34. Thirty-Three

I struggled against my restraints, twisting my wrists until the skin chafed raw. My heart pounded in my ears as I fought, trying to get free.

They must have drugged me when they grabbed me because my head was still pounding and I didn’t remember the journey. I’d just woken up there, groggy and confused, on the filthy floor of a rundown RV.

I had no way to gauge how much time had passed. Hours, maybe days spent in there, drifting in and out of consciousness. My muscles cramped from being contorted in the same position for so long. At least I had access to the bathroom. They’d come once to drag me out of the back bedroom and shove me into the cramped space to piss. I didn’t know when or if they were ever coming back.

A rattle at the trailer door jerked me to alertness. I listened, straining against the duct tape covering my mouth, as several sets of footsteps clomped up the metal steps and into the RV. My pulse raced as three cultists filed into the cramped back room.

“Please,” I tried to say around the tape. “Please don’t.” But my words came out muffled and garbled.

The cultists paid me no mind as they cut the ropes binding my legs. I tried to stand, but my limbs were numb and shaky. Two of them grabbed me under the armpits and dragged me bodily from the trailer, my feet bumping and scraping against the steps.

Outside, the sun blinded me after so long in darkness. The fresh air tasted sweet. I blinked away tears, my eyes slowly adjusting, and took in my surroundings—a clearing in the woods, more RVs and tents forming a circle. In the center, a bonfire blazed.

More people emerged from the camp to watch as I was hauled before the flames. My shirt was cut away. I shivered as they tugged my jeans and underwear off, leaving me naked and exposed before the crowd. I hunched over, trying to cover myself.

“The vessel is ready,” one of my captors declared. “We begin the purification.”

They forced me to kneel in the dirt before the bonfire. I grunted in pain as my bare knees struck the ground. The heavy scent of incense and burning wood choked my nostrils.

I flinched as one of the cultists began painting on my exposed skin with a thick, tacky substance. The mixture of ash and oil felt cold and slimy against my flesh. I tried to pull away, but firm hands gripped my shoulders, holding me in place. The bristles of the brush tickled and scratched as it moved across my body in swirling, intricate patterns.

I couldn't see the symbols they were drawing on me, but it couldn’t be anything good. Goosebumps erupted across my skin, and a shudder of revulsion ran through me. I was an unwilling canvas for their artwork.

I renewed my struggles, but in my weakened state, it was pathetic and futile. They handled me easily, their grips like iron, pulling my limbs this way and that as they covered every inch of my skin in the arcane sigils. They worked in focused silence, ignoring my squirming and muffled protests. To them, I wasn't even human. Just a vessel, an object. A sacrifice.

When they finished painting the symbols, they dragged me closer to the bonfire. The heat seared my naked skin as they positioned me right at the edge of the pit. Flames licked hungrily at the air, sending up showers of sparks and embers that singed my flesh. The smoke burned my eyes and choked my lungs.

I was trembling violently, my heart jack-rabbiting in my chest as I knelt there completely exposed and vulnerable, helpless to resist whatever sadistic plans they had in store. The cultists formed a circle around me, their shadowed faces illuminated by the flickering light of the fire. They began to chant in low, droning voices, the ancient words reverberating through my bones.

My head swam with terror, my thoughts scattering like leaves on the wind. I prayed desperately in my mind, begging for salvation, but no divine intervention came.

Through the haze of fear, I spotted two familiar figures emerging from one of the nearby RVs—Father Ezekiel and Daniella, Shepherd’s sister. Relief surged through me at the sight of her, a tiny spark of hope kindling in my chest that maybe Dani would put a stop to this. She would save me from whatever horrors the cult intended to inflict.

But my hope shattered as they drew closer. Dani walked with her head bowed, heavy with child, her stomach straining against the thin fabric of her dress. She clung to Father Ezekiel's arm as he guided her, his face a mask of benevolent calm. Neither of them so much as glanced in my direction. They didn't seem to notice me at all.

Father Ezekiel raised his hands, and the chanting stopped. He surveyed his flock with a beatific smile, his grandfatherly features arranged in an expression of utter serenity.

“My children,” he said, his voice carrying across the clearing. “Like the Israelites before us, we have wandered this desert for forty long years. The time of our deliverance is nearly upon us. Soon, our Heavenly Father will deliver us unto the promised land flowing with milk and honey.”

The cultists murmured praises and lifted their hands.

“But there is one final test of faith we must endure before we can claim our reward.” Father Ezekiel turned his predatory gaze on me and I withered under the intensity of it. He stalked closer, his sandaled feet crunching against the dirt and leaves. The firelight cast his features in a hellish glow, all harsh angles and deep shadows. “The book of John says ‘Truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.’ Just as our Lord Jesus gave his body and blood to the disciples at the Last Supper, so too shall we partake of holy flesh to seal our covenant with God.”

Icy horror flooded my veins as the implication of his words sank in. Bile surged up my throat, and I swallowed convulsively against the tape covering my mouth.

“This vessel of sin shall be the sacrificial lamb,” Father Ezekiel continued, gesturing at my naked, trembling body. “Through his sacrifice, we shall all be reborn into glory.”

The cultists made noises of agreement, lifting their hands in prayer and thanking Jesus. I shook my head frantically, trying to catch Dani's eye, to plead with her silently to stop this. But she wouldn't look at me, her gaze fixed resolutely on the ground.

My mind reeled as the horrifying realization crashed over me like a tidal wave. Cannibalism. They were going to fucking eat me.

Memories flashed through my head in disjointed fragments. Late night burials, unmarked graves dug in secret under cover of darkness. The too-light bodies wrapped in blood-soaked sheets, parts of them missing—a hand here, a leg there. Glazed, sightless eyes staring up at me from faces frozen in eternal agony.

At the time, I'd been too afraid to question it, too focused on keeping my head down and staying off the radar. But it all made nauseating sense now.

How many others had been in this same position before me? Helpless sacrifices to sate the twisted appetites of the cult’s inner circle? The thought made my head spin and my stomach heave. I felt like I was going to pass out or throw up. Maybe both.

Father Ezekiel stepped closer, his fingers trailing along my jaw almost tenderly. I cringed away from his touch, a terrified whimper rising in my throat. He gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his cold, pitiless gaze.

“Be not afraid, my son,” he said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. He is the one who brought you to us. He is the one that has bestowed this high honor upon you. Your flesh and blood shall nourish us, transform us, make us one with the divine. Your suffering is temporary, but the blessings we reap shall be eternal.”

Father Ezekiel turned to address the congregation once more. “Tonight, Mother Daniella and I shall depart,” he announced. “We go ahead to prepare the way that leads to our salvation, to ready a place for all of you in the land of milk and honey. We have already taken the sacrament into our bodies. Now, we must complete our journey so that we may guide you home.”

The cultists bowed their heads in reverent silence, accepting his proclamation without question. I felt a surge of rage at their blind obedience, their willingness to commit such unspeakable acts in the name of faith.

Father Ezekiel gestured to the men holding me captive. “Take the vessel back to the trailer. He requires further purification before he can fulfill his holy purpose. We must wait for the ordained time to complete the sacrament.”

Rough hands gripped my arms, hauling me to my feet. I stumbled as they dragged me away from the bonfire, my legs cramping from kneeling for so long. The pebbles and twigs dug into my bare feet, scraping my soles raw. Behind me, I could hear the cult members chanting and singing hymns.

The interior of the RV trailer was pitch black compared to the bright firelight outside. I blinked rapidly, my eyes struggling to adjust as they shoved me back into the bedroom. The flimsy door slammed shut behind them as they left and the heavy chains and lock slid back into place.

I slumped to the floor, my body aching and shaking uncontrollably. I tugged the tape off my mouth with a wince and gulped in deep lungfuls of air. The symbols painted on my skin had dried, leaving behind a flaky residue that made me feel filthy, tainted.

I huddled against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around myself in a vain attempt at comfort. The worn carpet scratched against my bare skin. Outside, the faint music and the murmur of voices began, a macabre celebration while I awaited my grisly fate.

Hot tears spilled down my cheeks as the enormity of the situation crashed down on me. A choked sob tore from my raw throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, but there was no escaping the waking nightmare.

“Shepherd,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and broken. “Shepherd, please...”

I didn't know if he was looking for me, or if he even knew I was gone, but I clung to his name like a talisman. Shepherd was my only hope. Without him, I was as good as dead.