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Message: <blockquote data-quote="talien" data-source="post: 5025462" data-attributes="member: 3285">No Pain, No Gain: Part 7 – The Wilderness Retreat CenterThe Sheriff's Department of Squamish County received a phone call from a Charles Cartwright, a man living alone in the mountains. Exploring a canyon between the Altar Stone and his cabin, Cartwright came across Noelle Rand's crushed vehicle in a ravine a hundred feet below a dusty Forest Service road. Cartwright supplied the unburnt vehicle's make, model, license number--readily identifying it as belonging to Noelle Rand. He found no body, no blood, and no sign of the missing woman other than her wallet, an overnight bag, and printout of a strange book in Latin, all articles which he packed out from the wreck and took to his cabin.It was Renuncion where the agents were headed. Leaving Loam, the road entered low, hummocky foothills covered with dry grass. Small scrub oak trees sheltered in draws and ravines, but the hills were mostly bare of brush and trees. After a while, the canyons deepened, the hills sharpened, and boulders and rocky bluffs emerged along the highway.Renuncion was located seven miles away from Loam and fifteen miles away from Samson to the southeast.  The roads between the smaller towns in the area were re rutted and packed dirt affairs, the only exception being the better-kept “highway” to Samson.  "Why don't we just JERICHO jet the hell out of the place?" asked Jim-Bean."Too risky," said Hammer.  "This is a populated area near Samson's airspace.  We're not sure that this is their headquarters yet."By the time the agents reached the little town of Renuncion, they ascended into open pine forest. The air was s hazy with Samson's smog, blown far east. The day was hot and dry.Renuncion barely qualified as even a village.  There were about four dozen homes, most of which were strung along the town’s main street.  The houses were exactly what one would expect to see in a tiny American town: small, unspectacular structures that under some circumstances might seem “cozy.”  Here the townspeople carried out their daily affairs almost furtively.  Suspicious eyes peeked out at strangers from behind curtained windows.  Children played quietly, seldom laughing, shying away from those they didn't know.  Dogs, cats, and other animals also avoided contact with outsiders and residents alike.  Hammer brought up a satellite image of the town.  "We think this is their headquarters.  The book has mention of an address, and that's it."Set upon a ridge miles from the next house, the property backed up on a national forest. Localized volcanic activity about four thousand years ago left a jumble of black and red surface outcrops in the area. The Wilderness Retreat Center was the last of a handful along the dusty gravel road: the road ended abruptly at a locked Forest Service gate and cattle guard."So can't we just send a STREETSWEEPER team in…" began Jim-Bean.Hammer shook his head.  "We scanned the area.  No heat signatures.  Nobody's in the house.""That doesn't make any sense," said Archive.  "What kind of Retreat is this place?'"One where everybody's dead."  Hammer pulled the car up.  "Or they've already abandoned it."The house was a small, modem, two-story structure. The curtains were drawn closed, but a light was visible burning upstairs. A two-car garage stood across the road. There was no lawn or garden, though the brush and grass were cut back from around the house and garage to reduce the risk of fire.The agents got out of the car.  "Check this out," said Archive. The aluminum mailbox, labeled J.A. ARMBRUCE, had deep, regular scratches in it. The base of the mailbox was about forty inches above the ground. "Something big made those scratches," said Archive, inspecting the scratches.  "Judging by the separation of the teeth and the jaw wide required to bite down on both sides…this was made by one really big dog."Jim-Bean drew his submachinegun.  "Great."All windows and door of the house were securely locked and curtained. At the door of the house, there was an intercom with a lighted doorbell. Hammer led the other agents around to the back door. He jimmied it open.The place shows signs of vacancy and destruction. An apparently new couch had no cushions, with crushed springs and a cracked frame. The kitchen contained a stove, but no refrigerator. Pieces of a broken television were scattered about the living area. A DVD player was thrown against a wall with some force, judging by the hole in the wallboard. Hammer froze.  "Camera!" he hissed.A camcorder was in plain sight, sitting on its tripod in a corner of the living room. The light from the ceiling fixture of the loft gave plenty of light to see by, day or night. "I've got it," said Archive.  He chanted and the camera sparked.  An open staircase led up to a bedroom overlooking the living room. They made their way upstairs.There was a bent and cracked frame for a king-size bed. Tossed into the center of the frame were a half-dozen pairs of women's shoes, ranging from a women's 11D to a 15EEE. The light in the ceiling fixture was lit."Big girl," said Jim-Bean.The bathroom has a sickly, musty odor, sweeter than sweat. Hammer poked the shower curtain aside with one of his pistols.A grayish-translucent, viscous colony of thick mold flaked off, just missing Hammer.  He jumped backwards out of the way. "What is that?"Archive frowned down at the slime colony.  "That looks like what was on the thing in the pool.""Let's go downstairs."  Hammer closed the bathroom door, leaving the pulsing ooze behind. The basement contained a washer, dryer, and an army of bodybuilding equipment. All were covered with thick dust. Jim-Bean concentrated, putting one palm to the ground.  "There's three all-weather circuits leading from a second circuit box down into the ground outside the house."  He traced a trail only he could see. "The camcorder and electrical cables run about two feet underground."  Jim-Bean stopped at the wall.  "It leads towards the steep lava-slag.  Maybe a lava tube."He cocked his head, listening.  "I hear…music?"  Jim-Bean blinked.  Hammer exchanged a glance with Archive.  "The source of that music is where we'll find our cult.  Let's go."</blockquote>

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