Camp damascus, p.10
Camp Damascus, page 10
It all comes down to this, I realize, hesitating before making my approach. I’m fully aware of just how foolish this plan is, but right now it’s the best one I’ve got.
This is how I take matters into my own hands.
The demon leans down, investigating the heap of jackets and books in search of my crumpled, unconscious body. For creatures who typically move with such intention, it’s the first time I’ve seen one of them tepid in their interactions, frightened even.
Now that I’ve crept into position behind the pale man, the time for action has finally arrived. I rush forward and kick him as hard as I can in the small of his back, the pain that surges through me nothing more than an afterthought as adrenaline fortifies my frame. The demon launches forward, tumbling into the billowing car as a horrifying screech erupts from his throat. Flames engulf him.
I slam the door shut, holding it closed with my foot while struggling to put some distance between this roaring fire and the rest of my body.
The monster immediately flies into a squealing panic, slamming against the driver’s side door as its body pulses with flickering blue energy.
My eyes go wide as sparks of recognition erupt in my mind. I’ve seen this bizarre shimmer before, first when the pale woman walked through Isaiah’s bedroom wall, and even more recently when this demon phased through my vehicle.
While I’m in no position to understand the how or why, it appears these creatures can move through solid matter at will. However, a new variable has entered the equation: fire.
The demon quickly gives up and scrambles to the other side of my car, pushing against the passenger door but finding its mechanics compromised. Big thanks to the massive tree that crushed my door shut like an aluminum can. The pale man desperately attempts to phase through this door, as well, but his abilities are once again thwarted by the blaze.
Frantic, he even tries climbing into the backseat, but by now the demon’s screams are nothing more than a hissing gurgle that melts away into nothing. The creature collapses in a charred heap, his body fully engulfed by the roiling blaze.
I stumble back, thankful to put some space between myself and this astonishing heat.
“Whoa. Okay,” I sigh, the words falling awkwardly from my mouth in a series of reflexive huffs. “Alright.”
The human body contains enough fuel to burn for seven hours.
Running on metaphorical fumes, I use the last of my energy to scale the roadside embankment, then collapse at the asphalt’s edge.
After cremation, a magnet is used to separate metal objects from the remains.
I slowly breathe in and out, the stillness of my body finally revealing just how broken and bruised I really am.
Gazing out into the darkness of the forest, I spot a distinct, pulsing flash of red-and-blue lights as they slice through the trees, rocketing toward me down the long, winding road. I watch as they grow larger and larger, my vision blurring as a haze of exhaustion overwhelms my senses.
Firetrucks get to work subduing the flame and EMTs tend to my body.
At some point, I’m loaded into an ambulance.
A man and woman stand over me now, treating my injuries with expressions of deep focus while I inform them of a demon in the wreckage. They ignore this earth-shaking revelation. The man tells me everything’s gonna be fine, but he’s a terrible liar.
There’s panic in his eyes.
“They’re real,” I advise.
The man nods along, but I know he’s not listening, not actually registering what I’m saying. The implications of something like this are, after all, a little much to reckon with over the course of an ambulance ride.
The walls rattle and hum as our emergency vehicle hurtles through the night, shelves of various medical equipment creating a distinct tone that wraps around me like a warm blanket. The light hanging above is extra bright, glowing like some holy tunnel to the afterlife, and I close my eyes to escape its overpowering presence.
I feel as though I’m reclining on the world’s softest cloud, a pillow woven by angels from a golden loom.
Painkillers, I suddenly realize, noticing the intravenous drip in my hand for the first time. Probably morphine.
“We’re losing her!” the man above me cries out, prompting an unexpectedly affable smile to spread across my face.
I’m not allowed to watch medical dramas, but even I can pick up on how notorious this line is.
“Epinephrine! Now!” the man instructs, prompting his partner to rummage around in the cabinets to my left.
Epinephrine, also known as adrenaline, concentrates blood around the vital organs and is one of the first pharmaceutical lines of defense against a heart attack.
Am I having a heart attack?
Suddenly, the chaos falls away and disperses like a low-lying fog.
It’s the second time I’ve disconnected from reality this evening, but the sensation of this round is much different than my first. There is no endless abyss, no blank void of empty space stretching forever and ever around me, because this time I’m not unconscious.
I’m just really, really high.
When I open my eyes I find the ambulance has fallen away, replaced instead by a chamber of dark, wet stone. Torchlight flickers and dances across the walls around me, illuminating a circular gathering of mysterious figures in jet-black robes.
As otherworldly as this setting is, I get the distinct feeling I’ve been here before.
Large doses of epinephrine can be helpful with long term-memory loss, I inform myself.
With this in mind, I’m able to observe the scene without fear or anxiety, calmly watching as the story unfolds. I’m not really here, and the implication of this is incredibly palliative.
Or maybe it’s just the morphine.
One of the robed figures who stands behind me is reading from a book, his words authoritative and well rehearsed. I’m much better at understanding Latin than anyone my age should rightly be, and even I’m having trouble keeping up with the flowing ancient language that cascades across his lips in a powerful rhythm.
That’s the thing about Latin: no matter how good you get at reading or writing it, you’ll still have a little trouble understanding the spoken word.
My mysterious host stops abruptly, prompting the rest of the robed figures to repeat his last phrase back in unison.
Something about an “unholy union.”
The lead voice begins again as torches flicker and dance, illuminating the ring of figures. Their faces are covered, but I see their chins bouncing as they continue trading lines with their moderator.
The whole chamber is belting out a mantra now, shouting at the top of their lungs while I watch in awe. I know this is just a dream, or a memory, or a combination of both, but at this point my heart is starting to pick up speed. The choir of thundering vocalizations is simply too much to ignore.
A sharp prick on my arm causes me to flinch, and I struggle to glance over but am unable to turn my head. I can barely make out the gloved hands of someone working diligently next to me, their attire much different than the others.
They’re dressed in light blue nurse’s scrubs.
“Uh … is this a memory, or are you from the ambulance?” I find myself asking.
I’m completely ignored as the nurse continues their business, drawing a full syringe of blood from the crook of my arm as the chanting reaches a crescendo. The second my nurse finishes and extracts their needle, the sound dissipates and the torches plunge into darkness.
Moments later, a dingy fluorescent light flickers to life above me, illuminating the stone room with a pale glow.
“And that’s enough of the boring stuff,” the voice behind me announces. “Is our little friend back in his tank?”
“Safe and sound,” one of the robed figures replies.
“Let’s get to work.”
Now that he’s speaking English, I immediately pick up on something familiar in the man’s tone. I’ve heard his voice before, and not just in some mysterious recovered memory.
I know him.
Two of the robed figures get to work pulling a large rolling cabinet into position, the metal structure filled with an assortment of crackling computer servers and hardware boxes buzzing along. This is sophisticated equipment, while the previous ritual felt like the polar opposite.
A computer monitor rests on the middle shelf of this cabinet, along with an empty vessel about the size of a shoebox. Heaps of cabling spill from the backs of the machines, snaking out of view along the cold cement floor.
The fully scrubbed nurse approaches this apparatus, sliding a vial of my blood into the chamber and closing the door. This prompts a powerful sucking sound, followed by a loud metallic click as some interior latch falls into place.
“Sanguis link is locked in,” the nurse announces.
One of the robed figures approaches with a glowing tablet in their hands, reading aloud from the digital screen.
“Coordinate X: seven, zero, zero, point, one, nine, four, two, two, nine. Coordinate Y: five, two, one, nine, point, six, eight, two. Coordinate Z: six, point, zero, two, six, seven. Moving on to timeline. Coordinate A: seven, four…”
As this figure with the handheld device drones on and on my nurse diligently types away before their monitor, inputting enormous strings of code.
Remembering this is nothing more than a memory, I am fascinated by the sheer amount of detail, detail that can’t possibly be accurate. While I have faith in the broad strokes my brain is painting, there’s no way I could remember these long coordinates. My mind is just filling in the blanks to conjure a coherent picture.
The question is: How much of this really happened and how much is some fantastical leap?
“Last one of the night! Places!” the man behind me calls out, prompting more of the robed figures to spring into action. They start making preparations in various parts of the stone chamber, one of them carefully testing the hinge of a large metal ring while two more roll the cabinet holding my blood into a very specific position. They’re glancing down, turning the cabinet so it aligns with some particular arrangement of unseen floor markings.
“Ready for tether,” announces the nurse.
Machinery springs to life, whirring louder and louder as the fluorescent lights above me flicker and sway. Several of the figures step back and make room, clearly on edge.
Gazing down from my position on the table, I notice sparks of pale blue light swirling through the air. They dance and ignite just past my feet, surging with arcane power as the hum of computers escalates. Soon enough, the crackling flashes stir a surge of energy, tearing through the space before me like a knife across taut canvas.
Frigid air erupts through this bizarre opening as distant, caustic screams flood my ears.
Above me, the robed figure steps forward and leans over so I can finally bear witness to his familiar, smiling face. Gazing back at me is Dr. Smith, who places his hand on my shoulder in an attempted gesture of care.
I flinch.
“Sometimes to walk in the light you need to spend a little time in the shadows,” he submits.
The tear that hovers before me grows larger and larger, the edges glittering like embers of a turquoise fire. A figure approaches through this supernatural hole, reaching out with long, pale fingers as they climb through the slit.
My eyes fly open.
I find myself laid out in a similar position, tucked into a hospital bed with various plastic tubes pumping me full of fluids and painkillers.
The chaos of roaring computers and flickering lights has bluntly ceased, leaving me to enjoy the quiet peace of a single, softly beeping monitor on my right.
“Dr. Smith,” I whisper aloud, the words barely slipping from between my cracked lips.
I’m smart enough to know these drug-induced walks down memory lane can be skewed and distorted, that an epinephrine-fueled trip into the depths of my psyche should be the last thing I count on while considering the surgical removal of faith from my life. After all, how can I turn away from the congregation’s wild leaps and unfounded teachings if I’m making wild leaps of my own?
I refuse to walk that path any longer, and hazy memories are not enough.
I need evidence.
Still, there’s nothing wrong with a little psychedelic imagery to point me in the right direction.
I settle into my hospital bed and gaze at the ceiling, anxious to heal. My body can barely move, but my mind is working overtime, plotting away.
Beware a curious person whose attention has been piqued.
11, 14, 15.
I remind myself of Dr. Smith’s private safe code, mentally repeating the digits over and over again.
The door flies open and my parents rush inside, overflowing with raw emotion.
“My baby!” Mom cries out, making her way to one side of the bed while my father moves to the other.
A nurse follows them in, making sure my folks don’t get too riled up and accidently yank out some important medical tube from its socket.
“How are you feeling, Rose?” the nurse asks.
“Tired.” I struggle to push the word out.
“Any pain?” she continues.
I slowly nod my head, prompting the nurse to offer an expression of sympathy. “We’ll bump up the morphine for you.”
The woman strolls over and makes some adjustments. My pain instantly dissolves.
“I’ll give you all a moment,” the nurse explains sweetly, “then I’ll come back to go over some technicalities. The important thing is that you’re here, and you’re stable.”
I consider replying with heartfelt thanks, but this would require far too much energy. Instead, I offer a long, slow blink, which the nurse seems to have no problem translating.
“She’s a fighter,” the nurse informs my parents, prompting them to exchange glances.
The nurse takes her leave and soon enough it’s just the three of us basking in the glow of my gentle heart monitor. I hadn’t realized it, but they’ve already started praying.
I don’t join them, thankful to have a decent excuse at the moment.
As soon as they finish, Luke and Lisa stand up and kiss me on the forehead, gazing into my weary eyes with profound love.
“I know you’re feeling really tired,” Mom whispers, “but there’s a few questions your dad needs to ask you. It’s very important for you to think hard about your answers before you give them, okay?”
“Okay,” I croak.
“I know you weren’t a part of that scene,” Lisa coos before stepping back.
As my mother says this I sense my heart quicken, and it takes every ounce of discipline I can muster to calm myself. The monitor next to me registers this petite spike, but my parents are too wrapped up in their questionnaire to notice.
“What happened out there, honey?” Dad asks.
A little broad for someone who can barely speak.
I rack my brain, struggling to connect the dots.
I know you weren’t a part of that scene, my mother said, but for the life of me I can’t imagine what scene she’s talking about.
The crash? Of course I was there. It was my car.
There’s a hidden layer of anxiety in my father’s voice, a hint at his intention with this particular line of questioning. After all, going through an interview checklist isn’t usually the first thing parents do when their daughter is in a horrible car wreck. Even the nurse had a better bedside manner.
I get the distinct feeling there’s something he wants me to say—needs me to say—and my job now is to parse exactly what that is. I tread carefully.
“I hit a tree,” I offer.
My father nods.
“Must’ve fallen asleep,” I continue. “Driving back.”
“That’s it?” Dad pushes. “Didn’t see anything else out there?”
“Bad dreams,” I reply, my heart rate leveling out again. I take a moment to focus up. “Gotta make some changes. Gotta get right with the Lord.”
My father’s gaze intensifies. “Some people say there’s a trick to ending your nightmares when you’re in them, did you hear? Folks would pay a lot of money for something like that. That’s a million-dollar secret, right there.”
Despite my best efforts, my heart monitor is speeding up.
“Imagine that,” Luke continues. “Nightmares have been around for a long time, and suddenly there’s a cure! You’d probably get some real trouble from the folks selling chamomile tea!”
My father forces a laugh, glancing back at my mother as if she might also find this hilarious, but Mom doesn’t react.
The key to making a good joke is subverting expectations, and the easiest way to do this is through the element of surprise. To spark that involuntary laugh, you’ve gotta tickle a part of someone’s nervous system that’s expecting one thing and is presented with another.
Personally, I don’t even try doing this.
My dad makes a lot of jokes, however, and while I love to hear them, I can attest that these little nuggets of humor are not exactly funny. I always know what’s coming next, because I spot the setups—the little white lies.
I stare at my father for a long time, mustering up all the fake sincerity I can manage with what little energy’s left in my battered body.
“Dad,” I groan. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Unfortunately, I do have some idea, and the implication of this causes a wave of nausea to bubble up at the pit of my stomach.
The sparkle I catch in my father’s eye is undeniable, however, a sign I’ve hit the correct response. His body language immediately changes, relaxing as he settles in.
Moments later, Dad takes off his glasses to reveal that he’s crying. He wipes his eyes. “I’m so glad to hear that, honey,” he gushes.
I tightly squeeze the man’s giant hand.
“After they’re done at the crash site, some folks from the church are gonna come and ask you similar questions,” my father continues, his speech staggered and broken as he navigates this welling spring of emotion. “Just tell them exactly what you told me. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
