Anthony Puyo's The Compelled Page 11

  Intrigued, the Captain gets closer. Crouching slightly, he gapes through the shuttering crack with one of his ocean blue eyes, trying to get a peek at the infected who’s moving wildly with such persistence and stamina.

  Without thought, the Captain says, “You’re a determined sonofabitch, aren’t you?”

  As soon as the words departed—the infected stopped banging. Almost instantly, the infected’s large, dark pupiled eye, meets the Captain’s in the crack.

  The skin surrounding the crazy’s eye is soft, fleshy, with exposed tiny tears. Being in there for a couple of days, it nearly beat the leather off itself. The sight of it makes the Captain cringe. Not a man to ever be frightened. He’d been in situations that would make most men soil themselves, but when he gazed at the near total dark eye, it made a wave of energy run through his body to the point of making his hair stand.

  Robert continues. “You understand me?”

  There’s a silent moment, followed by a few blinks from the dark eye in the crack; it doesn’t look friendly or violent—it’s only wide with vigor.

  The infected begins to talk in windy low tone that sounds like two voices talking at once. “let me out.” By no means was he asking.

  The Captain’s surprised, he had no belief it would actually answer him. He straightens up and smiles—sarcastically. “Now why would I do that?”

  The infected intensely pushes up to the door crack, protruding its face, and in particular, its mouth, wanting to be seen as he answers. In his windy toned, malevolent voice, he answers slowly, “So I can rip you apart.”

  The Captain smirks, trying to hide his unnerved feelings. He fooled everyone in the room except the crazy. The infected, smelling the fear, gives off a wicked almost possessed laughter towards Robert. Then like clockwork, it goes back to banging and pushing of the door like a maniac.

  The Captain backs slowly. Disbelief and concern flood his face. A feeling drapes over him that he had not, till now, ever experienced—Intimidation. He walks out of the stockroom without saying a word to anyone. His men pierce at him, confused a bit. They never seen him this way, it’s almost blasphemy to think their leader is rattled, so they don’t say anything.

  Many feelings circle around in Robert: confusion, anger, displaced anger, fear. He’s not used to it, or fond of it. The truth of the matter is undeniably painful for him; he’d finally met a monster that is was more terrifying, and evil, then he.

  With every step Robert takes—the screaming—yelling—banging—become fainter. And it isn’t long before his is old attributes come charging back. The Beast, had an idea. Robert stops in his tracks about a hundred feet away from the evil one. He turns and looks down the darkened path made of metal that leads to the stockroom. A thought rounds in his diabolical mind. It’s finally clear to him. With a loose, malicious grin, he reaches for his holstered radio.

  “Staff Sergeant, I need you to bring some utility tape and a bucket of water to the maintenance stockroom . . .” It’s time for some answers. And I know precisely how to get them.

  10

  Getting to Know You

  Over three days have passed since the incident. Days of constant death and violence. It felt like an eternity for the survivors. Every minute was being accounted for.

  How much longer can I sustain, was a common thought.

  On the bright side, the conflict had peaked and was finally showing signs of leveling off. As for the surviving, they could be considered the fit or remanence of natural selection. If they are of religious faith, maybe they would consider themselves the chosen, or perhaps, the left behind. Either way, most don’t treasure their survival as a gift. The struggle to fulfill needs, is a constant burden to satisfy—even for the strong.

  Being alone and trying to survive, had plenty of drawbacks. For one, you have to find more elaborate places to hide. And trying to sleep is nearly impossible. Since being killed is a thought that constantly roamed one’s mind. That in itself, is enough to drive a person insane. But at some point, the body will shut down, whether a person wanted it to or not—forcing itself to sleep, leading to traumatic moments for some who would wake to find themselves in the midst of death, being stabbed, shot, dragged, thrown, beaten, et cetera. For the ones who were at the end of their breaths, it was horribly Ironic to be awaken just to go back to sleep—eternally.

  Presently, the ones who are alone have one huge thing going for them. Food! It isn’t abundant, but it can be found. There are many empty households, and most still have some form of food. For this reason, if they are lucky enough to find some, it is most likely going to be enough to sustain them. If that person is really blessed, they might find enough to last a few days.

  Out of the two, being in a group is still the better way for most. The physical and mental toll can be too much for a loner to handle. So it helps knowing someone is in it with you, whether you know them or not. And trust is not always an option. In times like these, a person has to rely on their gut, even if it had led them astray in the past. The risk reward factor is usually worth the gamble.

  As crazy as it sounds, there are some who relish the times. It’s a small minority of this way of thinking, but they are around. They pose a great danger to everyone: the infected and uninfected alike. They are the gangsters, criminals, and extremist groups. They have survived and seized the moment. In regular society, they were the weak link, the decay, the hunted. In this post society, they are a force to be reckoned with.

  For the convicts, all those years in jail and prison, they learned from their gang leaders that the great day of Armageddon would arrive, and they had to be ready. They worked out endlessly. Soaked up knowledge by reading in the institutional libraries. In short, they are prepared for the day. To them, the current situation was a prophecy and an opportunity, that was is in the making long ago.

  Same could be said of some the extremist preppers. You have two groups—mainly. One that prepared and only cared to protect their own. They’re civil as long as they aren’t threatened. While the other (Arians) usually go a step further, eliminating others that aren’t their own, or use them for slaves. Fortunately in Fresno, few have to deal with these types.

  Running water isn’t, for the most part, a big issue like the food scavenging. It mostly depended on where the people reside, if water is a big problem. How water is supplied dictates that. If electricity is used for running water; it was an issue, since most electricity is out. No one has been running the electrical grid since the event started, and this caused outages throughout the state. There is a silver lining to these problems though. The infected also needed these things to survive. So as the people suffer, so did they.

  The machine-shop, where Bodo and his crew have taken refuge, is small enough to man. It’s old, like every other building in the city’s industrial district. The place is made of tin-metal mostly. The rest is bricks, which form the bottom part of the structure. They are fine in there as long as they don’t attract any attention. If they do, it won’t take long for intruders to figure out, sharp tools could easily pry open the can of a building.

  Melissa sits with Ryan laying in her lap by a trash can fire. The fire provides the only light. It’s dim, but comfortable. There isn’t much to see in the place except old pipes, generators, a few broken down cars, and other tools machinist use.

  Ryan’s skin, especially his face, looks grey. His color has slowly been declining. The poor kid wore a frown most of the time. His energy is low, and his mother worries because of it. Melissa wipes the small sweat droplets that have formed on his forehead and upper lip.

  The men stand in a circle on the other side of fire talking up a plan. Melissa tunes in and out. Most of her concern is on Ryan’s health.

  Eva Hernandez, a Hispanic woman in her early forties, is the only other female in the group. She is of light skinned, athletic build, with long frizzy, tight-curled hair that she wears in a single braid.

  Eva is caring, but also very tough. Formidable with fire
arms: a trait passed down from her father who was a gun lover and advocate. Taught at a young age, she has respect for weapons. It was one of her father’s many passions, and she took to it. It was also one of the many things they did together. She was a true daddy’s girl; thick and through.

  Eva isn’t your regular run-of-the-mill gal. She’s all woman, without a doubt, and very lady like—most of the time. But if a situation requires toughness and leadership, she can adapt beyond normal. It’s probably why she almost signed up for the military after high school.

  From age seven to fifteen, it was her preferred dream among the many, which included police officer, paramedic, and firewoman. But something changed her decision. It wasn’t what most would think when she told her story. Which she didn’t tell all that often. Not because it was too personal to tell. There just weren’t many people who’d stop to ask why she had become a paralegal. Maybe the profession she chose had more self-centered people than most. But who knows. If they had taken the time to ask or got to know her, they would have seen she was tough enough to have been a soldier or a cop, and caring enough to be a paramedic or firewoman. And she was absolutely smart enough to be a lawyer. The lawyer thing didn’t happen because the long schooling was not attractive to her.

  When her dad past right before her graduation. It took a toll on her. She had no brothers, no sisters, then or now. All that is left of her family, is her mother who lives up in the hills.

  It was after her dad’s death when Eva decided what she wanted to be . . . She wanted to be a wife. And ultimately, a mother with several kids. Because she needed a bigger family. The thought of being alone troubled her. And as time went, Eva set herself up to be what she desired. She strayed from those long hour, dream jobs for a special somebody. Sorry to say, the “special somebody” never showed up.

  Eva’s reddish-brown braid, rests between her chest and left shoulder. Her boots tap over the greased concrete floor as she walks over to Melissa.

  They exchange warm grins.

  Eva kneels down, gazing at Ryan kindheartedly. The sick boy has his eyes closed, resting. She touches his cheek with the back of her hand, sliding it to his forehead. It’s cold. She runs her fingertips along his bangs. Ryan moves slightly, feeling the warmth from her hand. Melissa gazes up at Eva with friendly eyes.

  “How’s he holding up?” Eva concernedly asks. If her life was different, if she had children—at least one, she too would’ve wanted someone to care. Now forty-one, she felt having children was an impossibility. It’s something she tries not to think about. It’s too painful when she does, sometimes to the level of making her weep. She felt destined to walk the earth carrying a childless womb.

  “He has a fever, and he hasn’t had much to eat,” Melissa responds, her eyes glossy.

  “Some of the guys are talking about going out and looking for food. I could ask them to look out for anything that will help.”

  “I would appreciate that . . . “

  Eva smiles.

  “What are they going to do about the tire?” Melissa asks.

  Eva sighs. “Well . . . it’s dark now. Bodo feels we might have to find another vehicle. There’s not too many tires the size his truck needs lying around . . . But we’ll see. Chet and Bodo can be pretty resourceful.”

  Melissa nods. It doesn’t take a genius to see there’s not much faith residing in her. Eva brushes Melissa’s hair behind her ears, comforting her. “Hey, we're going to make it, okay? We’re going to get your son better. Don’t you worry . . . Get some rest. Tomorrow's a new day—a better day.”

  Melissa nods again. Thin tears begin to roll down her cheeks. “I’m waiting for my husband,” she struggles to get the last part out, “He’s coming for us.” She covers her mouth with her fingertips. Trying to control her breaths, not wanting to wake Ryan.

  “It’s okay. You’ll see him again.” Eva, unbelieving in her own words, doesn’t want to break Melissa’s already weak spirit.

  Bodo, with his shades pushed up to the top of his head, talks with authority. Something he almost always does. His voice deep, strong, fits him well. He’s built like a truck, so it’s only fitting he sounds like one.

  He gives out directions like a football coach. Instead of rolled up papers in his hands or a chalkboard eraser, Bodo holds a ten-inch army knife. He points it up, down, left, right when making his points.

  One of Bodo’s strongest assets to the situation, is his ability to lead. There is no bullshit in him. What he says is from his heart, and what he believes to be the true. He isn’t always right, but most of the time he is. And the way he talks up a situation can make the meekest person rise with confidence.

  He points the blade at Chet who wears a sun faded, beige cowboy hat. “Me, you, Dev, and Jason will go out and head towards the gas station that we saw.” Bodo faces Eva who stands by the scrawny tattooed Rico. “You two, stay here. If we ain't back in two hours, I suggest you start forming yuh own plan—you dig?”

  Eva and Rico understand but neither nod. It's not something they want to see happen or even think about.

  Bodo continues. “Okay guys, are ammo is limited, and I don’t want no unnecessary attention anyway. So if we get in any trouble and we have to kill, we kill quietly.” Bodo, eyes bulging, glares around. He makes eye contact with the group, getting a feel of their state of mind. “You got that?” He asks with an almost angry passion. He sees the nods and hears the yeses. “Cool then . . . Let’s roll.”

  They take a few steps to leave when a soft warm voice is heard saying, “Wait!” They stop in their tracks and turn. Its Melissa. She stands by the fire, looking fragile. “Please, I know Eva mentioned it. I just want to take an opportunity to tell you myself. My son is sick. If any of you see any kind of medicine: aspirin, Ibuprofen, whatever you see. I would be very grate—”

  Before she can even finish her plea to them, Bodo says, “We’ll do what we can. He’s a member of this here family now, and I don’t let my brothers down easily.”

  Melissa, almost speechless, says, “Thank you.”

  And like that, they turn and go, their bodies fading as they move away from the fire.

  It’s dark, and the clouds are plump, ready to burst with rain. A storm could make things harder on the living who scavenger during the night; not that it gave a damn. And there will be no exception for Bodo and his followers.

  The crew comes out of the warehouse. They’re armed with guns and hand weapon that are made up of anything they could find, from hand tools to pieces of metal pipe.

  Bodo’s team consist of Dev (short for Devin), Jason, and Chet.

  Dev’s a skinny kid who’s in his early twenties, white, with a tremendous amount of acne. He’s a greenhorn (not knowing much, typical post teen). He was working at a fast-food joint when the incident happened. Bodo and Chet found him running away in a mall parking lot from a group of infected when they rescued him.

  There’s Jason, who is a heavy set, very quiet (ultra-nonsocial). His behavior suggested he didn’t get out much. His attitude and voice are very monotone. The man is approaching thirty but acts well under his age. He worked as a part time store clerk, lived with his grandmother, and spent most of his leisure time playing video games.

  He axed an infected who was ready to attack Chet at a gas pump. After Chet witnessed what he did, he asked if he wanted a ride. Jason said nothing, only nodded and that was that.

  Chet is the wile-e-coyote of the bunch. He’s the brown haired feller with the mustache that straddles halfway to his chin, he also wears a beige cowboy hat and a brown vest to match. He is, or was I should say, a redneck truck driver from Iowa. A very proud redneck at that. He happened to be on a long-haul run that led him to Fresno, California. Upon getting here, he found himself stuck. His attitude was fairly good about it. Mostly because he liked his company, meaning his friends.

  Chet met Bodo at a truck stop. The two fought and clawed their way out of dire situation there, and as different as their backgrounds are, t
hey hit it off from the get go. Since their chemistry has kept them alive till now, there was no reason to separate a good thing.

  Bodo, like Chet, is not from Fresno. He was a construction worker from Los Angeles who was down visiting his kid from a failed relationship. Sadly, both his child and the mother of him, didn’t make it. He never got to see their bodies, which bothered him greatly. If not to bury, at least for a chance to pay final respects. But it wasn’t meant to be. The incident happened when he barely arrived into town, and it sidetracked him. Bodo tried to get a hold of them. He never could. He got a hold of the boy’s aunt who gave him the tragic news. She couldn’t confirm how they passed or by whom—if there was a whom. She could only tell him they died, in what look to be, in their sleep. She found them lying in bed together in an embrace. As you could imagine, the news proved to be tormenting for Bodo.

  It’s near complete darkness, and the air is a bit frigid. The group’s eyes are set upon the numerous cars that litter the old street they’re about to walk down. Their mission: head north two blocks to where they saw a gas-station liquor-store and scavenge for food, water, and medicine for Ryan. There is a likelihood it’s already been raided, but still, they had to try. Their survival hinged on it.

  They stay a few feet apart and walk side by side. They crouch, scurry, turn sideways to get in between cars, all while keeping their eyes peeled. It’s nothing short of creepy seeing the many bodies lying about. Being that it’s very dark, it’s hard to tell if the bodies are dead. Could they be lying there from exhaustion if they’re the infected? That is a question that can’t be answered by just asking, and the group isn’t about to get too close to find out either. They press on quietly, with respect and readiness.

  Half a block down, trouble hits. The sky begins to talk, exploding with thunder. The men beam up. The heavy, dark clouds in the night sky, finally give way—trouncing water down, oddly, with no warning of light rain before it. That kind of rainfall is not common in this area. There was always a warning.