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  ANTHONY PUYO’S

  THE COMPELLED

  This is a fictitious story derived from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real life, living, or deceased persons is purely coincidental. Mentioning of any events true, false, or in theory, are done so for entertainment only and nothing is intended to be taken as anything other than thereof.

  Conception of work 2013

  Copyright© 2016

  This publication is an “All right reserved” work. No part of this book shall be reproduced or used in anyway without the written permission of the author.

  For original paperback copy, follow the link below

  https://www.createspace.com/6258954

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  Thanks to God before all else.

  To my mother, Dora:

  Thank you for pushing and believing in me.

  To my wife, Mindy; and my daughter, Valerie:

  Thanks for bearing with me through

  the grueling process of finishing this novel.

  You guys will always be my inspiration.

  Last but not least: To my father, Mario:

  Though you’re gone, you are never

  forgotten.

  A SPECIAL THANKS:

  To my brother, Frank:

  Your input helped me tremendously.

  To Venus:

  Your opinion was the confidence

  builder that kept me on course.

  And Also:

  Martin, Martin Jr, Raymond, Ralph,

  Leo, Gilbert, Jeff, Jose,

  Martha, Alfonzo, Ida, Lupe, Ernie, Elyse,

  Josh & Amber

  And to all of the people we know and those

  who purchased a copy:

  Your support is greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

  OPENING

  The sun rises above the rugged green mountains. Its rays slowly stretch over the forestry and into the short valleys where the towns lie.

  It’s nearing the end of a strong winter season. The dwellings that sit in the higher elevations, will see snowfall all the way through early April. But in Oakhurst, California, the second of the foothill towns heading up north on Freeway 41 from Madera County, the elevation is too low for such prevalence. The grounds here are lucky to see more than an inch during the entire season.

  Regardless, the days at this time are still very cold, and today is no exception. The projected high is thirty-six degrees with a low of twenty-two. Nothing out of the ordinary the locals would tell you for an early February morning, and for the most part, that would be true. But that’s because they didn’t notice. The same could be said for most of the country—and the world for that matter.

  It started yesterday—touching down a few minutes after 3 p.m. What it was, and is, wasn’t foreseen on any forecast. And since it wasn’t foreseen, it couldn’t be measured.

  Masked in the aura of the atmosphere, the uncertainty trickled down in waves, giving the drifting air a feel to it: an ill-defined energy resembling static. To the touch, it’s feeble in nature. And as it moves with the wind, a sort of humming sound follows. Both come and go like a faint radio signal—subtle enough—that few realize the occurrence is there. But it is. And what it brings . . . is the mystery.

  ANTHONY PUYO’S

  THE COMPELLED

  1

  The First Sixteen Hours

  Between a green hill and the Kesburg’s dormant vineyard, lies the body of the Craig Bainy. Embraced by the short grass, the pale man rests flat on his back with his head tilted to the left.

  He’s bleeding.

  There’s a quarter-size gash on the upper right side of his head. The blotch of blood, that’s soaked in his short curls above his ear, is still damp in the center, suggesting he’s been here for some time.

  The trench coat he always wears, the one that keeps him from looking like a bank teller rather than a commodities broker, is gone—a casualty of his dilemma.

  Not that it would have helped him much this brisk morning, but it would certainly be better than what he’s left with: navy blue slacks, a cream collared button up; all strung together neatly with a black tie and dress shoes.

  All his garments are stained with various doses of blood. His pants by his thighs and abdomen are the most noticeable—drenched in those areas. His tie, chest, neck, chin, and cheeks are littered with dry, red specs. Fortunately for him, most of the blood isn’t his.

  The frigid air goes over Craig’s slender body. He shivers. He doesn’t fare well in the cold. If he were conscious, the brisk feeling would have no doubt brought back images of his wife Melissa and what she would often tell him.

  “You, sir, are cold blooded,” she would say. The response was usually accompanied by: “I bet I could tell the temperature of the day from the feel of those skinny hands of yours.”

  A rich, rosy-red drop of blood begins to streamline down Craig’s forehead, making a light pat sound as it hits the crisp dewy strands of grass. Another drop begins to form that strays away from the streamline. It begins to roll down into the left of his big brown, almond-shaped eyes, making it twitch. A moment later, Craig’s right eye, which is clear of blood, opens with a brief blank stare. It only takes a second: his last memory rushes to him—widening it. Engulfed by imminent danger and fear, Craig abruptly sits up. He quickly smears the blood out of his sealed eye while keeping the other open. He turns his head in all directions in a near panic. He searches around himself—looking for something. A bloody eight-inch knife lays within arm’s reach next to a damaged phone. Craig picks it up then quickly stands in a crouched position. He’s ready for the attackers.

  A few seconds go by.

  It’s quiet—except for the caw of crows in the distance somewhere. Breathing hard, glaring around in a circle, the nervous man sees no one. The leaves of a nearby evergreen sway into a chatter from a flyby breeze, catching his attention for a moment. With his mind occupied, he doesn’t notice the subtle static resonance that follows, slightly raising the hair on his arms.

  Convinced he’s alone, he calms.

  They aren’t coming for me.

  He begins to walk briskly towards the hill. At the top, he uses his blood stained hand to block the sun out of his view. From where he stands, there’s a slight drop of the terrain into a valley of old walnut orchards. Craig peers over them, seeing a red-bricked home in the distance. Not thrilled to be in the position he’s in, he stares back from where he came. He ponders if he should move on or go back. He sighs before turning around and marching towards the bricked house.

  Twenty minutes later, the slender man makes his way out of the orchard overlooking the back of the home. He’s sixty feet away from the back door. A bit winded from the anxiety of the situation and the brisk walk, he stays in place scanning his surroundings. Many farm machines, tools, and wooden crates are scattered about on the mostly dirt backyard. The few square footages of grass Craig sees, leads up to the entrance and window of the place.

  Craig stares towards the home again—nervously pacing in his mind. He needs help. But with blood stains all over, he doesn’t know how to approach the residents. He feels he won’t be let to explain.

  He debates to himself in thought. Will they believe I’m not a murderer? Will they believe I killed in self-defense? They probably wouldn’t even answer the door. Maybe call the police . . . and who knows after that? Front story on the paper for sure. I'd be ruined instantly.

  Even more importantly than his career and friends, his wife and child come to mind.

  Sure Melissa would wait to hear my side. She’ll stand by what I say . . . but what about Ryan? Craig dr
eads the mere thought of that conversation. How do I explain it to him? What will he think of me?

  His boy, Ryan, is only seven. Craig knows his son well, and he enjoyed being a father. Ryan is intelligent, curious, innocent, and yes, sometimes a handful like most young boys his age, but he’s Craig’s child—his only child. And now he’s put their relationship in jeopardy.

  It comes to him quickly—the question: How will Ryan fare without a father? It’s a sobering thought. He only wished he had the foresight to see this situation coming rather than getting harpooned by it. But how could he have known? After all, it’s not your typical incident.

  There’s no other way.

  For the benefits of his family and himself, his mind is made. He has to see them before turning himself in to the authorities.

  The window by the back door is draped with beige flower curtains. A sound comes from the room mimicking a falling sauce pan. Craig, in fear of being seen, ducks his body and moves quickly behind a wooden fruit bin. Shielded, he considers his next move.

  He takes a chance and glances towards the window again. Seeing the drapes still closed, he figures nobody’s on to him. Staying low, he moves closer and closer, ducking and hiding behind the things of the yard till he reaches the entrance. He stays crouched for a moment, listening for signs of life.

  He hears nothing.

  Craig takes a quick peek into the small open crannies of the draped window. The room is revealed to be a kitchen. He leans back down next to the door, giving thought on how to proceed. He considers knocking with a polite smile, but that notion rapidly unravels.

  I don’t think a gentle smile will negate the blood stained clothes, moron. What are you going for, “insane killer” rather than your average “run-of-the-mill killer?”

  He decides a longer glance is essential.

  His eyes peer in the thin slit beneath the drape and ledge of the window. Caught by surprise, he flinches. He unexpectedly gazes into the searching eyes of a Chihuahua.

  The little energized dog begins to bark aggressively, scratching its hind paws on the counter like a Toro-bull ready to attack. Not wanting to alarm anyone, Craig stoops almost instantly.

  He begins to panic. Run! —Stay!

  With his mind tangled in anxiety, he can’t make a decisive move. Suddenly—he hears an older man's voice inside. The pitch is low and sharp as if the man had to push out his words.

  “What is it, Tilly . . . You see someone out there?”

  Craig turns as stiff as a statue. His heart pounds intensely to the point that he swears he hears it. Paranoid others will too, he places his hands over his chest.

  A man fitting the description of the classic farmer: late fifties, bearded, burly with a plaid shirt and overalls, stands at the entrance of the kitchen facing the back door.

  From outside, Craig can hear the little dog going crazy. It only pauses to sniff under the crack of the exit. Craig scoots away at the sight of the tiny snout.

  The farmer sees the movement of Craig’s shadow at the door’s bottom.

  Something’s aloof.

  Talking to Tilly calmly, he slowly reaches his right arm behind the kitchen wall.

  “What do you see, girl? . . . Huh? Papa gotta intruder, or you just like waking the dead?”

  His hand comes back gripped with a double barrel shotgun. The farmer’s facial expression swiftly changes. He cocks the weapon loudly. “I see you,” he shouts, “State your business or I’ll be done with yuh!”

  Craig thinks to himself, What now! You got to make it home!

  He knew it wouldn’t be easy explaining himself. He wanted to run.

  The farmer repeats himself with a bit harsher tone. Craig knew his time to make a decision was running thin.

  The old man points his gun, looking through the cross hairs. “Here's the lead you ordered!”

  With no other choice, Craig replies. “I’m sorry, sir! I mean no harm! I was running away from danger at the Kesburg’s place! I just happened to end up here . . . I need help! Please, sir?!”

  The farmer listens carefully. The sound of Craig’s voice said something. If it were normal times, the old man would have been surprised by the backyard intruder no doubt, but the degree of his reaction would have depended on many things. He had his own profiling system that was “complex” as he would put it to his wife, Helen. When he spoke in this nature, he usually waved his finger. He felt it made his arguments more valid.

  “People of all walks of life could be dangerous, Helen,” he would say.

  Helen always felt he treated his points as if they were coming from the supreme being himself, but she never told him or fussed too much about it. Whether she agreed or not, she just went along. From her point of view, it made their relationship smoother that way. It was easier to let him talk till he was tired. If she made the mistake of straying from that stance by putting her two cents in, she ran the risk of whatever he was yapping about going on for miles till the idea was driven like a nail, profusely, into her head. It’s not to say Helen didn’t love him, because she did, but If she was going to argue, she made damn sure a bottle of Advil was in the house.

  The burly man would say, “It’s in their eyes, Helen . . . you can bet on that. You see, if a man means trouble, it’ll show right there in the eyeballs.”

  He was overly brash sometimes. Complained a little too much for some. But he was a softie in helping someone in need, as long as it made sense and there was no harm in it. His intentions were good, and he was more than a decent man when it came down to it.

  If circumstances were normal, the farmer would just call the cops on the intruder, since there was hardly any reason for anyone to ask for help that way. But these aren’t ordinary times. He feels the man outside has a sincere tone to him, and he is curious to know more.

  The farmer shouts his question, “What kind of trouble are you running from?”

  There isn’t an easy way for Craig to say why he’s here, or why he looks the way he does. He comes to think, It’s not going to sound believable in any way I put it, so I might as well just say it. But it wouldn’t hurt to use an ice breaker—maybe even leave a damaging piece or two out—There’s an idea.

  “You’re not going to believe me when I tell you, sir, but Mr. and Mrs. Kesburg went crazy and attacked me . . . They tried to kill me, so I fled.”

  The old man ponders a bit. “Are they dead?”

  The question catches Craig off-guard. Why would he ask that?

  He knows by the way he appears, he was going to have to reply that query at some point, but he was hoping to strengthen his argument first.

  Left with no choice, Craig retorts somberly with his voice trailing off at the end. “I believe so.”

  The farmer stays silent. Even Tilly stops barking. For a few painstaking seconds, it gets awkward. Suddenly the doorknob wiggles and rattles.

  The old man’s voice rings out again through the door. “Come on in, but don’t take my kindness for weakness, or I promise you . . . it’ll be the last thing you take.”

  Craig surprised, gets up slowly. He’s afraid, but hopeful to get his chance to call his loved ones.

  Craig turns the knob and pushes the door open. He stays in the sun-filled doorway—his face and clothes covered in dirt and dried blood. He drops his knife to the ground and raises his hands in the air.

  The farmer is stunned at the sight. His gun, which is aimed at the bloodied man, goes down a few inches, exposing his dropped jaw and blank stare. He had no idea it was going to be this bad. Mesmerized at all the blood, he lets down his gun all together.

  Who is this man that stands before me? he thinks.

  Tilly, who could care less, runs up to Craig’s dusty dress shoes and begins sniffing around them. She concludes her investigation by sitting and panting between his feet, gazing up at him.

  The old man tucks his tongue behind his bottom lip. He stares at Craig up and down—getting a feel for the man. After a moment, he asks, “You kill ‘em?�
��

  With remorse in his eyes, Craig nods and answers in a soft tone. “I think so.”

  The farmer thinks for a second, then grunts. “Did they have it coming?” Craig half shrugs. “I see you gotta nice cut on your head there.”

  Craig’s emotions begin to surface. He’s shaken, confused, ashamed . . . and it all bled into his words, “They tried to kill me. I don’t even . . . I don’t even know why.”

  The old man glosses over Craig with sympathy for moment. With a relaxed sigh, he waves Craig to follow. “I do.”

  Craig speechless at the farmer’s response, walks with him to the living room.

  The old man continues, this time with a smile, “I’m Jerry Kratz, and you’ve already met Tilly,” he says, nodding his head towards his Chihuahua.

  “I’m Craig, Craig Bainy.”

  Jerry reaches out for a handshake. Craig, engulfed in the weirdness of the whole scenario, looks at Jerry’s hand like he’s forgotten what that gesture means. Upon realizing, he extends.

  They both stand in front of the television in the living room.

  “This is why you had to kill ‘em,” Jerry says, eyes glued to the television. He raises the volume. “They went nuts like the rest of ‘em.”

  Craig briefly examines his surroundings. He couldn’t help but notice the portraits of Jerry with a blond haired, heavyset, older woman. It’s Helen, Jerry’s wife. She has a full face with soft blue eyes.

  They seem happy in the photos. One in particular stands out to Craig. They both hold “I Love You” mugs, smiling cheerfully on the Vegas Strip. It is the only one his mind grasps with the short stare.

  It must be his wife, Craig deems.

  The news reporting snatches Craig’s attention. A special report is being broadcast with images of chaos and violence on the streets all across the nation. Instructions and stories filter at the bottom of the screen, but there is too much eye-popping imagery for Craig to concentrate on that. Instead, he listens to the young woman’s commentary.