The Compelled

ANTHONY PUYO'S THE COMPELLED

This is a fictitious story derived from the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real life, living, or deceased persons is purely coincidental. Mentioning of any events true, false, or in theory, are done so for entertainment only and nothing is intended to be taken as anything other than thereof.

Conception of work 2013

Copyright © 2016

This publication is an "All right reserved" work. No part of this book shall be reproduced or used in anyway without the written permission of the author.

OPENING:

The sun rises above the rugged green mountains. Its rays slowly stretch over the forestry and into the short valleys where the towns lie.

It's nearing the end of a strong winter season. The dwellings that sit in the higher elevations, will see snowfall all the way through early April. But in Oakhurst, California, the second of the foothill towns heading up north on freeway 41 from Madera County, the elevation is too low for such prevalence. The grounds here are lucky to see more than an inch during the entire season.

Regardless, the days at this time are still very cold, and today is no exception. The projected high is thirty-six degrees with a low of twenty-two. Nothing out of the ordinary the locals would tell you for an early February morning, and for the most part, that would be true. But that's because they didn't notice. The same could be said for most of the country—and the world for that matter.

It started yesterday—touching down a few minutes after 3 p.m. What it was, and is, wasn't foreseen on any forecast. And since it wasn't foreseen, it couldn't be measured.

Masked in the aura of the atmosphere, the uncertainty trickled down in waves, giving the drifting air a feel to it: an ill-defined energy resembling static. To the touch, it's feeble in nature. And as it moves with the wind, a sort of humming sound follows. Both come and go like a faint radio signal—subtle enough—that few realize the occurrence is there. But it is. And what it brings . . . is the mystery. 

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  1

The First Sixteen Hours

Between a green hill and the Kesburg's dormant vineyard, lies the body of the Craig Bainy. Embraced by the short grass, the pale man rests flat on his back with his head tilted to the left.

He's bleeding.

There's a quarter-size gash on the upper right side of his head. The blotch of blood, that's soaked in his short curls above his ear, is still damp in the center, suggesting he's been here for some time.

The trench coat he always wears, the one that keeps him from looking like a bank teller rather than a commodities broker, is gone—a casualty of his dilemma.

Not that it would have helped him much this brisk morning, but it would certainly be better than what he's left with: navy blue slacks, a cream collared button up; all strung together neatly with a black tie and dress shoes.

All his garments are stained with various doses of blood. His pants by his thighs and abdomen are the most noticeable—drenched in those areas. His tie, chest, neck, chin, and cheeks are littered with dry, red specs. Fortunately for him, most of the blood isn't his.