Camp Damascus(40)

It feels good to expel my feelings in such a visceral way, but I can’t express them for long. I’m still too close to the outreach center.

As usual, however, my curiosity gets the best of me.

I open the folder again, blurry-eyed yet determined to understand the full weight of this information. I return to my own row, then slowly read across. The numbers appear to be a system of complex coordinates with twelve points: X, Y, Z (labeled SPACE) and A, B, C (labeled TIME) are each stated twice, a unique numerical string for every variable.

Next to this information is an ancient name that doesn’t surprise me in the least.

“Pachid,” I read aloud.

Glancing up and down this column I recognize several other names from my studies, minor demons spanning the biblical and occult canon.

Empusa, Leyak, Megalesius, Gressil.

The sudden crunch of a footstep over dry leaves prompts me to glance up in alarm. Someone is headed this way, finding the security footage and following a vague direction of my escape through the woods.

I close the folder and keep moving, forcing my aching body to pick up the pace.

It’s not long before I emerge onto the road where my car is parked, climb in, and tear out of there without a moment’s hesitation. The guilt is still gnawing away at me, but there’s plenty of forward momentum to keep it at bay.

Now that I have this page, something much better than a means of distraction simmers within.

I was taught the importance of perseverance by Kingdom of the Pine, so I suppose they brought this upon themselves.

I was also educated on vengeance.

If I sharpen My flashing sword, and My hand takes hold on justice, I will render vengeance on My adversaries, and I will repay those who hate Me. I will make My arrows drunk with blood, And My sword will devour flesh, With the blood of the slain and the captives, From the long-haired leaders of the enemy.

Luckily, I’m a little less fire and brimstone than the Word of God. I’m hoping for justice rather than retribution, but the heart of the matter remains. I was a cog in a terrible machine for years, and now I’m honored to be the monkey wrench dismantling it.

I marinate on this as I speed through the darkness toward home, focused on my new identity as a ferocious warrior.

In the back of my mind, however, I still know the real motivation here, the spark of light that stays tucked away in the depths of my subconscious thought where it won’t hurt anyone. I can’t dwell on her too much, but I know she’s there, the girl who once loved me and who I loved back.

Deep down, I know I’m doing all of this for her. I just can’t admit it yet.





7





COMMUNICATORS


As anxious as I am sitting out here in my car, gazing across the street at Zeitgeist Coffeeworks and scanning for familiar faces, it’s nothing compared to the tension I’ve been feeling back home.

Returning from the hospital and sleeping in my own bed was a blessing, but the health of my physical body came at a heavy price.

Suffice to say, Dad never got around to putting a new door up in my bedroom.

It was much easier being under my parents’ thumbs before I realized what else was out there, before I noticed all the weeds that climb their way up through the cracks in this little community of ours. Now that the blinders are off, however, there’s no going back, and the rotten creep of deception can’t help permeating every little thing.

I’ve been trying my best to act natural, something I wasn’t exactly good at even before all this happened, and I’m doubtful these efforts have been worth it. My parents know something’s up, sense an unspoken change in me.

Now it feels like the only thing keeping me safe is their own denial.

I glance up at myself in the rearview mirror, cringing slightly when I see how disheveled I’ve gotten. The stress hasn’t been kind, bags forming under my eyes and my stark blond hair now greasy and tangled.

Fortunately, I don’t have long to dwell. From the corner of my eye I notice my target, the girl sporting a bright red polka-dot shirt and black jeans. She goes to the only other high school in Neverton, and I’ve seen her once or twice at various social events. I vaguely recall the two of us holding a brief conversation at a snack bar when our football teams played each other and I was actually allowed to go, but my memory is hazy and I can’t be certain.

She’s also a Kingdom of the Pine member, but she worships across town.

I reach into my center console and pull out a pen, then unfold my list and place it against the flat surface of my steering wheel. I draw a long line horizontally across one of the rows, blacking out two names.

One is Ally Robertson. Her “assignment” is Lepaca.

This is the sixth person I’ve checked in with, each one of them under a different cover story and none leading anywhere productive. Nobody remembers a thing.

The mysterious girl with dark hair from the park and my memories isn’t on this list, either, since the name of her demon is nowhere to be found. There are several other therapists doing exactly the same work as Dr. Smith, and Ramiel must’ve been assigned to one of them before his transformation into charred Satanic sirloin.

Still, I keep pushing onward. What other choice do I have?

Ally enters the cafe first and I follow, climbing from my vehicle and limping across the street as the late afternoon sun peeks through stark white clouds overhead. On any other weekend I might be on a neighborhood stroll with Mom, followed by a family dinner and an evening dive into the Scriptures, but things have changed.