Page 5 of The Cult

Present Day

The Cult’s North Compound

I’d been awake for hours by the time the obnoxious noise of the rusty metal alarms mounted at both ends of the bunkhouse blasted, interrupting the tranquil morning. I glanced down at my boner. I’d been dreaming of the man I’d been crushing on since I was younger. No one ever compared to him. Even though I was surrounded by hot guys, with the stress of living in the compound and training every day, I never got past hand jobs. I was in survival mode. Besides, the guy I wanted wouldn’t want me anyway. It’d been more than a decade since the last time I saw him, but his handsome face and muscular body was ingrained in my mind, and once in a while, he visited in my dreams.

I reached into my underwear to bust a quick load, but thuds from the industrial light switches turning on accompanied the sirens. The sudden brightness engulfing the room pricked my eyes as if they were made of tiny needles. Like clockwork, we shuffled from our beds and rose to our feet. My toes curled from the chilled polished concrete floor, causing me to hop on one foot at a time until my soles adjusted to the cold.

It was late June, but in Wyoming, mornings were brisk regardless of the season. I missed the Californian summer. My recollection of my family’s time in the golden state consisted of fractured memories from when I was younger up until ten years old before my mom and dad decided to move to Wyoming to join this community after meeting their leader.

It wasn’t a community. It was a cult repressed of carefree living, the place where any semblance of hope and happiness withered and died. Anywhere had to be better than here. We were given rules to adhere to, and the older we got, the stricter the rules became. We never questioned the leader; we followed blindly.

Five minutes. That was all the time we had to get our beds made. They had to be wrinkle-free or we’d face the wrath of the guards, who would be here at six o’clock sharp. That was plenty of time, since all we had for a bed was a pillow and two blankets: one covering the three-inch-thick vinyl mattress, and the other to keep us warm.

Around me was a sea of half-asleep buzz-headed guys around my age. We’d been forced to grow up too soon. Our leader, Orcus, couldn’t wait to turn us into mindless pawns in his army, performing his bidding of spreading terror around the community. But when I forced my exhausted body out of bed and watched the guys yawning and rubbing their eyes, I could see the last remnants of our young selves. Our youth would be wiped out sooner or later. At nineteen, I was built like a brick shithouse, and tough as nails from the rigorous training I’d had since last year. Even what we ate was monitored. Gone were the days of casseroles and homemade desserts. Lately, our meals had been monotonous: heaped servings of lean meat that could feed four people, boring vegetables, and, if we were lucky, fresh fruits. I shivered and watched puffs of breath form in front of my buddies.

The event that would unfold hours from now was something I’d only heard about in stories, so the truth behind those tales was still up for debate. All of us were extracted from the Central Compound, away from our families, when we turned eighteen. We still got to see them once a week, every Sunday after our leader spewed his teachings to the community. He claimed to deliver God’s message of salvation, and the cult ate that shit up. “That wasn’t a message from God, but poison aimed to infect our minds where death is the only cure,” my dad had said one time during dinner. He didn’t elaborate on what he meant because Mom stopped him, nervously looking around the house assigned to our family. It’d been a while since I’d seen Dad. Mom never wanted to talk about him since he left over a year ago, before I was taken. We weren’t even allowed to mention his name. “I’ll come back for all of you,” were his last words to us.

Everyone glanced at each other with stoic faces, passing the emotional restraint test that had been hammered into our heads from day one of our training. The tension was so heavy it was a wonder we could still breathe; the air thickened by our anxiety. No one wanted to be the first to speak. The quietness in the room replaced the chatter from the night before, and I could almost hear my mind think. My gaze connected with one of the guys who had spotted me during a weightlifting session. He and some of the guys used to play with each other after church, but I didn’t know him well. His name was Joshua, but we called him Five. He was our de facto leader here, and I was his backup. He nodded in acknowledgment, and I nodded back.

We were standing next to our beds with only our black underwear on. Some, including myself, sported morning wood. Muscles were on full display, bulging and rippling. We waited for the guards to arrive. They always came when the clock struck six. As predictable as the changing seasons, the door opened. Four men sporting all-black gear with matching commando boots rushed in.

“You have a minute to get dressed then line up according to your number!” one of them yelled.

We did what we were instructed, pulling on our uniform and filing into a single line like ants. “Fucking cold,” one of the guys muttered when he scurried in front of me, shivering. The shuffling behind me continued until the line was twenty deep.

The guard holding a billy club banged a metal bed frame three times. “Roll call,” he said.

The guy in front of the line barked his assigned number on command. “One!” he shouted.

“Two!” the guy behind him followed.

“Five!” Joshua hollered.

We continued to yell our appointed number. “Nine!” I shouted when it was my turn. The roll call kept going until the twentieth guy was announced.

“Arms behind your backs!” The third guard, whom I had the misfortune of knowing, surveyed the line, staring at our faces as he passed by. His screechy, grating voice made my eardrums hurt. He was loud, compensating for his short frame. We didn’t know his real name, but we called him Napoleon when the guards weren’t around. We stood in the parade formation. Rumor had it that Orcus was a former US Army general, so our exercise imitated that rigorous military training.

I held my breath when he stood next to me. This fucker had a hard-on for me, always finding any reason to punish me. He examined my hair, making sure it was within their made-up guidelines we were forced to follow. I’d been down this road before. One time, I’d missed a chance to get my head buzzed because my whole body ached from the rigorous drills they’d put us through the day prior. A hundred push-ups and a beating later, I was dismissed and a lesson was learned. It was the first and last time I’d ever let that happen. My body relaxed momentarily when he walked past me, but my relief was short-lived.

“What the fuck is this?” he barked at Ten, the guy behind me. His name was Colt, and he was my closest friend.

“An earring,” Colt answered in a shaky voice.

Damn it. I’d reminded him to take it off last night. There was no place for deviance in our compound. You obeyed the rules or were punished.

Women in our community wore oversized white linen blouses and tan-colored skirts with their hair pulled up in a bun. Black flat shoes were the only footwear allowed. As for the men, we wore a white tank top—our leader called them “wife beaters”—paired with military camouflage pants. The only variance was a heavy black coat during fall and winter. Individuality was erased to “unify us under the eyes of God,” according to our leader. Even our names were reduced to numbers. Makeup, piercings, and tattoos were considered an act of resistance. Orcus ruled with an iron fist, and no one dared to challenge him.

“And what the fuck is that doing in your ear?”

Colt didn’t answer, which was the wrong move. I wanted to look back, but that would only escalate the situation.

“Are you fucking deaf? I asked you a question,” the guard yelled, his spit hitting the back of my neck.

“I just wanna try it, sir,” he answered finally. That wasn’t the best reply, but it was something.

I doubted any answer would get him out of trouble. My stomach dropped at the prospect of Colt’s punishment. He wasn’t weak, but Colt was the smallest and youngest of the group, having joined after his eighteenth birthday a couple months ago.

“Wanna try it, huh?” Napoleon mimicked, followed by a sinister laugh. “Hey guys!” he called out to the other guards. “He wanna try it, he said!”

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