Camp Damascus(68)

Aside from the breathtakingly low temperatures, there’s not much to see here.

Instead of gradually making my way down each row, I decide to focus my efforts and listen to the voice within, the whispering part of my subconscious brain that has made all this possible.

Returning to the middle of the field, I close my eyes, allowing the swift current of memory to take hold. None of this is real, I remind myself, but deep below these veils of symbolism lies a hidden truth.

It’s not long before a faint, darting buzz draws my attention to the right. I open my eyes and glance over to locate a single mayfly dancing through the air, fluttering this way and that before swooping off toward one of the cabins.

The insect sways with a strange meandering tumble as I follow along, and despite its gradual movement, the general direction is clear. I walk slowly behind the fly’s wandering trail, following across the field until I’m standing directly before the middle cabin on the left side of the clearing.

It’s here my six-legged companion lands on the first wooden step, gazing up at me with its bulging, crystalline eyes as it furiously rubs its dirty little hands together.

I meet the tiny creature’s gaze.

Suddenly, an eruption of caustic, sonic drilling prods me to stumble back in alarm, losing my footing and slamming against the grass as I stare up in disgust at a churning black mass. The cabin is absolutely covered in flies, the creatures swarming so thick they look like a heaving, undulating paste that’s been spread across the entire structure. The sound in my ears is a deafening, overwhelming drone, a horrible sound that fills the clearing as the creatures swirl and pulse, a living tornado of filth. They roll off the cabin like dancing fire, drawn to the rot.

My eyes snap open and I sit up with a gasp, prompting Willow and Saul to pull back in shock. I’ve returned to the warmth of the farmhouse, slamming back into my body with a powerful thud that jerks the air from my lungs.

“You okay?” Willow asks, placing her hand on my back.

“Ye-Yeah,” I stammer, the word tumbling forth awkwardly as I struggle to find my voice. I’m still reeling from what I’ve seen, the rolling boil of mayflies charred across my mind.

Willow gives me a moment to catch my breath.

“Did you remember?” she finally asks.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Things were pretty … abstract.”

I turn my attention to Saul. “Was there a third set of buildings in the woods?” I ask. “A clearing for the north cabins?”

Saul leans back a bit, his eyes staring off as he struggles to remember. “I think so,” he confirms, “but I never saw them. They were under renovation when I worked at Damascus.”

“I think they were always under renovation,” I say.

Saul locks eyes with me. “Do you know which cabin we need to search?”

I’ve seen the cabin, and while the mass of flies was likely just a symbolic manifestation from the depths of my subconscious, the location itself is clearly marked.

However, the logical, scientifically minded part of my brain pauses. This segment of my personality has been growing stronger every day, and now the sword it wields into psychic battle is dominant. There’s nothing concrete about my findings, and the assertation that any information gleaned from an abstract drug trip holds water is highly suspect.

Sure, there’s plenty of evidence to suggest repressed memories lie dormant in the subconscious, but reading these images like tea leaves is just as silly as the religion I’ve turned my back on.

Is this just a new Trojan horse for faith to use as it creeps back into my life?

Maybe a little faith isn’t so bad, a voice abruptly offers from deep within me, bubbling up from the darkness and making a profoundly simple case.

Find balance.

To be fair, this all-or-nothing approach has been getting exhausting. The further away I get from my time with Kingdom of the Pine, the more I’m realizing it’s not so much the faith I’m upset about, it’s the hate and fear disguised as concern and charity. Faith is just a vessel, and while it can certainly be used to justify truly horrible things, maybe I’m letting the aggressors off the hook by blaming faith itself.

“I have a pretty good idea which cabin to search,” I finally reply, imagining the deluge of swarming flies.

“Good enough to make a run at this?” Saul asks.

The opposing sides of my mind finally collapse into each other, swirling together like buckets of red and yellow paint as they synthesize into a brilliant orange. This new tone floods across everything, igniting a powerful force within me.

“Yeah,” I declare with a nod. “Let’s go back to camp.”





11





STRAIGHT STREET


As Willow’s car winds its way up the hillside, we each begin to prepare in our own way.

In the back seat, Saul reveals a set of wireless headphones and dives into his private concerto of thundering guitars and grinding deathcore rhythms, nodding along to the music.

Willow drives, but her cameras are locked and loaded. There’s even a tiny video recorder strapped to her forehead, endlessly cataloging from Willow’s point of view.

Meanwhile, I’ve pulled out my phone for a last-minute cramming session with all the information at our disposal. I’m going through my old notes, flipping back and forth between personal findings and scans of Saul’s mysterious tome. I’ve gone over this stuff so many times I can recite it by heart, yet I push onward.