Meanwhile, back in the cult

 

I dreamed I was back in the cult again, only I wasn't quite all the way in. I was somewhat on the periphery, and I had a modicum of autonomy. I'd been away for some time, but all the old people were there. Even my friends Richard and Martin, who'd left much later than I, were back in their old positions, performing their duties and participating in the services.

I called my mom on my camera phone. (That's a phone that looks like a camera, not the usual smartphone that looks like a tiny tablet.) I had to use this stealthy device to be able to communicate without looking like I was talking on the phone. I would pretend to be taking pictures and mumble imperceptibly while holding the camera up to look through the viewer.

"Hi, Mom. Yeah, I'm still here. No, I'm not 'back in the cult.' I'll be leaving in a few days. I'm just taking some pictures of what goes on here," I whispered, still self-conscious that eyes might be upon me or ears tuned in to my conversation.

"I can't hear you," she said. "The last few times you called, all I heard was background noise. It sounded like singing or something."

"I can't talk right now," I told her. "Worship service is about to begin. I'll leave my mic on so you can listen to what the sermon is about."

She didn't seem interested, and the line went dead. I was all alone again, my lifeline to the outside cut off. The voice of my mom had been my tether to reason, to the real world, and I was now feeling a little vulnerable.

The sermon started with a slide show. Robert was showing pictures from his glory days. People were responding with the usual oohs and ahhs, assuring those around them of their steadfast approval of all things Bobby. 

I clapped along with the rest of the group, perhaps a little louder, since I was seated nearest to Robert. Pictures of guitars, pictures of Bobby with female members, all showing him from the best angle, in his prime back in the 80s, flashed on the screen while he played a worship tune on his guitar. 

Taking part in the service and feigning applause was making me want to wretch, so I slipped out the back to get some fresh air. The cool ocean breeze revived me, and I stood out on the walkway outside the building watching the surf.

At least they'd chosen a nice spot by the ocean for their "Advance." (That's the Remnant equivalent of a retreat, for you uninitiated.) The meeting hall was on a bluff overlooking a bay, where some people were surfing the shorebreak. The waves, though wild and unruly, would deliver them right to their beach towels without mussing their hair, as they stepped off their surfboards and onto the sand as easily as one steps off an escalator. 

Jim Turnbough appeared out of nowhere, wearing a wetsuit. He had a way of creeping up on you, which was rather disturbing, since he was Robert's right hand man. Nothing got past him, and if he saw you slacking, it was sure to get back to Bobby. 

"Catching some waves, Jim?" I asked him casually. 

"We're all going down to the beach in a minute," he said. "You're expected down there. In proper attire."

I guessed that meant I should don a wetsuit too, though it wasn't specifically stated. It didn't matter. I wouldn't be there. 

Jim was holding a piece of hardwood that looked to be a template for some kind of stringed instrument. It was marked out with a ballpoint pen, with pilot holes for the metal fret inlays. 

"Is that a balalaika, or some kind of eight string guitar?" I asked.

"It's neither," he told me. "It's something Robert wanted me to make for him. It doesn't have a name yet."

I excused myself, saying I had to get ready. I wasn't planning to attend the meeting, though. I had other ideas. I was going to live stream their activities, broadcasting from a spot upstairs in the building that overlooked the beach where the event, likely another sermon, was to be held. 

Sermon on the Mount, sermon on the beach, sermon on the rocks, Bobby liked his dramatic backdrops. And he loved to hear himself preach. And you'd better love it too, if you knew what was good for you. 

I knew what was good for me, and it wasn't that. I figured I could finally put an end to Robert's cult of oppression if I could only get the ugly details of his message to the outside world. So, I set up my little table and turned my camera and microphone on. My podcast was about to begin.

"In case you didn't know," I began my monologue, "this is a broadcast from inside the compound of the Remnant cult. What you will be hearing will be live and unedited. I will be taking calls during the broadcast and answering any questions on the air. And now, let's begin."

I flipped the camera around and pointed it at the beach, where the sermon was just about to commence.

Then Jim Turnbough walked in.

----

Did you feel that? <shudder>  I did. The dream ended on that creepy note. I'd been found out and would certainly face the inevitable consequences. I woke up hoping to avoid all that, but it was still early, so I went back to sleep and found myself in the same dream, somewhere out of sync with the timeline I'd just exited. 

Martin and Richard were greeting one another on the stairs outside the building. Martin had a sub sandwich and was about to hand it to Richard.

"Brother, you betray me...with a sandwich!" Richard said jokingly.

Martin feigned an attack, thrusting the sandwich at him, sword-like, while Richard swooned melodramatically, as if stabbed in the heart. It was good to see the boys having fun, even if it was in the context of the cult.