Camp Damascus(79)

13





JUDGMENT


Because we’re no longer bound by the need for silence, the way out is much faster than the way in. The futuristic cellblock is wide open, captives freed and nowhere to be found. Hopefully, they’ve escaped deep into the woods by now.

Our feet slam against the metal floor of this long underground passage, shadows cast upward from the cold blue glow below. They look enormous as they whip across the walls.

Saul, Willow, and I are well behind the fleeing prisoners, and with little time to spare our focus is on the quickest getaway possible.

So long as it’s not too late.

The answer comes as we emerge from our underground bunker, screeching to a panicked halt at the top of the staircase.

We’re surrounded, a cascade of floodlights aiming down at the building from every angle. Brilliant illumination pours in from the windows, and the front door sits wide open before me.

I shield my eyes, barely noticing the two figures who stand on either side of us.

“Oh good, we were just about to come down and get you,” a woman says gruffly. “Now we don’t have to. Hands up.”

We follow their orders, returning to the world above in a complicated mixture of victory and defeat.

We’ve been caught red-handed, and Kingdom of the Pine clearly has no problem enacting brutal judgment as they see fit.

That said, we’ve managed to exterminate the worms, trash their demon-summoning machine, and set a whole dungeon of prisoners free. We did what we came here to do, despite fumbling the escape.

Our captors pat us down, removing Willow’s cameras and stripping away Saul’s tools, including the flamethrower. They’re likely searching for Dr. Smith’s weapon, but find nothing.

This must be the security force, a well-armed tactical squad that’s suspiciously absent from any starry-eyed Camp Damascus infomercials.

“Come on out,” calls a strangely familiar voice through a booming megaphone. “Let’s get a good look at these little rascals.”

We step onto the front porch, shielding our eyes as they adjust to the brilliant lights that strike down from every angle. The captors behind us push roughly onward, keeping pace as we stumble toward the open field of the north cabins. There’s a crowd of figures surrounding us, but I’m too disoriented to comprehend much more than an abstract parade of silhouettes.

As I approach, a cold wave washes over me.

“Alright, shut ’em down,” calls the familiar voice. The megaphone crackles slightly, a strange, oppressive drone humming through it.

The glowing beams disappear, plunging us back into a state of reasonable illumination. It appears the enormous spotlights were mounted on trucks, three of which are positioned around us. I can only assume the congregation uses these vehicles for tracking down runaways.

This, however, is far from the most shocking thing about our welcome party. Yes, a handful of uniformed security guards have arrived, but they’re relegated to the trucks in back. Instead, we find ourselves surrounded by four distinct types.

The first group I recognize are escapees, kids previously locked away down below that we set free during our invasion. They’re shaking and scared, cowering in fear after a brief moment of freedom that was offered unexpectedly, then ripped away just as fast. They’ve been put through the wringer tonight.

The second group are counselors, clean-cut and watching with a faint, almost undetectable smugness. There are about a dozen of them, which gives slight credence to the notion that not everyone who works at Camp Damascus knows the true extent of what happens here.

Then again, does it really matter if you’re just evil, as opposed to over-the-top cartoonishly evil?

Third is the security force—twenty or so well-armed soldiers, clad in all black and mixed in with the others.

However, the last group of figures are the ones who draw my focus the most, the ones that cause my breath to catch in my throat and my veins to flood with frigid ice.

Looming behind the humans is a flank of white-eyed demons, pale and wretched as they smile with those bizarre grins. They’re a variety of sizes and shapes, but feature similar renditions of stringy black hair that hangs around their heads in awkward patches. Their red polo shirts all match, name tags perfectly affixed to their chests. A single iron shackle stays tightly wrapped around each of their necks.

The counselors and security team are unfazed by this demonic presence, but the campers are petrified. Some do everything they can to look straight ahead and pretend nothing’s there, while others can’t help glancing back in a state of awestruck dread.

“Oh no” is all I can think to say, these simple words falling from my mouth in an expression of preemptive defeat.

A man steps forward, lowering his megaphone and calling out to us with a booming voice that’s no stranger to addressing a room. I recognize him immediately. Our host is Pastor Pete Bend, the head of Camp Damascus, himself.

Pete’s near-supernatural charisma is immediately apparent, the blood of a salesman coursing through the body of a spiritual leader. His hair is buzzed tight on the sides and longer on top, juxtaposing salt-and-pepper temples with a distinctly modern cut. Even at this late hour he’s immaculately dressed in a fashion-forward jacket and an extra-long tee. A set of trendy sneakers rest upon his feet.

The only religious paraphernalia to be found on Pastor Bend are the cross that hangs around his neck and the traditional red band around his wrist. This denotes all congregation leaders, a reminder of Prophet Cobel’s sacrifice: his left hand for an audience with God.