Camp Damascus(60)

My first instinct is to run out and help Saul, to make sure he has all the support he needs while literally facing down his demons, but I don’t move an inch. As crazy as it sounds, giving Saul this space is the most supportive thing I can do, consequences be damned.

If it were up to me, every one of these creatures would be dealt with in a safe, organized system, coaxed into our new machine one by one and dispatched with precision and efficiency. Saul and I are not the same person, however, and his personal journey is not for me to insert myself.

Instead, I watch with rapt attention as these two figures face off, Saul coming to terms with his past as slamming pop music paints the scene with unexpected vibrancy.

Saul is yelling something at the demon now, his face overflowing with emotion as he says his piece.

The particularly tall creature tilts its head to the side, taking Saul in for a moment, then abruptly springs into action. The demon makes its move, striding toward my friend with a sudden conviction that causes my breath to catch.

Saul, however, is ready.

My friend lifts the tool in his hands to reveal its true nature in spectacular fashion, a brilliant orange burst of superheated flame erupting from his grip and engulfing the monster. My eyes go wide as I instinctively pull back from the window, washed in the reflection of this fiery display. The makeshift device, cobbled together from a fuel tank, a large spray nozzle, and an igniter, was a last resort if things went sideways with the trap.

To be honest, I hadn’t really expected the flamethrower to work at all.

The wave of tremendous heat strikes the demon and it crumples to its knees, succumbing to the unrelenting roil that spills across its roasting form. It lets out a frantic shriek, struggling to flee but unable to find its bearings as Saul pushes forward. I can tell the warmth is difficult for Saul to take, even from his side of the device, but his conviction doesn’t waver.

He continues screaming at the demon, his exact words lost in a haze of slamming pop music and rumbling flames, but his intent is coming across just fine.

The demon is crawling away now, dragging itself hand over hand before collapsing, a charred crisp in a metal collar.

Finally, the flames relent.

Saul pulls out his phone and turns off the music. He stands quietly for a moment, then turns to the window, locking eyes with me.

Saul hoists up the homemade flamethrower confidently.

“It works!” my friend calls out.





10





LADY OF THE FLIES


I stare at the rectangular notecard in my hand, this blank space just as vacant as my expression. I’ve been sitting out here on the hood of what I now know is a 1966 Ford Falcon, my legs crossed as I perch quietly upon its rusted metal skeleton.

It’s been long enough—and I’ve been quiet enough—that the prairie dogs have returned from their initial scare, no longer afraid of my presence. One of the creatures pops up from a hole no more than ten feet away, staring right at me in a way that becomes impossibly distracting.

“Hey!” I finally shout, dropping my pen and the empty notecard. “I’m working!”

The prairie dog is unfazed, frozen in place.

This standoff goes on for quite a while, until my opponent abruptly retreats. It’s not my dominance that triggers this move, however, but the arrival of Saul, who’s now strolling down the driveway toward us.

Saul’s tiny earbuds are so loud I can hear him coming. The chaotic sound of tinny blast beats echoes across his property, disrupting the still of the morning as he returns from his routine dawn walk. My friend shuts off his music and pulls out the buds, tucking them away in the pocket of his hoodie.

A few of the prairie dogs still remain, but Saul makes quick work of that. “Yo!” he shouts, immediately causing the stragglers to scatter. He lets out a frustrated sigh, shaking his head. “The animals are taking over. I knocked down some cocoon in the back of the garage, and it was like this big.” Saul holds up his hands, positioning them approximately one foot apart.

I’m trying to be a good friend and react accordingly, but my thoughts are elsewhere.

“You alright?” he asks. “You were in the same spot when I left.”

I glance down at the blank notecard in my hand, then back up at Saul.

His expression is one of deep recognition. “Tonight’s a big night,” my friend acknowledges.

I nod, crinkling up my nose a bit. “I usually write out talking points for social events, but I don’t know where to start,” I explain.

Saul’s initial reaction of shock is quick and instinctual, but he catches himself, immediately shifting into bemused acceptance. “Okay, sure,” he offers. “No luck?”

I shake my head.

I shouldn’t be too hard on myself, really. After a brief email to Willow in which I assured her it was now safe to meet, she agreed on a time and a place—this evening, at a bookstore one town over. Looks like I’ve set into motion what could be the most important conversation of my life.

No pressure.

“I usually come up with three talking points, maybe five. Just facts I can discuss or questions I can ask,” I explain. “This meeting is pretty specific, though. First, I’ll probably tell her about the demon’s weakness against fire, which I can then connect to a greater historical conspiracy from the Christian church. Did you know there’s a painting from 1495 called The Holy Family with the Mayfly? Albrecht Dürur is the painter, and it—”