“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.
Pastor Bend clears his throat. “The megaphone was picking up a little feedback from my infernal coworkers,” he explains, then raises an eyebrow in an exaggerated performance. “Notice I didn’t say friends, I didn’t say family, I said coworkers. We all have people we don’t enjoy working with, right?”
Pastor Bend pauses for us to respond, but nobody’s willing to play along. Instead, we just stare at the man in awkward silence, forcing him to continue his impromptu sermon without audience participation.
“You go in for a heart transplant and you discover your doctor is using an assistant who is absolutely terrible,” Pastor Bend continues. “This guy’s killed the last five patients he worked on. He’s constantly leaving scalpels inside the chest and sewing people up, just terrible. Guess what, though? This assistant gets along with your doctor really well. They’re best buddies.”
Pastor Bend pauses for dramatic effect, all eyes trained on him. He’s relishing this moment in the spotlight, unable to keep himself from putting on a show.
“Now your doctor says, ‘Listen, I know my assistant is terrible at his job, but he’s a real sweetheart. I’ve got this other assistant who could help us out, but I can’t stand the guy. He’s one of the world’s greatest surgeons, never made a mistake, but he’s also a real jerk,’” Pastor Bend continues.
“Get to the point,” I call out, sick of this achingly transparent presentation. Everything about Pastor Bend’s delivery is fake, a friendly cadence that all great preachers can channel at the drop of a hat. I used to feel perfectly at home when someone delivered a message in this bright-eyed manner, but now it just makes me nauseated.
“The point is: Who would you want to operate on you?” Pastor Bend continues. “Even better question: Who would the hospital want to operate on you? It would be downright criminal to let the unskilled assistant work just because they were pals with your doctor. You deserve the best treatment you can get.”
I’m trembling now, struggling to shake the cold that exudes from the nearby demons.
“Doctors have an ethical imperative to use all the tools at their disposal when looking after your body,” Pastor Bend continues. “We have an ethical imperative to use all the tools at our disposal when looking after your soul.”
“Good luck with that,” Willow retorts. “Your machine is fucked and those little worms are all dead. You’re not converting anyone.”
A look of disappointment crosses Pastor Bend’s face as he glances at the security guards behind us. One of them nods in confirmation.
“Kingdom of the Pine paid millions for the blueprints to that machine. It took years to build,” Pastor Bend explains, “but wrath is just as much a sin as lust. You’ll find nothing but forgiveness from Kingdom of the Pine. The Ligeian worms, however … that’s a problem.”
Pastor Bend turns on his megaphone and holds it up to his mouth, clearly frustrated. “A really big problem,” he announces, his voice cutting through a haze of distant screams and dancing static before shutting off the megaphone and returning it to his side.
Pete’s clearly got more to say, but my mind is already jumping ahead. I chart the most logical course of this standoff, and I’m not thrilled with the place where I end up. Those worms served a very specific purpose, and with this tool eliminated, the congregation might just have to make us forget the old-fashioned way.
They’re going to kill us.
“You and the campers you’ve released are now a huge liability—not to me, but to the future sinners yet to be saved by our world-class conversion program,” Pastor Bend explains. “It’s our moral obligation to save as many people as we possibly can. We’re here to help you…” The pastor trails off, waiting for a response that doesn’t come.
Pastor Bend tries again, opening his arms and speaking a little louder this time.
“We’re here to help you…” he calls out, finally prompting a response from the counselors.
“Love right!” they shout back.