Anthony Puyo's The Compelled Page 4

  The man who’s seriously injured, stands, never losing his dark, evil, piercing contact with Craig. Craig can’t believe it. The man hobbles towards him, not showing any pain in using his broken ankle as a crutch nor for the wounds he has.

  It is amazing, yet terrifying, as the danger is imminent.

  I better get out of here!

  With the hairs on the back of his neck raised, Craig turns and makes a beeline towards his car. With every step, Craig could almost feel the hand of the disturbed reaching for him, though the man is well behind.

  As he arrives to his car, Craig turns back. The threat is twenty feet away and coming. He promptly sits in the driver seat reaching for the ignition.

  Where’s the key?

  Filled with madness, the hobbled man closes in. Craig locks the doors and frantically searches through his pockets.

  “Dammit, where are they!”

  Craig flinches as the man hits the hood with his fists.

  “Where do you think you’re going? You have to die!” the crazy hollers.

  Craig’s heart races. He gets back to searching, finding the keys in his rear pocket. He fumbles it around the ignition hole.

  Meanwhile, the evil man gets to the driver door—reaching for the latch, trying to open it. Frustrated that the door doesn’t open, he begins to rub his exposed cheek bone and loose flesh on the window, smearing it with his bodily fluids.

  “It feels good, really good.” He begins to laugh. “You’ll love it when I cut your face off.”

  “Fuck you, get the fuck away from the car,” Craig yells, finally getting the automobile started.

  Just then, the young man bashes his head through the glass.

  Craig winces, “Sonofabitch!” With adrenaline flowing, he slams on the accelerator. The car burns rubber and speeds off.

  The injured man clings on with his head and hand for a few feet before falling off. Craig peers into the side-door mirror, witnessing the man skid and roll on the street. He doesn’t know, or care at this point, if the man is dead. He’s just pleased to be getting far away from him.

  If this is to be expected all over, there may not be much time to get to Melissa and Ryan.

  With that thought in mind, Craig accelerates even faster.

  Not even the toughest of people could sustain with this kind of madness on the loose. Especially when it’s abundant and rampant like the news has reported. What Craig has witnessed, has given him every reason to believe those reports are accurate.

  What has the world succumbed to? Why did this happen? Will the world survive it? There are many questions like this pacing around Craig’s head on the drive. And not one of them he could answer. It is far above his pay grade to know. His main concern is for his family. He has to get to them . . . at all cost

  3

  A Long Way from Home

  Craig Bainy was never known to be a tough guy or a fighter. To his defense, he never had to be. He did what he had to do and minded his own business during his life. That’s what he was taught, and that’s how he got this far with very few hostile conflicts.

  “Keep your head straight and your nose clean. Don’t get into things that don’t concern you.” These were the words of his father. And Craig followed them like gospel, making sure not to put himself in a situation he couldn’t afford. But this is going to be different. There is no choice on how to escape it. The hostile situation is in all directions—forcing him to stand his ground. Because if he didn’t, he is liable to lose what mattered most to him—his family.

  Coming down the foothills on Freeway 41, in the dark, is usually a beautiful sight. On a clear night, the lights from the city of Fresno, the largest city in the San Joaquin Valley, can be seen resembling stars in the night sky. But this evening is very different. The city lights in the distance are out in several places, making most of the landscape a dark abyss.

  Entering the flatlands, the freeway is near empty. The long stretch of weed fields before entering the city, is littered with several cars: some crashed, some smoking, others abandoned. Off closer to the side of the road in the short grass, is more of the same.

  Craig slows down to maneuver around the vehicles that happen to be in the middle of the lanes. He glances all around while passing by—there’s no sign of life.

  He has never witnessed anything remotely close to what he is seeing. The dead are everywhere. Some on the road, others in their crashed cars. It is all very surreal; the mayhem that took place here. And just to think, he has another four miles to go before he reaches the tip of the city.

  Craig’s radio which disburses mostly static, begins to clear up. He pays attention closely—it’s the Emergency Broadcast: “We will return to your local coverage, but now, a recorded word from the Secretary of Defense.”

  “People of the United States,” the voice rings out, “I am regretful to have to inform you—that both the President and Vice President are no longer with us. They didn’t survive the ordeal. I think I can speak for everyone when I say ‘our best wishes and prayers reside with their families.’”

  What sounds like papers being shuffled are heard as the Secretary of Defense takes a moment.

  “As we all know, this is a both sudden and highly traumatic time for the United States, and also, the rest of the world. But we want to assure you, the American people, that your government, with the help of NATO and other world leaders, is hard at work in solving this event and getting the situation under control. For now, we are asking all citizens to stay in their cities and protect their families and fellow citizens.

  “I’ll remind you, that this calamity is happening all over. There is nowhere to go to escape it. Therefore, we must face it. For this reason, we are declaring a state of emergency and implementing martial law.

  “If there is no military presence in your area, we will ask that you band together, act justly, accordingly, and peacefully towards your fellow citizen. We will need all your participation if we are to defeat this calamity.

  “Again, this tragedy is happening in every county, town and city in America. There is nowhere for you to flee. You must protect your area. Uniting with your fellow citizens will greatly increase your chances of survival. Your government will be sending updates, as they come available, to your local Emergency Broadcast stations. As well as news channels where applicable. You can also follow updates on phgov.coverage.org on the web. For now—thank you, and God bless.”

  Getting closer to Fresno, Craig turns the radio down. Listening to it did more harm than good. Knowing the situation is a lot worse than he could have ever imagined, made him feel more unnerved than he had felt before hearing it. And the way the Secretary of Defense was talking, it didn’t seem like there will be any help anytime soon.

  “Sounds like we’re on our own,” Craig murmurs to himself.

  The freeway into Fresno is an absolute mess. It’s congested with parked, crashed and abandoned vehicles of all sizes. It will be impossible to get through.

  “Hell, are you kidding me!”

  Craig stops the car.

  Looks like I’m on foot from here.

  Various gunshots echo throughout the city’s surroundings. Screams, yells, unexplained noises are heard in the dark distances all around.

  Craig exits the car with the 357 in hand, feeling anxious. Several cars, near and far, are on fire. He leaves his headlights on to have a better view around him.

  In front of his car, near an abandoned van, lies a Bye-Bye-Kitty backpack. He moves over to it, emptying its contents on the road. He figures it will be useful to put in the few supplies he’d taken from the Kesburgs.

  Craig puts a flashlight, food snacks, tire-iron, and matches in it. He’s no survival expert, but he recalls a show he watched once explaining some things that would be useful in an apocalyptic scenario: a tire-iron, rope, batteries, flashlight and matches. He remembers his wife bored to death of the program, but he found it fascinating. It was after the Katrina Hurricane, he recollects—many sur
vivalist shows were born out of that tragedy.

  Craig takes a gander around the area. He overlooks the beginning of town from the northeast. Downtown is his destination, but it’s quite a distance from where he is, but there’s not much he can do about that. For now, his choices are walk through the city streets, or walk through the neighborhoods on parallel streets to get to the same place.

  Take your pick and let’s go. No. What I pick could mean everything.

  The city streets could leave him vulnerable to all sorts of possible trouble. While the neighborhoods on the other hand, give him a place to hide if need be, but he would be susceptible to other problems. Being shot could be one of them. With things being the way they are, there could be many paranoid people wielding firearms and possibly shoot without any hesitation. The thought had to be thoroughly considered, due to the darkness of some blacked out neighborhoods.

  Craig puts the revolver in his front waistband, reminding himself he only has three rounds. He moves south, opting for the city streets.

  He walks down the off-ramp towards a plaza of stores. A small breeze blows by. The hairs on his head and body slightly stand. A static feeling is felt making him stop and look at his arms, then up at the sky.

  “What is that?” Craig asks of the strange anomaly, but there is no answer for him.

  Moving on, he notices many stores are on fire. There’s one in particular that’s smoldering in the distance. He would discover later: it was a downed charter plane that crashed into a large chain store.

  Craig walks through the middle of the street with his eyes peeled. He ducks, runs, and lies down when he feels he has to, but always moving forward. There’s still plenty of mass-hysteria and the things that come with it: people looting, fighting, and killing.

  At this time, he can’t tell the difference between the infected and the non-infected. Everyone appears crazy to him. It’s scary, and it gives him an untrusting approach.

  Sounds of gunshots and explosions run rampant throughout the city air, getting louder the more Craig travels north. It reminds him of city warzone images he’d seen before on the mainstream media. The problem is, it was always places like Syria and Egypt or other high conflict countries. It’s shocking to him to see it here; in his own backyard.

  People run frantically, scattering about here and there. The panic is intense and for good reasons. Lives are being taken at random.

  Craig does his damnedest not to be seen. Even if he wanted to offer help, he couldn’t see who he’d be helping.

  Near the side of a pharmaceutical store, Craig stays crouched behind some bushes. The lights blink inside, and the glass doors are smashed open. He’s not sure if there’s anyone inside, but from the looks of it, the place had been ravaged more than a few times.

  A few empty abandoned cars surround the parking lot. Some have the doors open. The owners of one such vehicle, lie on the pavement beaten to death.

  Craig considers taking the car, but with the streets being a mess and thwarted by violence, he estimates his best chances are to stay on foot.

  He readies to dash past the pharmacy and avoid being spotted. He takes a mighty step then suddenly drops to his stomach, as if ducking from an explosion.

  A heavy-set man, yelling in fear, rumbles out of the pharmacy. Behind him, charges two infected.

  Craig mercifully watches the man slip to his knees on the parking pavement. The two infected get to him—beating him ferociously with blunt objects. The man screams for his life but to no remorse, the infected do their bidding without a flinch. The anger and rage that pervades through their bodies, troubles Craig.

  What has happened to us!

  The screams of the man are defining, enough to ensure sleepless nights for any witnesses. After he’s killed, the assailants run off in a manner of those who are going on a hunt for more victims.

  Craig gets up and proceeds past the pharmacy’s sidewalk. He takes a glance at the beaten man. The lifeless soul seemed to question Craig’s response in spirit.

  Forgive me. Craig replies in thought, before moving on.

  A couple of blocks later, he comes up to a large grocery store. He didn’t pack any water and his thirst was quickly becoming a burden. The slender man opens his backpack and pulls out the tire-iron, holding it with a weapon’s grip. He carefully makes his way into the mostly dark supermarket. The only light source comes from the flickering deli and refreshment refrigerators, which are far to the back of the large store.

  The place is a tortured mess. The event scattered bodies and groceries all-over the many aisles. One would wonder why anyone would dare go inside, after seeing what happened to the people before them that had that very same idea. Maybe the easiest way to understand would be to think: where some saw a death trap, others saw opportunity. Whatever logic or reasoning they chose to venture in, it led to only one of two outcomes. Either they escaped with much needed rations, or they made their grave in that inglorious place, on that sticky, filthy tile floor.

  Nevertheless, Craig makes his way carefully across the dead bodies and grocery mess to the nearest fridge.

  Damn! Nothing! Just my luck. He mutters in thought.

  A bad feeling drapes over him. He looks down the targeted aisle, seeing the blinking lights of a refreshment fridge. He doesn’t want to journey further in the darkened store, but his thirst propels him.

  The slender man begins his descend to the back. Sweat drips down his neck. Slowly and on guard, he creeps around and over the bodies. He keeps quiet, listening for any sounds of danger.

  At last, he arrives at the opened door fridge. He’s delighted to see the few waters along with some soft drinks lying around in there. Craig impatiently twist open a water, taking a long awaited drink finishing with an “Ahh” of refreshment. He takes another. Enjoying the taste of the dollar nineteen bottled paradise. He quickly stashes a few in his bag before taking another well-deserved drink.

  A noise is heard. Similar to clinking glass bottles.

  Abruptly, Craig stops consuming. He intensely beams towards the stockroom, which is fifteen feet to where he’s at. He speedily, but quietly, scuttles to an aisle and sits back against it near the edge. He stretches down to his belly, peeking around the corner.

  Flashlight rays veer out of the stockroom. The rays move up and down getting brighter.

  They’re coming!

  Craig gets back up against the isle. Sweat runs down his forehead over his tense eyes. He squeezes his crowbar tight. Afraid and not sure what to do, he wipes his brow, listening–thinking.

  The sounds of movement get louder and are accompanied by talking. Craig should run, but he doesn’t. Instead, he tries to make out what the voices are saying. He doesn’t feel whoever they are, are infected. The talking is too orderly and organized.

  But now's not the time to find out, he thinks.

  The voices are at the crossing aisle. Craig takes a peek and sees two Hispanic men. The gangster type. They are bald with tattoos on their faces and clothed in baggy outfits with colored rags hanging from their pants.

  Not sure if they would be friendly, Craig opted not to make a sound. The hardened looking men, with large guns hanging from their shoulders, begin packing bags of grocery items. At this moment, Craig decides to leave by crawling down his aisle towards the front of the store.

  Halfway down the aisle, he hears wicked laughing sounding from the storefront. There are people coming in, and it’s obvious to Craig who they are.

  Just great, why me?

  Not able to go back or forward, he waits. Hoping that an opportunity will arise for him to leave with his life.

  “More blood to spew,” a ragged voice rings out to another.

  “Down there, the ones wait to die!” says another voice. This one sounding viler than the first.

  To Craig, the voices reminded him of the Exorcist movies.

  Why do they sound that way? Could they be possessed by demons?

  It was something to think about, since he
is a Christian. Though he would be the first to admit, he didn’t practice his faith nearly as much as he could—or should. But he had heard about demon possession. There isn’t any proof that it’s going on here, but it couldn’t be completely ruled out either—In Craig’s mind anyway.

  Footsteps are heard running up behind the two other infected.

  “Let us kill their very existence,” one of them says. His tone slithery like a snake’s hiss.

  None of the voices coming from the infected sounded like regular people, as noted by Craig and several others around the world. Their words are distorted, evil in tongue, and there were no definite answers known to why their voices changed this way.

  Like Craig, the theory that caught ground early in many areas all over the world, fueled by mostly religious groups, is that the infected are possessed by some sort of foul spirits. But in many circles, this argument didn’t hold weight for very long. The detractors would say, “How could it be possible when some of the infected are some of the most devout religious followers?”

  After a few days, only the most fanatical religious goers kept this stance, tying it in with the end of days.

  Laying down flat, Craig stops moving. He plays dead, hoping they don’t come down his aisle.

  “Hey Chimney, Smokes, come here. Bring your cuetes,” one of the gangsters says, referring to their guns.

  The two gangsters that were bagging groceries, stand up with their weapons, as two of their buddies come in from behind also armed.

  The infected split up and begin running down separate aisles. Three go to left column of rows carrying hand weapons. One had a machete, the other a knife, the third a bat, while one with a hook goes down Craig’s aisle.

  “Come on motherfuckers, you’re gonna get blasted on!” one of the Hispanic men yells out.

  Wicked laughing can be heard from the infected as they zoom in swiftly.

  Craig hears the gangsters splitting up to battle, but he stays put on his stomach, quiet as can be.