Camp damascus, p.22
Camp Damascus, page 22
The deer disappears, but not before stumbling slightly, its antlers knocking awkwardly against a tree.
“Did anyone else see that?” I whisper, swatting away a single fly that buzzes around my head. I glance at the others, who offer silent nods, but by then my only focus is on the figure standing behind them.
“Oh frick,” I blurt, staggering back in a moment of shock. My voice is much too loud, but the utterance happens with such instinctual force that I can’t possibly regulate my volume.
Saul and Willow turn abruptly, equally startled as we maneuver away from what I can now see is a camper with a compound bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. He can’t be older than sixteen, sporting shaggy brown hair and a vacant, slack-jawed expression.
“Hey,” the boy mutters, his voice matching the despondence on his face. “Is archery starting?”
We’re backed against the hay bales now, not quite ready to run but feeling deeply uneasy about the spacey demeanor of this armed teen.
It’s the middle of the night, certainly not time for archery.
“Probably not” is all I can think to say.
The boy’s eyes dart to me and he raises the bow slightly, an expression of startled fright taking over. “Oh!” he blurts, pulled from a trance into some bizarre waking nightmare.
I immediately reach up and pull off my angel mask, hoping this might quell the camper’s apprehension. It seems to work, but his arrow remains notched.
“What’s your name?” I ask, keeping my tone as soft and even as possible.
He scrunches his face up, thinking hard. At first the lack of an immediate answer seems mildly amusing to him, but his good-natured expression quickly melts into worry and confusion.
“Did you bring me here?” he asks, his voice wavering as panic sets in. He grips the bow even tighter now, prompting me to raise my hand in a gesture of peace.
“No,” I say. “Not at all.”
Willow pulls off her mask and steps up next to me, offering her silent support.
“Do you wanna get out of here?” I ask the camper.
For a moment the haze of confusion breaks and he seems perfectly cogent. The simplicity of this question has struck something deep within him, momentarily flipping a switch.
His eyes well up with tears that glisten in the moonlight. The camper’s parade of emotions has finally settled on a horrible frown of agony and regret. He nods along in confirmation, apparently so consumed with these blooming feelings he can barely find the words.
“Yeah,” he finally sobs. “I wanna go home.”
Willow and I exchange glances, not sure how to react, while Saul hangs back in silence. The mask is still covering his face.
“We can help you,” I continue. “Do you—”
“Is archery starting?” the boy suddenly interjects.
“Uh, no,” Willow replies.
Panic creeps back into the camper’s tone, his emotional loop starting anew.
“It’s not time for archery yet,” I assure him.
I step back a bit, moving closer to my friends and lowering my voice. “How do we do this?” I whisper. “We’ve gotta help him.”
Now both my companions are silent.
“So we’re just gonna leave him out here?” I blurt, frustrated.
Willow hesitates.
“Rose,” she finally starts. “How many people are we saving tonight? One of them, or all of them?”
I glance back at the camper, whose grip on the bow is tightening. His emotions shift so rapidly it’s hard to keep up.
“What are you talking about over there?” the kid abruptly calls out, his voice jarringly loud in contrast to our pristine surroundings.
“Shh!” I hush him, swiftly breaking away from my friends and marching toward the boy.
My sudden movement is too much for the camper, who raises his bow and notches an arrow. “Hey!” he shouts.
I throw my hands in the air, immediately heeding his warning and backing away.
“I know you’re confused, but you’ve gotta be quiet,” I plead.
The boy narrows his eyes. “Did Pops send you?” His arrow is still pulled back and pointed directly at my chest.
As I back away, Willow steps in front of me, a maneuver that’s slightly frustrating until I realize how sweet it is.
Saul finally breaks his silence, ripping off his angel mask and stepping forward.
“Your dad didn’t send us,” Saul assures the panicking camper, his voice calm and collected. “I know this is all very confusing, but check this out—the moment’s gonna pass. I know you feel so fucking terrified right now—trust me, I get it—but the more time goes by, the more things are gonna fall back into place. It’s all gonna make sense.”
This isn’t true, and I know it. Saul, Willow, and I are incredibly lucky to have our memories back, but based on my interactions with other Camp Damascus alumni, this is rare and likely random.
This kid might be out here forever wondering if it’s time for archery.
Fortunately, I’m not the one doing the talking here, Saul is.
“Everything’s gonna be fine,” Saul continues with deep conviction. “You’re good.”
Even in this breathtakingly tense moment, my friend’s charm shines through with nothing more than a few simple words. I can see why they hired Saul, because connecting with these young campers is second nature to him.
The frightened boy slowly lowers his bow, but just as this occurs yet another kink in our plan arrives. Two flashlights are bouncing through the darkness toward us, yellow beams slicing through the space between trees.
“Oh shit,” Willow blurts, a universal consensus.
They must’ve heard our new friend’s panicked yelps, drawn to the commotion.
I spin abruptly, frantically searching for a place to hide. The edge of the forest is pretty far away, and crashing through branches and ferns would likely be a dead giveaway. Instead, I opt for the only other choice, swiftly ducking behind one of the square haybale targets. Saul and Willow follow suit, the three of us pressed tight as we make ourselves as small and quiet as possible.
Heck. Heck. Heck. Heck.
I know I should keep my head against the hay, but as usual my curiosity gets the best of me. I cautiously peek around the edge, watching the scene unfold.
A man and woman have emerged from the forest, Camp Damascus counselors dressed in their usual green-and-white uniforms. Their sweeping flashlights make it hard to see any faces, but their eerily cheery demeanor is more than apparent from the vocal tone.
“Hey, buddy,” the woman coos. “What’s going on out here? We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I—I don’t know,” the camper stammers, deeply distraught.
I retract my head as the counselors lift their flashlights and sweep the area, not entirely satisfied with the camper’s answer. One of their lights pauses on the haybales we’re tucked behind, lingering for a moment.
All it would take is one slip of the tongue for our whole plan to fall apart, and in the short time we’ve known this anxious camper, I can’t imagine we’ve accumulated much goodwill.
“Sounded like you were arguing with someone out here,” the counselor notes.
There’s a long pause, long enough that my lungs start inexplicably hurting and I suddenly realize I’ve been holding my breath the whole time.
“Is archery starting?” the camper finally asks.
“I asked you a question,” the counselor presses.
“You did?”
There’s a long pause.
The light on our target finally moves along, a deep sense of relief washing over me as I slowly relax.
“No archery tonight,” the other counselor chimes in. “Bright and early tomorrow. Let’s get you back to your bunk, huh?”
“Okay, yeah,” the camper replies.
Soon enough, the group can be heard making their way back up the trail from which they came.
The last thing I hear is one of the counselors quietly speaking into a communication device. “We found him. Tell security we’re fine over here. Yeah.”
Eventually, the night is plunged back into its previous state of overwhelming stillness.
“Let’s go,” I announce.
We don’t have time to dwell on the strange encounter, quickly returning to our mission as we push onward to the forbidden side of camp.
It’s not long before we arrive at another clearing, this set of bungalows just as immaculately groomed as the first. I’ve been here before, and as my eyes bear witness to these familiar buildings in two distinct rows, a faint gasp escapes my lips.
We’ve made it to the north cabins.
* * *
For a place that’s supposedly never available to use, it’s shockingly well-kept, the lawn tight and the stark white cabins freshly painted without a blemish to be found. Of course, there’s plenty of metaphorical rot lurking just below the surface, but you’d never know it.
The second rot crosses my mind I receive a visual flash, a reminder directing me to a very specific cabin. I recall the flies billowing off it like rolling flames, their caustic buzz so concentrated and loud that it sounds like a power drill boring into the back of my head.
“That one,” I announce, pointing toward a small, inconspicuous building.
We hurry along the edge of the clearing, not daring to cut through the exposed middle ground. All the while, Willow is quietly snapping photos, her shutter falling into a steady rhythm like the tick of an old clock. Digital files tend to corrupt around these creatures, but analog film should fare better.
Soon enough, we’ve arrived at the cabin’s front steps. I gaze up at the humble white structure, my eyes transfixed on the door.
“You ready?” Saul asks from behind me.
I am ready, but for some reason I can’t muster the willpower to move. My body is quaking, trembling with anxiety and fear.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
4, 3, 2, 1.
3, 2, 1.
2, 1.
1.
My hands hang at my sides, frantically tapping out patterns in a subconscious effort to calm myself down.
Unfortunately, it appears this situation is a little too potent for my usual coping method to earn results.
Fingernails grow faster during the summertime, and they tend to grow even faster on a person’s dominant hand.
Julius Caesar ordered the amputation of captured warriors’ thumbs, so even after they were freed, they could never bear weapons.
“Five, four, three, two, one. Four, three, two, one. Three, two, one. Two, one. One,” I whisper under my breath.
I force myself to stop, focusing my internal strength in an effort to halt these dancing fingers and keep the pithy facts from spilling through my brain in an avalanche of distraction. I take a deep breath and let it out, mustering up another mental push that will, hopefully, propel me onward.
Unfortunately, all the heart in the world can’t seem to compel my body.
Vena amoris is said to be the only exclusive vein in the human body, traveling straight from your ring finger to your heart. It’s a myth.
Willow steps up beside me and places her hand over mine, not palm to palm but facing the same direction. It’s an unusual position, prompting me to glace down at our digits in confusion.
Willow’s fingers begin to move, dancing in unison to my very specific pattern. A strange wave of relief washes over me as our fingers tango like this in utter silence.
My taps are not magic, and while I often walk them across any surface I can find in moments of stress, performing these steps will not completely alter my reality. This is not a miracle cure.
What does move the needle, however, is the sudden reminder of just how close Willow and I were. I have no recollection of showing these patterns to anyone, yet the girl beside me can repeat every step in perfect unison.
She’s got my back. So does Saul, for that matter.
My birth family never understood these subtle movements, either ignoring them completely or reacting with downright contempt. However, my chosen family doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, they’re quite happy to dance along.
I step forward, finally releasing Willow’s grip and continuing up the porch.
I cautiously peer through the front window. This cabin is exactly how I saw the one in my vision, although it appears one bunk has been moved to the room’s opposite corner.
Last time I climbed through a window in the dead of night I triggered a silent alarm, and I’m not looking to make the same mistake twice.
With that in mind, Saul steps up next to me, following my lead. He gazes through the glass to assess the scene, pointing down at a small metal square attached to the window’s inner edge. It’s a security system, set to activate the moment the seal has broken. One can only assume there’s another unit affixed to the cabin door.
Fortunately, we’ve planned ahead.
Saul pulls off his backpack and sets it down with extreme care, prompting me to recall the highly explosive, flammable equipment held within. Apparently, Saul also saved enough room for a simple flathead screwdriver.
“All these premade cabins have cheap windows,” my friend whispers, his voice slightly too loud thanks to the grinding heavy metal in his earbuds. “They’re all the same.”
Saul gets to work, slipping his screwdriver between the pane and its wooden frame. He does this very, very slowly, working his way along the edge. Once the surrounding material is broken, Saul begins his process of carefully extracting the glass as a single, complete rectangle. He moves achingly slow, carefully pulling away the glass.
“Oh!” Saul abruptly jerks, the pane dipping sharply in a moment that causes my heart to skip a beat.
Saul reels slightly, somehow managing to regain control of the delicate rectangle. I can see now that a large, wispy cocoon is tucked away in the darkness, hidden on the inside edge of the frame. It’s stringy and delicate, like torn cotton candy, sticking to Saul’s knuckles as he pulls away.
“Ugh,” Willow blurts in revulsion.
Saul carefully sets the pane down, stepping back and wiping the white threads away on the fabric of his shirt. A scowl of disgust overwhelms his face. “I saw one of these in the garage,” he recalls, making sure every last strand is cleaned off his hand.
Peering in through the opening, I take note of three wispy white pods affixed to the inner wall. The largest of these cocoons—the one Saul touched—is about a foot long and cracked down the middle to reveal a hollow interior. The others are smaller, two- and four-inch ovals of webbing that are still busy gestating whatever’s inside.
I also note the security trigger. It remains affixed to its window frame, undisturbed.
Saul picks up his backpack and throws it over his shoulder. “Be careful. That stuff’s nasty.”
Saul, Willow, and I climb through our freshly crafted entrance, glancing around the shadowy cabin where moonlight barely seeps. I’m tempted to pull out a flashlight, but the chance of this faint illumination alerting someone is just not worth the risk.
Fortunately, I know where to begin my search.
I motion for my friends to help, pulling the relocated bunk away from its wall to reveal a wooden door below.
“Oh my,” I gasp, realizing my visions were correct.
There could just as easily be a security device hidden behind this door as the last one, but with no way of telling and no possibility of turning back, there’s only one thing to do. I step to the side, then reach down to grab a large metal handle affixed to the oak frame. With one firm tug, I pull the door open to reveal a set of industrial metal stairs leading down into some unknown chamber below.
My companions and I exchange glances—uneasy, but ready to do what needs to be done.
The ground flattens out at the bottom of this staircase, transitioning into a long hallway constructed with clean gray sheets of metal. The floor of this area is lined with ultramodern strips of glowing blue lights, illuminating the scene from below.
Taking the lead, I make my way down the steps.
As Willow closes the trap door behind us, the atmosphere shifts yet again. While the campground had a rustic, natural flow, this basement feels downright futuristic. We might as well be roaming the laboratories of some billion-dollar computing firm.
“What the fuck?” Willow whispers, unable to hold back her amazement any longer as we continue down the otherworldly hallway, bathed in blue.
We cautiously round a corner.
I stop in my tracks, confronted by a long row of chambers lining either side of the space before me. Each cell is protected by an enormous pane of translucent glass, but it’s not their high-tech construction that catches my attention. Instead, my focus is drawn to the bodies huddled in the corners of each chamber: young adults, teenagers, and children stirred from their slumber by our unexpected visit. There are more than thirty people down here, with one to three captives in each bare metal cell.
The majority of these captives remain sleeping on the floor, but the ones who notice us quickly rise to their feet with expressions of utter panic.
Their terrified faces are gut-wrenching.
Immediately, I pull off my angel mask, struggling to calm them down.
As the captives rush toward us, they’re greeted by walls of thick glass. The barriers appear to slide upward when unlocked, but without a method of triggering the doors, there’s absolutely no way for us to aid an escape. Not yet, at least.
Next to me, a preteen boy is pounding against the barrier, crying out as tears stream down his face. I can’t hear a thing despite standing no more than a foot away from this terrified child. His mouth hangs wide, but not so much as a muffled scream can be heard.
Willow and I immediately get to work searching for a lever that could trigger the release of these captives, but it quickly becomes apparent that whatever we’re looking for must lie in the chamber beyond. Meanwhile, Saul pulls a metal hammer from his bag, raising it to shatter one of the panes before I reach out to stop him. “Too loud!” I warn.
