Camp Damascus(72)

Heck. Heck. Heck. Heck.

I know I should keep my head against the hay, but as usual my curiosity gets the best of me. I cautiously peek around the edge, watching the scene unfold.

A man and woman have emerged from the forest, Camp Damascus counselors dressed in their usual green-and-white uniforms. Their sweeping flashlights make it hard to see any faces, but their eerily cheery demeanor is more than apparent from the vocal tone.

“Hey, buddy,” the woman coos. “What’s going on out here? We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I—I don’t know,” the camper stammers, deeply distraught.

I retract my head as the counselors lift their flashlights and sweep the area, not entirely satisfied with the camper’s answer. One of their lights pauses on the haybales we’re tucked behind, lingering for a moment.

All it would take is one slip of the tongue for our whole plan to fall apart, and in the short time we’ve known this anxious camper, I can’t imagine we’ve accumulated much goodwill.

“Sounded like you were arguing with someone out here,” the counselor notes.

There’s a long pause, long enough that my lungs start inexplicably hurting and I suddenly realize I’ve been holding my breath the whole time.

“Is archery starting?” the camper finally asks.

“I asked you a question,” the counselor presses.

“You did?”

There’s a long pause.

The light on our target finally moves along, a deep sense of relief washing over me as I slowly relax.

“No archery tonight,” the other counselor chimes in. “Bright and early tomorrow. Let’s get you back to your bunk, huh?”

“Okay, yeah,” the camper replies.

Soon enough, the group can be heard making their way back up the trail from which they came.

The last thing I hear is one of the counselors quietly speaking into a communication device. “We found him. Tell security we’re fine over here. Yeah.”

Eventually, the night is plunged back into its previous state of overwhelming stillness.

“Let’s go,” I announce.

We don’t have time to dwell on the strange encounter, quickly returning to our mission as we push onward to the forbidden side of camp.

It’s not long before we arrive at another clearing, this set of bungalows just as immaculately groomed as the first. I’ve been here before, and as my eyes bear witness to these familiar buildings in two distinct rows, a faint gasp escapes my lips.

We’ve made it to the north cabins.



* * *



For a place that’s supposedly never available to use, it’s shockingly well-kept, the lawn tight and the stark white cabins freshly painted without a blemish to be found. Of course, there’s plenty of metaphorical rot lurking just below the surface, but you’d never know it.

The second rot crosses my mind I receive a visual flash, a reminder directing me to a very specific cabin. I recall the flies billowing off it like rolling flames, their caustic buzz so concentrated and loud that it sounds like a power drill boring into the back of my head.

“That one,” I announce, pointing toward a small, inconspicuous building.

We hurry along the edge of the clearing, not daring to cut through the exposed middle ground. All the while, Willow is quietly snapping photos, her shutter falling into a steady rhythm like the tick of an old clock. Digital files tend to corrupt around these creatures, but analog film should fare better.

Soon enough, we’ve arrived at the cabin’s front steps. I gaze up at the humble white structure, my eyes transfixed on the door.

“You ready?” Saul asks from behind me.

I am ready, but for some reason I can’t muster the willpower to move. My body is quaking, trembling with anxiety and fear.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

4, 3, 2, 1.

3, 2, 1.

2, 1.

1.

My hands hang at my sides, frantically tapping out patterns in a subconscious effort to calm myself down.

Unfortunately, it appears this situation is a little too potent for my usual coping method to earn results.

Fingernails grow faster during the summertime, and they tend to grow even faster on a person’s dominant hand.

Julius Caesar ordered the amputation of captured warriors’ thumbs, so even after they were freed, they could never bear weapons.

“Five, four, three, two, one. Four, three, two, one. Three, two, one. Two, one. One,” I whisper under my breath.

I force myself to stop, focusing my internal strength in an effort to halt these dancing fingers and keep the pithy facts from spilling through my brain in an avalanche of distraction. I take a deep breath and let it out, mustering up another mental push that will, hopefully, propel me onward.

Unfortunately, all the heart in the world can’t seem to compel my body.

Vena amoris is said to be the only exclusive vein in the human body, traveling straight from your ring finger to your heart. It’s a myth.

Willow steps up beside me and places her hand over mine, not palm to palm but facing the same direction. It’s an unusual position, prompting me to glace down at our digits in confusion.

Willow’s fingers begin to move, dancing in unison to my very specific pattern. A strange wave of relief washes over me as our fingers tango like this in utter silence.