Anthony Puyo's The Compelled Page 7

  “Look! There’s a latch. Maybe the ones are in there,” another voice answers. This one sounding older.

  Upon hearing, Ruben snaps his fingers urgently to Melissa to get Ryan up. “Go stand in the darkness!” He responds in a high whisper.

  Melissa hastily wakes Ryan who’s half asleep and discombobulated. She covers his mouth, pulling him into the dark right of the stairs. The terrified mother feels around in the blackness. She finds a short-shovel and grips it, then maneuvers Ryan behind her.

  Ruben, standing near the stairs to the left, blows out the candles. The place turns pitch black. He scurries beneath the stairs with a baseball bat.

  A struggle to open the staircase entrance is heard, breaking the silence. The wood bangs and creeks. Scratching and prying sounds get louder. Whatever is being used sounds sharp, heavy, and terrifying.

  Earlier, Ruben tied some rope to the latch door and a metal hook implanted in the ceiling for a lock. It was strong, but not foolproof. Not for someone, or someone’s, who were determined to get in. A crowbar and some persistent power was all that was needed to force it open.

  A loud, deep grunt of willpower is heard above the door—then it stops—then again—then it stops.

  Ruben, Melissa, Ryan: The fear comes over them like a thick fog.

  Again the heaving grunts are heard.

  It’s not going to hold, Ruben thinks.

  A tight stretch of the rope rips the quietness along with sharp squeaking of wood . . . then finally . . . a loud bang sounds as the door is broken open with a violent swing.

  Two men, eyes dilated—the sign of the infected—are kneeled. They gaze into the darkness in which the staircase leads.

  “I smell the scent of a burnt candle,” the older infected says. His voice is hollow, and his tone mocking in nature. They did this to torment and to feed off the fear that was released from their would be victims. He drags the blade off the wooden floor slowly, to incite fear with the sound.

  The other infected is a young man: clean shaven, good looking. He grins sadistically while grabbing his flat-tip crowbar and piercing it into the flesh of his forehead. Blood is drawn, but he shows no sign of pain. “It’s time to have some fun!” he says, finishing with a demented snicker.

  The two begin moving down the steps with a lighter as their guide. Melissa, seeing the warm glow of the flame, takes a step back, forcing Ryan to move back also. The kid balls up behind her waist—shaking. There isn’t much room between them and the wall. Melissa steps on a small piece of bulb glass, cracking it.

  The two infected stop. They hear the sound and glare towards the direction of it.

  “Over there,” the older one points. They begin to move down, faster, ready to kill.

  Melissa breathes hard, terrified; she begins to snivel.

  The assailants are closing in, widening their sadistic smiles, showing teeth. The light begins to uncover their victims from the darkness.

  A few steps more.

  Now face to face.

  The infected stop! —They say nothing.

  Melissa gapes at evil before her. Eyes teary, breathing escalating, she screams; raising her shovel, “Stay away!”

  Ruben moves swiftly behind the deranged, keeping his steps quiet.

  The older infected starts to show his blade to Melissa moving the pointy tip back and forth preluding to his endeavors. His eyes big—dark. Ryan peeks from the side of his mother. His mouth opens, eyes stretched.

  “Turn out the light,” the older tells the younger.

  Melissa with tears, mouth drooling.

  Ryan shouts, “Mom!”

  The light goes out.

  In the darkness—shadows struggle.

  Grunts. Screams.

  The thump of the shovel.

  “Get away!” someone yells.

  The sound of flesh being sliced. Blood swooshing through the air then slapping onto the floor.

  Another loud thump—wood to bone.

  Bodies drop to the ground with sounds of struggling on the floor followed by stressful grunts. It goes on for a better part of half a minute—then suddenly—it stops. No voices, no struggling, no grunts.

  On the other side of the darkened room, there is a faint sound. Scared, repressed, fast breaths.

  “Mom? Uncle Ruben?” Ryan calls out, blind and shaking under the table holding his knees.

  A match is struck—A candle is lit.

  Ryan gets scared for a moment seeing legs standing in front of him. Melissa kneels. Blood specks on her clothes and face. She smiles in relief then begins to weep. The moment is bittersweet. Melissa sticks her arms out to Ryan. He embraces her.

  “It’s okay, Mom, we’re okay,” he says, patting the back of her head. He wanted to sound strong for her.

  Melissa gasps sharply between her cries from hearing Ryan’s sweet tone.

  He’s alive. Thank God! She thinks. “Yes honey. We are.”

  She squeezes him harder, sobbing more. What would she do if she had lost him? Only seven but very brave. All she wants is to protect him, but here he is, in the darkest hour, comforting her. Her life would have been crushed if he was no more. She vows to herself in thought: I will not let anything happen to you. I will protect you—at all cost.

  The two hold hands, facing the bodies. Ruben lays on his side with his back towards them. Melissa lets go of Ryan’s palm and walks over to Ruben’s body, kneeling down and turning him over. Tears roll down her puffy, red eyes. She stares at his face then feels his pulse. Nothing.

  She sits there for a few minutes, grateful in so many ways. For her sister . . . for him. They have now both taken care of her at some point in their lives. Her sister some years ago, and him now.

  Ruben had lost what meant most in his life, but he didn’t give up. Jessie wouldn’t have wanted that for him, to give his life to despair. Instead, he found something else to live for. He gave all he had to help someone else. It was more than bravery, more than selflessness; it was an inspiration of life. Something Melissa will always hold dear.

  “Come here, baby,” Melissa says to Ryan.

  Ryan gets on his knees by his mom. “Is Uncle Ruben dead, Mom?”

  “Yes, baby,” she says, with an inhaled grief that vibrated.

  Ryan reaches over and touches Ruben’s chest as if to say thanks. He gazes at his mother with those round innocent eyes of his. “He loved us, Mom.”

  “Yes.”

  She couldn’t help think how this tragedy was making her son grow up. It isn’t fair, she thinks, a child shouldn’t have to witness such things. But when is it? Life doesn’t curb the rules for anyone.

  The two grieve in a silent moment, paying their respects to their caring loved one.

  Melissa paces back and forth physically and mentally. She’s worried, and a plan seems difficult to aspire. Ryan asks her a few questions, but Melissa doesn’t hear him. She’s too busy sorting things in her thoughts.

  “Mom, is dad coming for us?” Ryan asks, for the third time. It’s the only time she hears.

  “Huh? . . . Yes, honey, he is.”

  She goes to her purse on the floor and begins digging through it. Finding her phone, she calls the phone number last used by Craig. Not even one ring; it goes to voicemail. She sighs, running her fingers through her thick hair. Melissa knows they can’t stay there anymore. But where can they go? The cellar is a death trap, and the streets are probably more so.

  Craig said he was on his way, but she has Ryan to look out for. She couldn’t risk waiting, not knowing when he would get there—if he would get there. Melissa weighs her options heavily. She grabs a pen and paper and writes a note for Craig. She relays that her and Ryan had to leave. That they would be heading downtown to the police station for help.

  She moves around swiftly, filling her purse with food and water. Ryan stands observing his mother's fast pace. He’s reminded of the saying his dad would use when describing her on the mornings before school and work: “You look like a chicken with it
s head cut off. Maybe you should get up a little earlier, sweet stuff.”

  “Maybe if you helped, instead of just worrying about your hair, I would be ready!”

  “Tomorrow I will.”

  “You said that yesterday.”

  “This time I mean it.”

  “You said that too, lazy stuff.”

  The memory passes, and Ryan feels woozy. His ears are plugged, and his head feels stuffed.

  Melissa is ready to take her chances. She grabs Ryan by the hand, “Let’s go.”

  They run out of the house. Melissa is moving fast. Trying to keep up, the little boy holds on for dear life, almost falling a couple of times.

  It is dreadful. The yells, screams, gunshots are everywhere around the area. Melissa ignores it, not stopping unless she has to.

  They move through the lawns and driveways of homes. It’s a dark and cold night. Some light is scarcely given by the burning vehicles and houses on the block.

  Not much further, Melissa thinks. They’re just a couple of blocks from the downtown station.

  People fighting up ahead cautions them. They fight in and around a ring of blazing vehicles. Melissa searches for a way to sneak by. She sees something. Something unusual behind the blazing vehicles. It comes as a shadow and approaches quickly—boldly.

  A monstrous size pickup-truck burst through and out of the flaming vehicles. Its engine roars thunderously as it crushes the burnt automobiles in front of it. The joys of Hooting and Hollering come from the cab of the truck. It is a tremendous sight, and a scary one. The spectacle that it is, makes Melissa stop and brace Ryan.

  The truck slows to a stop. Weapons fire from the back of the vehicle towards a crowd, then it starts to move forward again, catching speed aggressively. Melissa and Ryan watch. She doesn’t understand what is going on till she sees the crowd running and shouting behind them. Several infected, with hand weapons—including guns, are partially on fire chasing the truck, unresponsive to the flames that melt their flesh.

  Suddenly, Melissa hears fast footsteps behind her. She turns. A group of infected are coming towards her. She pulls Ryan, running frantically towards the street yelling at the oncoming truck. “Stop! Stop! Please stop!”

  She gapes back and forth, the truck hasn’t let up on speed and neither have the crazies behind her.

  You see us, don’t you? Please tell me you do?!

  The truck speeds closer, the engine—louder. Melissa and Ryan’s faces light up as it approaches heavily.

  Oh my god, they’re going to kill us!

  Quickly—Melissa jumps with Ryan out of the way of blazing hunk of metal. The driver of the truck bypasses them, running through the group of infected behind her before coming to a screeching halt!

  It begins to reverse, slowly, crushing over the ones that are still alive, bursting them to bloody pulps. Gunshots come from the people in the truck-bed, killing any evils that managed to survive. The truck finally stops when it reaches the woman and kid.

  The driver, Bodo, is a muscled black man in his mid-thirties. He’s tall, bald, strong faced. He got his nickname by taking the first two letters of his first and last name which is Boden Dozier.

  The big man lowers his window to Melissa, who gets up from the sidewalk with Ryan. “Lady, what you doing out here, with a kid nonetheless?” His voice is deep, calm.

  Melissa responds, “Like everyone else—trying to live. Will you help us?”

  Bodo peers towards his passenger, who shrugs his shoulders, he then stares back at Melissa.

  It runs through his mind, she has spunk.

  Bodo isn’t the babysitter type. He has plenty of compassion, but he didn’t want to waste his energy on others who lost their hope. He wants fighters.

  The woman is on the street with a kid, and she’s lasted this long.

  “Jason, Devin, get in the back,” he says, looking over the woman and child, “We got another survivor.”

  The back doors open, and the two men, both relatively young, get out. Bodo introduces his group. “I'm Bodo, next to me is Chet; in the back we got Jason, Devin, Rico, and Eva.”

  The group gives “Heys” and “Hellos.”

  Melissa smiles and introduces herself and Ryan before getting in. The rear cab-window is open, keeping everyone in the loop.

  “Thank you so much,” Melissa spouts.

  Bodo nods into the rearview mirror then accelerates.

  Ryan feeling weak, closes his eyes and puts his head on Melissa’s thigh.

  Melissa, noticing they’re not turning back, asks, “Why are you driving away from the city?”

  In the passenger seat, next to Bodo, is Chet. He’s a thin man, late forties, looks and feels the part of cowboy. He wears a beige cowboy-hat that’s a bit worn, supports a mustache that curves over the sides of his lips before stopping halfway to his chin. He turns back to Melissa and calmly says with a smile, “The city is a mess. Nothing there for anyone . . . We’re lucky to get out.”

  Melissa, now in low spirits, enquires, “How about the police?”

  Bodo replies, “There’s no law there, or anywhere else. Just death . . . mayhem and death.”

  Melissa’s heart drops. Not wanting to leave without Craig, she’s at a loss.

  Are you alive? she asks in thought.

  What can she do? Could Ryan and her survive waiting for a husband and father with no guarantee he would make it to them? If it was just her, there’s no question she would stay—wait for him, but it isn’t just her. She has Ryan to protect.

  Bodo continues. “We’re headed out of this hell heaven.” As soon as the words left the tip of his lips, he could see the change in Melissa’s body language. It drooped. It was subtle, but Bodo noticed it.

  Something’s bothering her. “You don’t like the plan?” he asks.

  “My husband was supposed to come for us downtown.”

  Bodo sighs. “Hate to break it to you, but that’s an awful idea.”

  He sees Melissa looking down caressing Ryan’s head. He second guesses what he said, feeling he may have stolen more of her hope.

  “Is he a soldier or anything?” He fishes, hoping she will say yes so he can give it back.

  Melissa nods and softly replies, “No.”

  Shit! Way to go man, you just scored a ten on failure. “I’m sorry, but we can’t go back . . . but it’s up to you if you want to go with us.”

  Melissa’s heart aches at the decision. She can only assume Craig would rather her leave and be safe than stay in the torn city, flirting with death.

  Ryan looks up at her and weakly says, “I miss dad.”

  Melissa rubs her fingers through his hair, gently caressing his cheeks. Sadness circulates into her heart; she whispers to him, “Me too, baby . . . Me too.”

  6

  The Set Up

  Craig and Charlie travel sluggishly in the powerful diesel truck pushing cars out of their way, off the street, and off the sidewalk. In the daylight, the destruction of the city is seen in full force. There are few signs of life where they’re at. It is nothing like the days before.

  Scattered people, mostly in groups of two or three, are going through the stores and rubble looking for food. Others look devastated and lost. They sit there in the open, as if they’ve given up. There is no motivation or purpose in them. It’s over for these types. They have reached mental capacity, and the dam of reason has finally broken. It’s a look that brings back memories for Charlie. Often in the aftermath of an urban war battle, there are many soldiers like this—many civilians too. They have an almost out of body appearance about them: expressionless and in shock. It’s the kind of desolation, physical and mental, that only war can produce.

  Charlie remembers a saying officers whispered amongst each other when they came into contact with such survivors: “It’s the lucky that die, and the unlucky that live.” The words were forged in truth, according to the ex-military man.

  Charlie’s thoughts are interrupted. The familiar sound has him l
ook out the windshield and up into the sky. Two military choppers flyby in a hurry.

  “Craig? Find a news station that’s still broadcasting.”

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure, but there’s something going on. Military’s heading somewhere. Looks like they’re rounding up, maybe headed to a bigger city. It’s hard to know with them.”

  The radio static clears up. A man claiming to be a military official is heard talking in an interview with a woman reporter.

  Woman reporter: “What information do you have that can be confirmed, General?”

  General: “We believe the condition is not spreading, though we can’t completely confirm that. There haven’t been any reports of spreading, and I can also say, through test of our own, we have come to our own conclusion that it’s not biologically contagious.”

  “If it’s not biological, General, why can’t you say for certain that it is not spreading?”

  “We just can’t. From all the information we have now, it has been confirmed, but the world is large. There is much more information to be gathered before we can come to an absolute conclusion. Only biologically we can say it’s not contagious . . . at least in our neck of the woods.”

  “Understandable. What else does the government know that they can share?”

  “When studying for other unnatural defects in the blood and organs of the infected, we’ve come across some unique findings—in particular the brain, nervous system, and heart. Though it’s too early to have any definitive answers. We can say the pineal gland in the brains have shown abnormal fluctuations of serotonin, which can lead to forms of aggression. We also noticed a shutdown of the prefrontal cortex of the brain, which can also lead to aggressive behavior. Interestingly, minutes after the death of such subjects, the cortex goes back into its normal state upon perishing.

  “Other strange occurrences are found in the central nervous system. We found larger amounts of sodium and potassium in the cells there, but in the heart, we found far less of those chemicals present.