Camp Damascus(57)

I’ve been running long enough.

I stand and peer into the shadowy void, hoping to sense a change in the air, or catch the sound of approaching footsteps.

Instead, I’m met with utter silence.

An eruption of horrific screams suddenly fills my skull, and this time it’s not Saul’s music. A renegade signal has made its way into my earbud, prompting me to yank it out in shock.

These agonizing shrieks come and go in waves of static, oscillating in volume as I hold the device a few inches from my ear. It’s a horrible noise, but through the chaos I begin to make out another signal, the familiar voice of Saul as he struggles to shout through the sonic wash. His shouting pierces the noise sporadically, a few desperate syllables at a time.

Even though I can’t make out the words, the frantic emotions behind Saul’s transmission are perfectly clear.

Without warning, the hangar lights flicker on in a handful of short bursts, flooding my vision like a camera flash. A figure is rushing toward me, the silhouette dark and strange against the brilliant illumination.

I cry out in shock, dropping the earbud as I stumble back and knock over my chair with a clatter. I turn and make a run for it, flooded with adrenaline as my mind snaps back into focus.

That was a rough start, but our plan is still active and the trap is ready to spring.

Fortunately, Saul designed the backup lever to be extra large and easy to find, even in complete darkness. I rush toward the switch and give it a hard yank, setting off a cascade of thunderous, split-second reactions.

Four bombastic slams erupt through the hangar, a square of copper panels falling into place. Heat washes across me as several torches ignite, blasting rolling flame across every wall of the superheated chamber that now rests over my former position. Above, a massive, flame-spewing device blasts down into the center of this area only slightly larger than a phone booth.

My eyes wide, I crawl backward through the dirt in an attempt to get away from the caustic heat and noise.

Then the screaming starts: the belligerent, unfiltered squeal of Pachid burning up.

I’m frozen in shock, staring at the billowing flames and glowing copper in awestruck wonder.

A frantic pounding begins to ring out through the hangar, starting fast and then slowly devolving into silence. The execution booth itself is loud as all heck, but this contraption can only run for so long.

Eventually, I pull the lever back into place, shutting off the gas and quelling the flames. The hangar lights flicker back on.

It feels as though Pachid’s telltale chill has dissipated, but it’s tough to be sure after getting so thoroughly roasted by the billowing flames. My skin is red and leathery from nothing more than a quick encounter with the chamber some ten feet away.

I take a moment to collect myself and get my bearings. “Saul?” I call out, raising my voice now that the earpiece is a mound of ash.

The single word echoes through the hangar with no response.

Too curious to wait for my friend’s reply, I grab a dangling chain and start tugging. While copper is incredibly heavy (even heavier than steel, in fact), Saul and I devised a pully system that allows these four flat panels to be lifted with relative ease.

The metal sheet before me rises inch by inch, gradually revealing the charred body of a humanoid figure curled tightly in a wretched ball. The whole inner chamber is roasted to a crisp, even the dirt itself burnt and ashen.

I crank the panels higher until they lock into position, then step toward the carbonized remains.

“Hot damn,” comes a voice to my left, prompting me to jump in surprise. I turn to find Saul standing in utter shock, his gaze transfixed by the warped figure.

The two of us creep forward until we’re standing directly above Pachid’s toasted corpse, the demon obliterated by flame. In this position her form appears eerily human, other than the bizarrely long digits that can be seen protruding from either hand. As far as her apparel, the only thing left is the iron collar around her neck and the metal name tag that was once pinned to the creature’s red polo shirt. PACHID, it reads.

“You okay?” I ask my friend.

Saul doesn’t answer for a long while.

I don’t mind. While he’s taking a moment to center himself, I appreciate something I haven’t been able to enjoy in a very long time. I think about Willow, not in the usual fleeting moments or fragmented images that keep me safe and sound, but triumphantly diving into the deep end of my mind. I let the patchwork memories I’ve managed to gather overwhelm me, wrapping me in their warm embrace.

Before, this mental realm was prickly and frustrating. I wanted so badly to stay here, and I subconsciously yearned to bask in these thoughts while my consciousness screamed about danger lurking just around the corner. I was laying my mind on a glorious pillow while my body rested across a bed of nails.

But that fear no longer exists within me. I’m free.

“You ever wonder why they wear name tags?” Saul asks, interrupting my thoughts.

It’s a simple query, but shocking in the fact that I hadn’t considered it much until now. I’m aware of the demon’s quirky attire, obviously, but the implications behind it had never really crossed my mind.

I don’t know the answer, and I’m not sure Saul really expects one. He’s grappling with the same thing I did after locking Willow’s demon in my flaming car, coming to terms with the intrusion of something truly bizarre within our own concrete reality. It’s one thing to believe in a collection of intangible supernatural forces floating through the ether, looming just behind the curtain of our world like ghosts, but these demons are not that.