Camp Damascus(32)
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.