm breath against his ear like a light wind on a sun setting beach, she says. “You’re in no shape to handle this.” She backs away with a conniving smile buttoning her dress swiftly.

  Craig, stiff as a bike handle in his pants, tries to stand and grab her. With his foot the way it is, he falls back in his seat. “Hey you, get back here!”

  “Sorry! You need to calm, sit, or lie down and get some rest. It’s for your own good,” she gazes down, “big boy.”

  Smiling, she walks backwards, blowing kisses.

  “What?!” Craig struggles in his seat. “What the hell was that?!” He tries to stand again, but it’s painful. “You tease!” He grunts some more. “Ahh, get out of here then, you’re bothering me.”

  “I think I will, grouch.” She turns and makes her way up the stairs giggling.

  Melissa gets to her room. She combs her hair, humming a soft melody in front of the oval mirror near the closet. She catches the reflection of Ryan’s back while he lays in the bed. An idea comes to her. She stops combing.

  It’s a good time to check those ears of his. She sets the brush down and turns to him. I know he’s not going to like it . . . but I have to know what’s wrong.

  Melissa steps lightly over to him; the wood beneath her bare-feet moan. The view out the window grabs her attention. It’s sunny with a breeze, and she can see Rose and Violet playing with a Frisbee. The laughter between them touches her. A smile grazes over her face.

  She peers, keenly down to Ryan. He’s sound asleep on his side. She kisses his forehead delicately, then positions herself to be gentle.

  Melissa reaches for the top-side of his earmuff, steadily—slowly. With her fingers around it, feeling the texture of the plastic, she gently bites down on her own tongue.

  Please don’t wake.

  Her focus tight; she begins to lift them off. The fluffy wool from the ear covers, brush the skin of the kid’s ear. He breathes a little harder and flinches slightly. She almost let’s go, but he doesn’t move again.

  Then.

  “Caah! Caah!”

  Melissa’s winces. A crow sounds as it flies by the window. The wings of the animal push the air, making a deep fluttering sound that only last a few seconds.

  Melissa sighs heavily and murmurs, “Shit.” She then peeks over Ryan’s head, to see if he’s awake. The child is not. He has always been a deep sleeper.

  Calming herself, Melissa resets; putting her fingers on the cups again. She gently begins to remove them. As they part from his skin, she sees a blackish-brown crud that’s been seeping from his earholes, forming a thick mound in there. Her face shows some concern and a bit of disgust.

  Wax.

  Melissa keeps on, lifting his head a bit, to get the whole thing off without waking him.

  How can he even hear? Oh, my poor baby, no wonder they bother you. We’ll fix that right up.

  She grabs a bowl of water from the restrooms sink, along with a rag. The room they stay in, has its own toilet and sink but no shower.

  Melissa places the bowl on the nightstand by the empty plate and butter-knife she has there. With the cloth dipped in water, Melissa softly cleans Ryan’s right ear. It’s a bit of a challenge trying to get the piled wax out, but she keeps at it; Immersed in what she’s doing.

  Using her fingernail, she dislodges a sizable piece that covers the earhole. It’s gross—But so is baby poop, and as a mother, she cleaned that for a long time. So how much worse can a little ear-sludge be.

  Melissa wipes the pasty, black and brown mess on the rag, not noticing as she couldn’t see her son’s face, Ryan’s eyes twitch. They begin to move back and forth similar to having a dream. Their motion gains speed. Moving faster. Faster. Then just as sudden . . . they stop.

  Melissa dips the cloth into the water.

  Ryan’s eyes flutter, exposing the white of his eyes. He turns on his back, mouth open, letting out an exhale.

  “Ryan?” Melissa’s astounded to see him awake.

  He starts to convulse.

  The rag falls out of Melissa’s hand. She’s stunned—scared.

  “Honey? Oh my god.” Her hands cover her mouth. She doesn’t know what to do.

  After a tense few moments, Ryan stops, then sits up swiftly.

  It’s all very odd. He just sits there, not moving.

  Melissa, still stunned, decides to put her hand on his shoulder and shake it. “Ryan?”

  He swivels his head towards her. His eyes still fluttered back.

  “Ryan?” She says again, shaking him gently.

  The boy’s eyelids drop, and the fluttering ceases. He seems to have calmed now.

  Melissa breathes a sigh of relief. “Jesus. It was just a nightmare.”

  Suddenly, Ryan’s eyes expose.

  Melissa gasps for air. “No . . . Oh no. Please no.” Her words have no fear in them. Instead—they’re filled with grief. Tears begin to form.

  Ryan’s pupils are dark, enlarging over the whites of his eyes, his face becomes angry. He opens his mouth, as if he has fangs, and scowls at her.

  “No. Not my baby.”

  Ryan growls and turns, his feet dangling off the bed. He grabs the butter knife off the nightstand.

  Melissa, on her knees, pleads. “No, Ryan, please. It’s me—Your mother.”

  She isn’t worried for her life; she’s worried for his. Though distraught, she keeps her voice low, not wanting to cause alarm that could lead to hostility towards him.

  Ryan moves off the bed, standing close to her with a rabid look.

  Melissa, sobbing, embraces her child. “I love you, Ryan.” She squeezes his small body, tightly, with every ounce of love she has. She slides down, hugging him at his waist with her head nestled on his stomach. There, she pouts, sniveling—her heart is broken.

  Ryan, who hasn’t said anything, put his left hand softly on his mother’s shoulder, then touches the side of her head. The warmness of his feel, makes Melissa weep more. She rubs her cheek into his palm. The tears wet his hand. After a quiet moment, the boy said his last word to her.

  “Die.”

  Ryan jams the butter-knife into the side of Melissa’s neck.

&nbs
p; Melissa doesn’t yell or scream, but instead, locks eyes with Ryan one last time. The saddened stare, the rolling tears, are followed by blood spouting out of her mouth as she gasps for life; choking a couple of times before landing to the floor. Her sight never leaving him.

  Downstairs on the couch, Craig lies, trying to nap. The thud of Melissa’s fall interrupts his effort. He gazes up, to see the door partially open to the room. It seems to move a few inches. A strange feeling drapes over him. He sits up.

  “Honey?” He says towards the room. Hearing his own voice, makes the place seem incredibly empty.

  Craig stands up ever so gingerly. With his crutch, he hobbles to the steps, keeping his gaze up the stairs the whole time.

  “Honey?” He calls out a little louder. The silence keeps its place.

  Moving up the stairs, he shouts a third and a fourth time, netting the same result.

  Something's wrong.

  He then calls for Ryan, getting nothing in return as well.

  Sometimes, the subconscious knows things before we do.

  Craig rushes up the best he can, ignoring the pain. He gets to the top, then to the half opened door. The first thing in his line of sight is his wife’s hair on the floor.

  “Honey?”

  He opens the door fully. Craig’s mind can’t fully register what he’s gazing upon. His emotions build to size of a mountain.

  “Melissa?” He murmurs. Watery eyes, squared shaking lips, the grief stricken man’s face bunches up as he witnesses his wife’s empty vessel on the floor. The liquid of life all around her, soaking into the white gown.

  “No. No.” He despairs.

  Craig drops the crutch and limps over to her. He puts her head in his hand. It is heavy, loose, it confirms there is not a gram of spirit left in her.

  Craig peers into her brown eyes, deeply. Her clear white skin is an immense contrast from the bright red blood that seeps from her mouth. Her face is peaceful—she looks angelic.

  He rubs his hairy cheek on her forehead, then kisses it. A part of him refuses to let her go.

  “It’ll be okay, baby. We’re gonna fix things. Get a place of our—Have another child.”

  The tears fall onto her head, beading on her hair. He sobs profusely. Each drop carrying more love than the next.

  “Don’t go, baby, don’t you leave me,” he whispers, squeezing her with all he is.

  A moment later, the flames of anger ignite. He grabs for his gun, jaw gnashing.

  “Who did this?!”

  He gets to one knee, looking around the room. He notices the bed is empty.

  “Ryan?!”

  A tap of metal on wood makes Craig turn swiftly to the dark corner near the closet.

  Ryan sits curled up in a ball.

  Craig squints his eyes. “Ryan? . . . What are you doing over there? Come here, boy. Tell me who did this?” Craig’s words are delicate. None of this is making sense to the poor man. His wife is deceased. His boy is silent in the corner.

  What the hell is going on?

  Craig, about to put his gun down, touched the floor with the barrel. Ryan moves with haste forward in a crawl. He breaks right before the sun spot coming from the window. The movement makes Craig hold on to his gun. He suspects something. There’s a panting coming from Ryan.

  “Ryan?” Craig calls out.

  The boy leans forward, exposing his face in the light. Just like Melissa, Craig knows instantly when he sees Ryan’s eyes.

  You did this? Craig snivels, “You did this?” He gasps, crying, “You—” It’s hard to register. The pain he feels pierces his heart, leaving him defeated.

  He sits up against the wall, burying his face in his right hand, shaking his head in torment.

  “Why?! Why?!” He bursts out.

  Ryan gets to his feet. The rage boils on his face. The mad child, steps come slow. The bloody butter-knife, held tight by his hip, drips as he walks.

  Craig stares—whimpering. What is he supposed to do? The man’s mind is in a grieved daze. He eyes his gun, knowing he has one last bullet.

  A memory comes to mind. It is the time he heard Doc’s words in the hospital before the escape. They resonated with him that day. So much so, he heard the man’s voice reciting at this grueling moment.

  “Let me tell you something,” Doc said. “No matter what calamities seem to emerge on the road in front of you, you shouldn’t be deterred. Knowledge, goodness, hope, will always surface from the ashes of our choices. Even if they ain’t the right ones. That’s a man’s destiny.”

  Those words repeat in the columns of Craig’s mind.

  The stream of tears has no end. Craig knows what has to be done. The father—husband—lifts the gun and dreadfully points it. His hand shakes tremendously. “I love you, son.”

  Ryan growls, about to lunge. It’s too late . . .

  Craig held his wife’s hand, then turns the gun on himself.

  The loud shot resonates through the house and carries outside. Loud enough, even the birds take notice. They scatter off the roof and out of the large tree, Rose and Violet play by.

  Violet drops her Frisbee. Her and her mother stare up at the Bainy’s room. Rose quickly covers her daughter’s eyes. Across the window, blood is splattered heavily.

  Before Craig pulled the trigger, he remembered one more thing. It was the promise he made Melissa while they embraced by the fire of the industrial building.

  “Regardless of what happens. Promise me you won’t let anything happen to Ryan? Promise me you will always protect our baby? Give him a future.”

  “I won’t let anything happen to him.” Craig assured her.

  “Promise me.”

  “Yes, honey, I promise. I swear it. He will have a future.”

  When he made that promise, he intended on keeping it. And though it may not be the way she meant it, it was all he could think of in that dyer, painful moment. Craig loved her . . . to the very end.

  In the orchards, resides the rest of the group. Jason and Chet both hold dead rabbits from a successful hunt. Suddenly, they hear a gunshot.

  Chet stands, ears perked. “Craig,” he says under his breath.

  The sound of a 357 is unique. It’s by far the loudest gun of any in their possession.

  “Let’s go!” Chet shouts.

  They run through the weeds of the dirt field, towards the house—almost in a panic. Chet hands his rabbit over to Jason and un-holsters his rifle.

  I’ll be right there, Craig, hold on.

  A great urgency fell over them all, as speculations occurs.

  What are we up against? Filled their minds. They have no idea.

  They arrive at the surprisingly quiet house, out of breath. Fifteen feet in front of the side door, is Rose and Violet. The child is in her mother’s embrace, crying.

  Chet, jolted with adrenaline, asks, “What going on? What happened?”

  The woman talks in Spanish, and Violet is hysterical. Chet has no time to figure it out through them. He veers his sight in direction of the windows. Not seeing anything unusual, he starts for the door, rifle pointing.

  Whoever’s in there looking for trouble, just found it. “C’mon, Jason.”

  Eva holds Rose’s arm and the touches the top of Violet’s head. “What happened here?” She asks in Spanish, using a calm tone.

  Rose explains. “I don’t know. There was a gunshot, and we saw blood on the window of Bainy’s room.”

  Upon hearing their testimony, a knot forms in Eva’s gut. She trails after Chet and Jason.

  Chet opens the door swiftly, aiming in just as quick. From the doorway, he can see partially through the kitchen and living room, but there’s nothing distinct. On high alert, he leads the way in.

  Chet asks Eva, pointing his gun, inching towards the living room, “What did Rose tell you?”

  Eva glares around nervously. “She said they saw blood on Melissa’s and Craig’s window after the gunshot.”

  “Intruder?”

  “Th
ey don’t know.”

  They make their way to the living room and instantly see Ryan standing on top of the stairs—his eyes dark as the night sky.

  “Shit! . . . The kid’s turned.” Chet remarks, keeping the gun dead on him. They move in slowly. “What should we do?”

  “We can’t kill him.” Eva replies. She calls out for Craig and Melissa. Nothing.

  Chet adds, “He’s probably murdered them already.”

  They keep stepping, on guard, till they’re a few feet from the staircase.

  Chet speaks again. “I don’t wanna kill him either, but he’s not one of us anymore?”

  “Were not killing him,” Eva replies sternly, “and that’s final.”

  She moves in front of Chet, who keeps his aim. Eva tenderly walks up, step by step. The boy stands with one hand behind his back, his vision beaming through Eva. She treads up, showing her hands the whole time.

  “Hey, Ryan, remember me? It’s me, Eva.”

  She glances back and forth at the boy and his hidden arm. Keeping her composure, she asks, “How are you feeling? . . . Would you like to thumb wrestle?”

  Ryan peers, not saying anything.

  As Eva gets a few steps from him, Chet puts his finger on his trigger. He wasn’t about to lose another person to the evil they’ve come to know. Ryan’s chest is in his crosshairs, but soon, Eva’s back would be. A decision will have to be made.

  Ryan teeth begin to show.

  Chet’s finger touches the trigger.

  Eva’s getting too close.

  Chet takes a breath. He sees the kid’s arm moving. He’s going to attack!

  The boy yells.

  Chet hesitates.

  Eva’s back comes into view.

  He can’t take the shot now.

  The boy pulls his hand out from his back. He holds the butter-knife up high to stab. He swings down. Eva catches his arm. A short struggle ensues. Ryan’s stronger than before, but finally, her strength subdues him. She puts his arm behind his back and takes him down to the floor. The knife falls out of his hand. Ryan kicks and screams, but he’s rendered defenseless on his stomach.

  “Someone bring me some rope to tie his hands and feet!” Eva shouts between breaths.

  “Die! Die!” Ryan screams violently with drool dripping from his mouth.