Anthony Puyo's The Compelled Page 9

  A woman, riding in an elevator with people unknown, thinking of the presentation she just had, hoping it went well, sifting through memories of the night before. Then in an instant too fast to understand, the other patrons begin to hit, scratch, gouge, and tear her apart.

  A middle aged man, depositing money at a bank, smiling at the teller—exchanging small talk, when the security guard comes up from behind, putting his gun to his ribs and squeezing the trigger. While falling to the floor in disbelief, the middle aged man sees the person that has registered in the mind to be good, honorable, being the cause of his last breath.

  No doubt Craig and Charlie knew what took place here in the heart of the city. There is no resemblance of the place it was two days ago: the place of business, pleasure, energy, laughter, and sometimes heartache and stress. It’s all gone—a memory of the old world. The place now resembled what some would call a ghost town. Or to be more accurate—a ghost city.

  Charlie grabs his radio. “Blade Runner, you copy?”

  Static is heard.

  “Darn it, Blade Runner, answer me,” Charlie says to the wind.

  “Here, boss. What's going on, I thought you'd be here by now?”

  Charlie’s heart sinks. About fucking time! “Yeah we hit a little problem, were just down the street, but we’re going to have to go on foot from here.”

  “Roger that, what do you need?”

  “I’m going to need Doc to go on the roof, provide us with some cover in case we need it. The chest is heavy. It’s only going to be harder if we have to drop it to save our hides, you copy?”

  “Damn straight I do. You don’t worry your pretty little heads. If there’s anyone out there that even looks at you funny, we’ll send ‘em to dreamland real quick.”

  “10-4.” Charlie responds with a smirk, then turns to Craig. “Ready?”

  There isn’t much choice. Craig tightens his face and nods.

  Charlie smiles. “It’s game time.”

  The two of them unbuckle and get to the back of the cab where they have the chest tied down with chains.

  After unchaining it, Charlie gives Craig a pistol. “There’s sixteen bullets in the clip, one in the chamber. Don’t be afraid to use every one of them.”

  They walk as fast as they can, which isn’t very fast at all. Carrying the hefty three-hundred-pound chest all the way through the park, isn’t going to be easy.

  The thin Craig struggles to hold his end while trying to keep up. He tries using both hands, nearly falling in the action of it. He travels as far as he can till he can’t take it anymore.

  “Wait! Hold on. I can’t,” he lets go of his end forcing Charlie to stop. “Sorry. Just give me a second,” he says, trying to catch his breath and stretching his numbing arm and red hands.

  “That’s fine,” Charlie replies, taking some breaths of his own, but clearly showing more endurance than Craig.

  After a few moments, static is heard from the CB. “West Eagle, better get up and get a move on. There’s visitors coming your way south by the sheriff’s building, and I have a feeling it’s not the law coming to help.”

  Charlie grabs his handle of the chest, “Let’s go, Craig!”

  Craig musters himself up, takes hold of his end. They begin to move, their instincts for survival push them past exhaustion. The footsteps of the infected are heard behind them, getting louder by the second. In their minds, they know it's only a matter of time before they’re caught up to. They press on, choosing not to look back for fear of being slowed down.

  Gunshots ring out.

  Craig and Charlie beam up, seeing the burst of fire from the top of the building. The bullets whistle through the air as they fly overhead, making Craig and Charlie flinch. The shots are close enough, that a slight movement could result in being wounded.

  The sounds of bullets burrowing into the ground behind them, and the tearing of flesh, makes Craig glance back. What he sees, will not be long forgotten. The bodies of the infected getting pierced by bullets all over. Kneecaps exploding, fingers and hands getting shredded exposing splintered bones. The loss of arms. One of the infected falls to his knees, already dying, as more shots tear his face in half.

  Craig’s mind slows due to the butchery. Things around him turn hazy—surreal.

  Charlie yells to get his attention, “Come on! Keep running!” But to Craig, it sounds faint, like a soft echo.

  It’s no use. Craig stops, drops his side of the chest right near the street they need to cross.

  “Fuck!” Charlie yells, gripping his pistol with both hands firing on the on-coming wicked.

  Craig, in a fog, stands and watches.

  “Snap out of it, Craig!”

  An infected comes out of a car that's parked across the street, next to where the bank is. Blood is on his pink polo shirt, and on the side of his head. He angrily carries a screwdriver in hand.

  Charlie and Craig are only twenty feet from the destination with no more cover. Charlie turns to see the infected charging, quickly putting a bullet in his head. Out of ammunitions, he reaches for his rifle on his back.

  Steady, fast feet of the nearing, trample the ground on all corners. One of the infected makes its way through the gunfire with only his leg shot.

  Craig is still stunned as the killer approaches him.

  Charlie, the warrior, clip runs dry. He pulls his army knife out, punching, slashing, stabbing the attackers. Sweat and blood spout in the air of the gruesome, intense battle.

  The infected that got through with his leg shot, heads for Craig. Craig, caught up in fear, has the gun drop from his limp fingers. The Infected lunges at Craig, casting them to the grass. Thudding to the floor, Craig finally snaps out of his trance.

  On top, the infected wraps his hands around Craig’s neck—they struggle. The crazy is strong, he squeezes and digs his thumbnails in, trying to puncture Craig’s throat. Blood begins to ooze from underneath its nails as he pierces the skin.

  Craig, perilous, squirms his legs around, plowing his heels into the dirt—struggling mightily for his life. He grabs on the wrists of the infected, trying to lessen its grip.

  Craig turns red, veins bulge on his forehead and saliva bubbles from his tight mouth. He begins to feel faint. With all his might, he turns to his side, knocking the crazy off him. He rolls over to his stomach, coughing, desperately trying to catch his breath while he tries to crawl away.

  The assailant gets up, having one thing on his mind—murder. He casually steps over to his prey. Squatting over Craig, he calmly grips his neck between his bicep and forearm, locking it. The infected pulls hard—Craig’s eyes begin to roll over; thoughts of Melissa and Ryan flash through his mind.

  A particular memory comes to the forefront: The time they took Ryan for his first day of school. Kindergarten. They had to calm the sobbing kid who was dressed to attend but wasn’t ready to leave on his own.

  On his first day, Ryan went to class a half hour late. It could have been longer. The boy’s parents had to bribe him with morning ice-cream before he would stop crying. The teacher wasn’t happy. They felt like horrible parents in return. That day they had a talk amongst each other, eventually coming to the conclusion that it was time to let their baby grow up.

  Like the television cord getting pulled out, the image runs dark. Craig is dipping in and out of consciousness. He begins to see white and black dots; his body stops fighting, getting weak and limp. The sound of hooves come to halt right in front of him. Craig glances at the rider of the white stallion. A figure in full armor, with red dots for eyes, points a blade at him.

  You’ve come for me? You have to let me say bye to Melissa and Ryan.

  BAM!

  A shot pierces the air.

  Letting go of Craig, the crazy’s body drops to the side. Craig’s face falls flat to the ground, smacking it hard.

  Charlie’s friend, the man known as Blade Runner, stands over Craig with his gun drawn, barrel smoking, bearing an ice-cold glare.


  The fight is over, but in its aftermath, questions will be asked, challenging old alliances. In their place, new ones will form—some for the better—and some for the worse.

  7

  The Captain’s Intro

  Captain Robert Hawks is a well-built machine of a man. He’s six-two and stands perfectly straight, which makes him seem even taller. Caucasian, blue eyed, blond hair, chiseled features and always clean shaven. Women find him handsome, men find him intimidating; his superiors find him to be very reliable. Most would say he looked like he came straight out of the SS—A Nazi.

  Robert’s a man not to be taken lightly. He always came through on his directives, sometimes blurring the lines of protocol, which he often did carelessly—other times purposely.

  He sees himself as a renegade of the “so-called” righteous authority that had been bestowed on his kind through politicians. Most, whom never even tasted the likes of battle. That irritated him. Many of his superiors too. That’s why they secretly cheered for the Captain. To them, he represented the old school—real military. They didn’t like all the rules and sanctions that had been put on them over the years by congress. So when someone like Hawks broke a few rules, they often looked the other way, unless they were forced to perceive. When eyes were watching, they’d give him a harsh tongue lashing, which later, in private, included a “great job” and a handshake. It was their way of sticking it to the bureaucrats in Washington for getting in their business. Robert was their beloved lackey.

  All the things the world could offer: glamor, glitz, women, money. Captain Robert Hawks didn’t have any interest in. What the Captain wanted, was to be a military man—his version of one anyway.

  He didn’t come from a military background like most of his contemporaries. There was no word put in for him. He had to work his way up the ladder the hard way, but he gained respect from his superiors in doing so. The chatter that came from them proposed he had a future—a bright one at that.

  His peers on the other hand, didn’t care for him. They respected him while face to face because they feared him. “He’s an emotionally guarded prick,” “To fucking robotic,” they would whisper behind his back.

  Robert was unusual to them. There was even a thought that he was not who he showed to be, though no one was willing to find out. He wasn’t a man to be scrutinized by anyone less of a rank. That was dangerous—career suicide and possible loss of teeth to go along with it.

  Being married helped his career go even further. He didn’t have children. His wife had been pregnant three times and each time there was a miscarriage. His superiors were happy to see matrimony on his resume. It showed maturity, stability. It was even better that he was trying to have kids. The fact that he had such unfortunate luck with the miscarriages, actually gave him a slight edge on his career path over others.

  He dressed and sounded the part of leader who could have gone up the chain as high as he wanted. But he always declined the offers. Hawks was happy where he was. Why? Because Captain is the highest rank one can be and still lead men on the battlefield up close and personal. Of course, Lt Colonel and some other high ranking officers are in there that would certainly shoot if they had to, in high wartimes, but a Captain is always on the field. And that's what Robert liked about his rank. He loved to lead, and he loved to get his hands dirty.

  There was another side to Robert Hawks—a side that was hidden from most. Kept under wraps by the stern figure himself. The evidence of the demented resided in plain sight, subtle, but it was there, but no one seemed to fully pick up on it.

  There’s always been a beast locked away deep in the hull of Robert’s mind. In the darkness it grunted, growled, and roared furiously. It banged on in its cage, wanting nothing more than to be set free. Hawks kept it in check; hiding it any way necessary. He knew if freed, it would expose him—destroy him. He had to feed it, it was the only way to keep it at bay.

  Many times, he’d have nightmares of this snarling beast within himself. In that fantasy world, the beast forced him to rip, cut, gorge pieces of his own body and exchange them with its own. They would be one this way, and the beast would roam, under the veil of humanity.

  This could explain the Captain’s devious ways. He was a diabolical manipulator and a narcissist, extremely clever in his practices. At home he displayed these traits more openly. He treated his wife, Jenny, like a tool. Her directives were to cook, clean and fuck him when he asked for it.

  There was never a meaningful relationship there. Could it be because she was a prostitute when he met her? It didn’t stop him from gaining her trust, getting her out of that life, then gaining control.

  Jenny was reluctant to believe at first, because of her past, seeing the darker sides of men. But Hawks was different. He cared. So she thought.

  Robert got her to marry him, manipulating her to feel it would be better. And why wouldn’t it be? Many nights ravaged by men for a quick buck. No emotion, no future,

  Could it be worse? . . . No, she often thought. Not knowing she was way wrong.

  Robert told her that life would mean much more, and he would make it better . . . Jenny wanted to believe it.

  Not long after the honeymoon, he began closing the doors he had opened to her life, one-by-one. Then came the abuse, first mental, then physical. He began making her feel that there was nowhere to go, and she dared not hide—or else. His psychopathic behavior was so overwhelming; she just took it. She began rationalizing the abuse; probably because she spent most of her life being ill-treated. It became natural again. So as he took control, she followed.

  The nights Robert drank too much were the worst. He would often go out and prostitute her. There were times he charged, and other times he didn’t. His reward was the exertion of power and control. And though he would never admit it, he was also pleasured by watching her with other men.

  When the incident happened, Hawks told anyone that asked, that he hadn't heard from Jenny. It was bold-face lie of course. He heard her die on a phone call and didn’t show any remorse. He figured it was her time to be scourged from the earth, like the rest of the defects of humanity. And what a joy it was to hear it.

  In spite of his past glories, on many battlefronts, in different lands, this new world was different: unexplored territory. It proposed to be a challenge for the Captain. One he wouldn't shy away from—but far too early to embrace. If things went a certain way, it might have potential. It could also be the perfect place . . . to let the beast roam.

  8

  Seeds of Regret

  It’s late afternoon. light gusts of wind, swirls over the dirt lands of the fields. The sun gives off its gold color. A clear sign of its weakening rays. Crows scowl overhead looking for a meal. It’s not hard to find.

  A few miles southwest from the city, other than the many rows of grapevines, the area is desolate. From this region leading out the edge of Fresno, the downtown buildings are easiest seen.

  The industrial side, which is as old as the city itself, is placed right on the cusps of the slightly newer downtown. The buildings there are made of brick, the same ones used during their conception.

  Before the phenomenon, the place functioned, businesses still operated there. Much of the city’s history centered around those old factories and warehouses. To some, they were an eyesore. A living memory of the city’s past. To others—it was home. From the homeless, who were discarded from the rest of the city, to the old businesses who could only exist because of the cheap ownership of the decayed dwellings.

  On the southwest point, outside Fresno, Captain Hawks stands in a topless army jeep that’s parked on deserted Freeway 41. He stares through his sunglasses and binoculars out onto the city. Next to him, is his first in command: Staff Sergeant Blake Edward. Blake is five eleven, twenty-six, thin, wears glasses, has freckles, and is a redhead.

  Edward’s freckles, and the fact he wears glasses, may give off that he’s nothing to be reckoned with. But that couldn’t be further from the trut
h. He’s tough, and a leader that keeps his men polished. He’s also trustworthy and professional. Quite possibly the polar opposite of Hawks. Regardless, Blake believes in the ranking system. Hawks is a captain and he’s a sergeant. The natural pecking order is to do what the captain wants done—whether you agree or not.

  From afar, with the naked eye, an aura that surrounds the city can be seen. The color is a faint grey with hints of black. Hawks, gazing through the binoculars, can see the faint grey is nothing more than the residue of dark smoke heaps that have been drifting into the sky from the burning city.

  “What do you see, Captain?” Edward asks, sitting in the driver seat, chewing on sunflower seeds.

  “Looks like shit,” Hawks replies, binoculars still up to his eyes.

  Edward spits some seed shells out with his saliva still stuck to them. The wind picks up, blowing the gooey, triangular shaped shells back to him, landing them on his left shoulder. He wipes them off swiftly in reflex. A sour look comes over him. He feels and sees the saliva on his hand. He quickly flicks and jiggles his fingers in the wind to rid himself of the slimy mess.

  Hawks, still looking through the binoculars, sees a woman filled with fear. She’s roughly four-hundred-fifty yards away, running for her life from two infected in an open dirt field. Her face is dirty, along with her clothes: a partially torn blouse, brown skirt, no shoes.

  Hawks follows the woman with his sights. “Give me my sniper rifle?”

  Edward reaches to the back seat for the weapon. He inspects it for ammo, then hands it over to the Captain.

  Hawks sets the binoculars down, grabs the rifle. He carefully aims through the scope. Blake takes the binoculars, following Robert’s aim. They see the woman stumble and one of the infected about to grab her.

  BAM!

  The shot explodes through the gusty wind. The bullet strikes the Infected in the neck, dropping him in the dirt; a cloud of dust circles him.