Anthony Puyo's The Compelled Page 3

  Jerry takes his keys out—killing the radio. “That’s your car, right?” Referring to the silver Acura TL in the driveway.

  Craig nods.

  “Any chance the keys are in there?”

  “No. There in my coat.”

  They scan around the front yard through the windows of the truck. It’s quiet, and for some reason, the quietness seems to feel unordinary. An aura of eeriness seems to engulf the air that flows through their nostrils, making them feel a little uneasy.

  Jerry’s lips fold and tighten. “Okey-dokey, let’s go.” He grabs his shotgun from in between them on the bench seat.

  Craig doesn’t see the need. “What are you doing?”

  Jerry replies. “I ain’t taking any chances.”

  Craig displays a blank stare; he was tired of death.

  “Is there something wrong?” Jerry asks, feeling a small spark of tension.

  Craig unbuckles, looking away from Jerry, “No. I guess not.”

  “Good then, let’s move along.”

  They both exit the truck with Jerry grabbing a duffel bag from the back.

  “What’s that for?” Craig asks, undoubtedly knowing the answer.

  “I’m going to get any supplies I can. I don’t want to go to town unless I have to.”

  Craig’s thought is a reflexed one; it tells him it’s wrong to loot. He holds his tongue though, figuring it’s easier to say nothing. Now is not the time to have a code of ethics discussion.

  They make their way up the elongated, amber wood walkway, which is surrounded by bushes all the way to the large square, double-doors of the house.

  The place is an older luxurious place. It has some modern upgrades, but it was easy to see, the owner's held on to its vintage style.

  The home is partially bed-stone with yellow colored plank wood placed horizontally over it. The windows are big, made of stained green glass. There is plenty of plants around the porch that make the place look earthy from the front. The yard is well kept and neat. Tall pines and palms stay along the edges of the place giving it a spacious front look.

  Jerry peeks into the window left of the large double-doors. He can see sunlight emitting from the tall ceiling’s sunroof. “Damn stained glass. Hard to get a clear view.”

  Jerry moves an inch to his left, trying to untwist what he’s seeing. The image is blurred, but he believes it’s a body lying on the floor in front of a beige colored couch. The distortion makes it hard to completely confirm it, so he moves again. Finally, a clear look. It’s what he thought. The corpse is that of Mrs. Kesburg.

  “You really did a number on Kathy . . . but no sign of Ted.” Jerry beams at Craig, “You did kill him, right?”

  Craig, standing by the door, doesn’t like the nonchalant tone coming from Jerry, but again, he keeps his feelings to himself.

  “He would be in the kitchen if I did . . . but I can’t say for certain I killed him.”

  Jerry grumbles. “What do you mean you can’t say for certain?”

  Craig shrugs his shoulders feeling annoyed, “Well, I don’t know, Jerry. I stabbed him in the kitchen where we struggled, but I’m no professional, nor did I stay to see if he died. I know he fell, but I fled. So I can’t say for certain.”

  Annoyed himself, Jerry paces over to the door. He inspects it up and down, contemplating his approach. After a few moments of pondering, he comes to figure: he has the gun so that’s it.

  If Ted is alive, he better be cordial . . . or else.

  Jerry lifts his shotgun from its dangling position. Holding it with both hands, he cocks it. “Well, let’s take a looksee.”

  Craig grabs the grip-handle knob of the right door. He pulls on the trigger style lever, and the door unhinges.

  “Should I say something?”

  “No. If there’s baddies, we don’t want to tip ‘em off.” Jerry replies.

  Craig gives the heavy door a gentle push. They wait a few seconds before peeking their heads in. The place is uncannily silent. There is no movement of any kind.

  Taking their steps gingerly, they tread in the open-space living room. The two regular joes resemble two special ops soldiers sneaking quietly into enemy territory. Jerry walks with his gun against his shoulder, aiming. Using the barrel, he points to a golf trophy that’s sitting on an island-stone-mantle. Craig grabs the award and holds it up in striking form.

  Step by step on the marble walkway they go.

  The wall to their right is decorated with family pictures and art portraits of mostly fruit bowls.

  They must have a thing for it, Jerry thinks.

  The living room ends behind the long couch that stationed before a stepping plateau. Up the step, is an oval wood table in an open dining-room. And right behind the table is a large wall made of thick glass equipped with its own sliding door. Through it, is a large patio with a BBQ pit and outdoor furniture near a pool. Inside the house, the two hallways go in opposite directions between the living room and dining area that lead to several dwellings in the house. The place has a cozy feel with lots of space and no clutter.

  Jerry, who is leading the way, stops five feet from Kathy Kesburg’s corpse. He examines it. She lies in front of the disturbed couch, right of a crystal coffee table. Her elegant Dalmatian dress is stained bloody, and her large hat is thrown a few feet away.

  Craig takes a second to do the same, but he can barely stand the gory sight and turns away in disgust. It’s hard for him to believe he was a part of the ghastly event that led to her lying there like this.

  Mrs. Kesburg—Kathy—was in her late fifties, a skinny lanky woman with an almost trademark frizzy hair. She was a very vibrant and intelligent lady, and she had style. At least that’s what she thought. She wore all the expensive brands, but more of the queer outfits, the extravagant kind that the overly skinny models would wear on the runway.

  For her age, Kathy really lit a room, wearing bright colors, always talkative, insightful and friendly. Kathy and her husband made plenty of money with their wine businesses, but no matter their monetary worth, they kept level heads.

  She was a generally liked woman who happened to have bad taste in clothes. It wasn’t a crime, but many of her friends gossiped behind her back; insisting it should be. Regardless, she had no clue they did that, nor did she know she was a horrible dresser. So no harm was felt on either count.

  Kathy was in the living room cutting a piece of aged gouda to give to Craig. It was supposed to compliment the wine she had poured him.

  He remembered the older woman talking about her childhood horse with vibrancy and detail. She mentioned how at the age of nine, on her father’s farm, she would sneak the fella out of the stable in the late hours while her parents were asleep. With exuberance, she explained how she would ride on the long pastures, gazing onto the stars, not minding, but enjoying the cold morning air brushing on her face.

  It was obvious the memories were fond ones. It defined the free spirit she was and had been. She went on, bragging about coming home just in time before her father woke for work, to clean the mud prints she would leave in the doorway. She relayed how she did this for years, laughing as she spoke. Telling how she never got caught, and how she never shared the story to her parents who had long since died.

  How different it is now. Not a peep came out the once lively woman. Now she just lied there. Quiet. Her body still and her essence gone—soaked into the past—somewhere in time.

  Kathy lies on her stomach with her left cheek to the floor. The lanky woman was stabbed in the stomach by the knife she had brought to cut the aged cheese with.

  In her life, she had been hands on: picking every car she drove, every dress she wore, every piece of jewelry she had on. Even the wedding ring that rested on her pointy finger. But there is no doubt she could have ever known, she was going to pick the object that would ultimately end her. How life could be cruel sometimes. Not to mention, mysteriously ironic.

  Most of the blood is soaked up by the brown, fluffy ru
g. There are specks of blood here in there, but not much. Mrs. Kesburg’s right cheek bears a few droplets. They landed there when the blade left her gut violently in a swing out motion.

  Craig rubs his forehead and sighs sickly. He makes a visor with his hand not wanting to stare. He taps Jerry’s shoulder, getting his attention, and waves him to move on.

  “That’s weird,” Jerry says, pointing to her open eyes, “the pupils are not dilated anymore.”

  Craig uncomfortably turns to see what Jerry is talking about. He glimpses then looks away quickly. “So what’s your point?”

  “Aww, nothing I guess. Just saying it’s weird, that’s all.”

  They get to the plateau in front of the dining table. Craig points to the room across to the right of the table.

  “That’s the kitchen,” he whispers.

  Jerry nods. They ready themselves. They begin to lurch towards the restaurant-style double doors with circle engraved windows.

  They stand towards the edges, giving each other a gaze as if in unison with the plan.

  Craig, with one hand on his trophy weapon, swiftly pushes the door open. Jerry moves in, crouching while pointing the shotgun. To no regret, there isn’t anyone to shoot. Ted Kesburg is already dead.

  The white colored kitchen is well lit. A huge mess from yesterday’s struggle left silverware, pots, and pans scattered around the clean shaven, blue skinned man.

  Ted sits against a silver spice cabinet in a large puddle of his own blood. The white counters weren’t spared either. Blood hand prints, fingers, palm smudges, large and small red smears can be seen on several areas of the counters and walls. The black and white checkered floors bear much of the same. Including a large streak of blood—most likely from Ted dragging himself into position.

  Ted was a very neat, clean-cut looking man in his mid-forties. Fourteen years younger than his wife. And though not in his best of appearances at the moment, he isn’t a bad looking man by any stretch. He has strong defined features: perfect cheekbones, lips thicker than thin; proportioned to fit his straight, sloped nose—eyebrows clean with aligned arching angles, eyes dark-brown and matching colored hair combed to the side like a school boy’s. His metro-sexual look came almost naturally.

  The sight is bloody, but it was hard not to be. Ted Kesburg’s neck has a gash in it that can be seen in great detail, since most of his blood is now on him and on the floor.

  The streaks on the floor suggest he was stabbed in different areas of the kitchen but ended up against the pantry with his head down, chin to his chest. There in regards to his chest, are two visible punctures wounds that could have been fatal on their own. From the evidence, it can be determined: Ted didn’t go down easily. Dying with a face of someone who was in a deep rest getting their beauty sleep.

  “Jesus . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Kesburg,” Craig utters, grabbing a hanging apron from the pantry above and putting it over the deceased’s head.

  Seeing his trench coat lying on the floor, Craig picks it up and searches it. In one of the pockets he finds his keys; he then turns towards Jerry. “Get what you need then we should leave.”

  “How bout you, aren’t you gonna grab anything?” Jerry asks, seeing almost instant disapproval from Craig’s face and body language. “I know you don’t like it, but I’m not doing this because I enjoy it. I’m not some kind of thief. I’m doing this because I have to. I’m trying to survive—like you. If I was the one who was dead, I wouldn’t mind if my things were taken—if it offered you or anyone else a chance.”

  Craig feels the honesty in Jerry’s voice. There is no telling what the road ahead has in store. If things are as bad as the news reported, then maybe it would be wise to have a few supplies. It’s just . . .

  It isn’t easy for Craig to get over what he’s already took. To him it was far more important than any old loot. But Jerry had a point: maybe the wrong and horrible are necessary sometimes.

  They grabbed what they could use and began to load their vehicles.

  Craig helps with the last of Jerry things: a gas filled tank and used oil.

  “Alright, Jerry, looks like it’s time to part,” Craig extends his hand to a smiling Mr. Kratz.

  “Yeah, the time has come. You’ll make it to them, I know it. I’ll pray for you nonetheless,” Jerry offers, eyes squinting from the sunlight. He pauses and lifts his finger in a wait gesture to Craig. He continues. “I want you to take something . . . It’s not mine, I found it in Ted’s shed. Not sure why he had it there, but it’s in great condition.”

  Jerry grabs the shoebox he had loaded in the back of his truck. He gives it to Craig who looks a little dumbfounded.

  “What’s this?”

  Jerry with a pleasing grin, answers, “Open it!”

  Craig opens the box. Inside is a shiny, wood—brown varnished handle, black barrel 357 Magnum.

  Jerry smiles ear to ear; he’s definitely a gun guy. “That, Craig, is a handheld rocket launcher. A fine piece. A very fine piece.”

  Craig drops the box looking over the weapon. “Um . . . thanks? I’m not really a gun person. I wouldn’t even know how to use this thing.”

  “It’s simple.” Jerry grabs the firearm displaying how. “Put the safety clip down, hold it firmly with two hands, point it, squeeze the trigger, and the gun will handle the rest. But keep in mind, there’s only three bullets. It’s all he had. I took the pleasure of loading ‘em for yuh. It’s not much ammo, but the mere sight of the thing should get you through most problems.”

  Craig nods, giving a short grin. “Thanks . . . for this and bringing me back for my car.”

  “No problem. Glad you convinced me.”

  “Yeah . . . Well I better get going. You take care, Jerry.”

  “You too, buddy. Say hello to the family for me.”

  The two shake hands, and fate takes its course.

  Craig gets in his car and starts it up. Looking in the rearview mirror, he sees Jerry driving up the driveway towards the road. He stares one more time at the gun he was given sitting on the passenger seat. It crosses his mind: the hope that Melissa and Ryan are safe wherever they are. With no communication with Melissa, he can only assume they went to her sister Jessie's house. There they would be close to a police station in downtown Fresno, and hopefully, doing well.

  Craig pushes reverse and gazes in the rearview mirror. He sees Jerry waiting to get on the road. A sharp, deep horn sounds wildly—getting louder. Craig stops.

  What is that?

  His mirror begins to vibrate.

  “What the hell,” he blurts.

  The swift flash is black and silver.

  Craig horrified, yells, “JERRY!”

  A large diesel truck and trailer, traveling fast, smashes into Jerry's Ford destroying the front-end and spinning the whole thing one-eighty degrees. The diesel loses control and flips over skidding on the road.

  Craig loses visibility as dust covers Jerry’s pickup. The diesel slides out of view being covered by the scenery of trees from the field that sits next to the Kesburg’s house.

  Craig quickly turns his car around and accelerates.

  Driving up to the mangled ford truck, he sees no sign of Jerry from his car. He parks, gets out in a hurry and runs to the scene. But there’s no use. Jerry’s death was on impact. He lies across the bench seat; his body twisted at the hips.

  Craig flees to the passenger side hoping his thoughts are wrong, but they aren’t. He checks Jerry’s pulse. It confirms his untimely death.

  “Jesus,” Craig spouts, laying Jerry’s limp arm down. He embodies surrealism and doesn’t know what to feel or do. It was sudden—shocking.

  He gears his sight towards the diesel. It’s on its side about a football field distance down the road. Craig suspends his thoughts of wondering why this happened and jolts to his vehicle.

  Maybe the driver was hurt. He did honk tremendously. Something had to be wrong, he thinks while driving.

  Craig breaks hard, screeching the front whe
els of his Acura. He gets out quickly ready to help. The pavement shows scars from the beast of a truck that scraped across it. The metal machine takes up the road, blocking it from end to end.

  Approaching the cab, Craig sees the windshield is smashed open, and the front seats are empty.

  Where is he?

  Craig urgently turns his head all around. He doesn’t see him on the road or anywhere nearby. Focusing on the pointed direction of the cab, Craig figures the person must have flown into to the grass and weed field that surrounds the north side of the road.

  He walks ten feet into the weeds yelling with his hands around his mouth, turning—hoping for a sign. “If you hear me, raise your hand!” he shouts more than once.

  He sees something. Some long reeds begin to sway back and forth. Craig runs over in that direction not seeing the person, but as he gets closer, he yells, “Are you okay?”

  When he finally arrives, he sees a young black man moving around in pain. So he thought.

  The man is decorated with scrapes and bruises—some of the wounds have small pieces of glass and stone embedded in them. His cheek is torn back exposing meat and bone.

  Craig winces at the sight. “Unbelievable,” he utters.

  The man’s left ankle is broken and loosely hangs towards the ground. He isn’t screaming and his eyes are closed.

  “Oh, God,” Craig recites. He assumes the man is in shock. “We need an ambulance.”

  He bends down putting his hand to the young man’s chest, letting him know someone is there. The man stops moving instantly from the touch. His eyes begin to twitch open. They are largely dilated. In a sudden movement, the man grabs Craig’s forearm tightly.

  “It’s your turn to die,” the man says in a morbid, dark voice.

  Dread comes over Craig. “Let go of me!”

  Appalled, he pulls his arm away from the man’s grasp while standing, nearly stumbling back down from the force. Horrified from the man’s demented persona, Craig begins to backpedal.