by Sam Clemens
“Friends,” Schmidtmann said, and smirked. “Never treated me like a friend. None of you did.”
Laird stared at him.
“If they’re dumb enough to do something like that,” Max Schmidtmann said, “so be it. Goodbye, Laird. We’re closing soon.”
Forty-Seven
Can there be another resort that follows a last resort? A laster resort, if you will? Laird decided the answer was yes, only if your last resort was feeble enough that it didn’t even register as an attempt. He again thought in football terms; a second game-ending hail mary pass, if the first one was nullified by an encroachment penalty. The Max Schmidtmann visit was his encroachment penalty.
So after spending New Year’s Eve sulking alone in his extended-stay room, drinking straight Tullamore Dew and eating goldfish crackers, Laird said fuck it, he’d throw the ball downfield one last time. The morning of January 1, he called an Uber to take him to the compound.
“It says we’re going to the middle of the woods,” Laird said as he crawled into the back seat, “but trust me, there’s something there.”
The anvil-faced man in the driver’s seat nodded. “If you’re sure.”
“Positive. I used to live there.”
It was a long, quiet journey, and Laird looked out the window. When they got to Ned, his forehead got hot.
“Yep, to the right, please,” he said.
Laird instructed the driver to drop him outside the property, that he’d walk in. The driver asked if he was sure—the snow can get deep. Yes, Laird said, he wore his boots.
He trudged through the woods until he was gasping for air and sweating through his undershirt. Laird removed his coat and tied it around his waist. It was a warm winter morning. He wondered what time they’d planned the sweat lodge. If the previous activities were any clue, it would be noon. He hoped it was noon. If it was noon, he’d get there in plenty of time.
Once, he almost lost his way, but even the woods were familiar to Laird. He’d spent so much time examining the property—poring over maps and walking the land in advance of construction—that he knew it better than anyone. When he reached a small frozen creek, he knew he was on the right path. Laird followed it west.
He emerged with a clear view of the property—sunlight reflecting off the cabin roofs, chimneys pumping smoke. In the clearing sat the massive sweat lodge. In its completed state, its size was haunting. Large sloping roofs of deerskin and pine. Laird’s pulse quickened. Could they be in there already?
Forty-Eight
He charged hard through the meadow, breathing heavily and sweating like a whore in church. Laird made no attempt to conceal himself now; a confrontation was what he’d come for, and if it happened a few hundred yards from the lodge, so be it.
The property was quiet. The only sound Laird heard was the rhythmic crunch of his boots through the snow.
When he arrived at the structure, he could feel the heat coming off it. His thoughts ran fast. Fuck, they’re already in there. It’s so quiet—are they all dead? Shut up, Laird, stop overselling it. At most, six or seven of the weaker ones will die. The data support this. And so on. Laird checked his phone and saw it was 11:03. A random time for Cosmo. Did they shun daylight savings time at the compound? He couldn’t remember.
Laird found the entry flap—a humongous sheepskin draped vertically—and pulled it open.
Forty-Nine
The sweat lodge was dark, but for the smoldering glow of the enormous wood fire in the center. The fire was so big, Laird was surprised it hadn’t burnt the roof, but it chugged along unimpeded, pumping smoke and heat into the lodge. Its burn was bright enough to see what the lodge held: several hundred ass-naked cult members, all seated in the lotus pose with eyes closed.
The smell of ash overpowered Laird right away; the air was thick with smoke, and made it difficult to breathe. He pulled his shirt up over his face to form a makeshift filter, but still his eyes stung. He forced them opened and surveyed the crowd. For a second he thought they were dead, but when Laird stepped forward into the lodge, a man next to him opened his eyes. It was Alejandro, and his dick was huge.
“Brother Laird,” Alejandro said with a tranquil smile, “you’ve come to join us.”
Laird tried to respond, but couldn’t take his eyes off the naked man’s enormous member. Never did he expect the councilman to pack so much heat; even flaccid, it was an impressive unit.
“Brother Laird?” he said again.
“Uh, yeah,” Laird said, snapping his eyes away. He looked through the smoke at Alejandro’s face—it was happy, if suffocating slightly. “Where’s Cosmo?” he asked through his t-shirt.
Alejandro pointed to his right, across the lodge.
Laird waded through the tangle of nude body parts, trying not to get hung up on any more unexpected sizes. Jordan had innie nipples, Johanna didn’t shave; interesting revelations, but he pressed forward into the smoke. There, against the far wall, sat his lanky friend, seated with his eyes closed. Next to him was the brute Roy, doing the same.
At this point, Laird’s plan had run out; he hadn’t expected to get that far, and thus had no premeditated course of action. But it was hot as fuck in the lodge, and the smoke was stinging his eyes, so he opted for brevity. Without a word, he grabbed Cosmo by the hair and yanked.
“Fuck!” Cosmo yelped, snapping out of his meditation. “Dude, what the hell. Roy! Roy!”
But Laird had already dragged him halfway across the dirt floor; what he lacked in height, he made up in sinew, and even in the hazy air he had little problem pulling his scrawny pal along with him. Roy opened his eyes and made an attempt to intervene, but was overcome by a coughing fit and crumpled to the ground.
“Come on,” Laird said, dragging Cosmo by the hair in a caveman-like manner. He was careful to avoid others—some began to rouse at the commotion, opening their eyes and turning their heads. But the sweat lodge held an ethereal quality, and in its smoky haze, nothing seemed quite real. Eyes followed them, but bodies stayed put.
Laird reached the entry and moved the deerskin flap out of the way, and was hit with the glorious relief of the cool, clean winter air. He pushed Cosmo against the outside of the lodge, in a seated position, and leaned in close. “Call it off,” he said, ashy spittle flying from his lips. “Go in there and call it off right now.”
Cosmo sputtered, his eyes half closed, his face nauseous. “How dare you,” he said. He made a feeble attempt to stand, but his legs were weak from inhalation.
“Call it off right now,” Laird said, holding him in place.
“Absolutely not,” Cosmo choked. “It’s the emancipation, Laird.”
Laird pointed to the door. “Get in there and tell them.”
“How can I send them astray?” His voice croaked.
“Cosmo,” Laird said, moving his face an inch from his friend’s, “if you don’t get in there and call it off right now, I’m going to strangle your ass till you’re purple.” He pumped his words full of urgency.
Cosmo closed his eyes fully then, waving a hand in submission. “Do it,” he said. “I’d rather die.”
Laird cocked his hand and slapped Cosmo across the face, the thwacking sound muffled by the leader’s ample whiskers. It was a clean blow, and Laird felt a solid impact on the jawbone. He leaned in again. “Get in there!” he yelled. “They won’t leave unless you tell them!”
Cosmo Hendricks leaned back against the hut. His eyes remained closed, and he said nothing.
“They’re fucking DYING!” Laird yelped. “They’re under your spell, you idiot!” He slapped Cosmo again, harder this time, and the leader went limp like a beached crappie. For a moment, Laird thought he’d gone under, but then his eyes opened again.
“Laird,” he said, almost a whisper, “this isn’t about me.” His deep brown eyes stared up at his former best friend. “They made their own decisions.”
Laird clasped his hands around the emancipator’s throat and squeezed. “You absolute lun
atic!” he said, vein bulging in his forehead. “This is murder!”
Cosmo made a gurgling sound, but he closed his eyes again, content to go dark. This made Laird madder, and he squeezed tighter. His fingertips pressed deep into the skin of the throat, and the gurgling noise became more pronounced. That’s it, he decided. I’m doing it.
In the cold winter air, alone in the woods, Laird understood that he was killing his friend. His hands moved on their own now, and he watched his fingers squeeze tighter.
The entry flap opened, and out walked Alejandro.
“Man,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “it’s hot in there.” He took three steps into the daylight and his dong swung like a pendulum.
Behind him came Johanna. She squinted in the sunlight. “Plenty of that for me,” she said. “Not my first choice.”
Others flooded out behind them. A few at first, then dozens, then more. Many Laird recognized, some he didn’t, all mumbling about how they weren’t super impressed with the day’s activity. Carefully, Laird removed his hands from Cosmo’s throat—color returning to the spots where his fingers had pressed—and watched the exodus. As they came out, the sun seemed to shine brighter. The day became warmer then, and the air tasted sweet.
Jordan and Taylor emerged, the larger one shaking his head. The former REI manager approached Laird and Cosmo.
“Hey, no offense, dudes, but that kind of sucked,” he said, and spat soot from his mouth. “Honestly this whole thing has gotten kind of boring.”
“Yeah,” Jordan said, walking up next to him. “We’re out.”
They turned and walked away, ass cheeks reflecting the low winter sun.
Others followed, agreeing that things had run their course. “It just isn’t fun anymore,” one man said to rousing agreement. Cosmo and Laird watched as the congregation funneled from the sweat lodge, alive and disinterested.
Finally, in what seemed like a symbolic gesture, Retha and Roy emerged. He stretched his arms broadly, and they both walked toward their leader.
“Well,” Retha said, “I guess that’s it.”
“It was fun,” Roy said, “but yeah, we’re over it. We’ll still run the pizza place if you want.”
In droves, they walked away. Taylor said something and a group of people laughed. He smacked a woman on her naked ass, smiled, and asked who wanted a ride back to Boulder. A dozen hands went in the air.
The flock dispersed, the spell lifted. Glazed-over eyes came back to life. Cosmo and Laird stood dumbfounded, and watched 200 naked figures scatter in the winter landscape.
Epilogue
Cosmo and Laird sat in their favorite booth at the Horse. Between them were two pitchers of flat beer, a suitcase-sized plate of hot wings, and three baskets of fries. The men methodically ate the food and tried to make sense of things.
“I’m sorry I excommunicated you from the cult,” Cosmo said.
Laird dismantled a wing. “It happens.”
“It’s like a fog,” Cosmo continued, stuffing a handful of curly fries in his mouth. “Up there in the hills? It feels like a dream. Like it wasn’t even real.”
Cosmo Hendricks was having memory problems. He didn’t deny anything—rather, he freely accepted all of his transgressions—but for much of their time at the compound, there was a blank space on his brain where recollections should’ve been. Laird walked him through many of the events—the sermons, the igloo campout, and eventually, the sweat lodge—and tried to jog his mind. It all rang a bell, but was shrouded in a thick haze.
“I don’t know,” Cosmo continued. “Was I on drugs?”
“Not that I know of. We were both drunk a lot of the time, but that’s not out of the ordinary.”
“Right.”
Laird licked sauce off his little finger. “The first time you got clarity was outside of the sweat lodge?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Cosmo said, leaning forward. “It’s like I woke up, sitting in the snow with you standing over me. I remember watching all those naked people walk away and being really confused.” He took a drink of beer and shook his head. “So they just…decided to leave?”
“Yep,” Laird said, biting the meat off a bone. “Just got bored.”
Cosmo exhaled forcefully. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nope. But none of it did. So in that way, maybe it’s logical.”
Laird theorized that with the way the people joined the cult—so freely and easily, without the slightest resistance—that it would make sense they’d leave the same way. That they’d put themselves deeply under Cosmo’s spell, but in reality it had been their spell; they’d consented to it. They’d wanted it. And when they stopped wanting it…well, they went the same way they came.
Cosmo rubbed his eyes.
“Careful,” Laird said. “Wing sauce.”
“Shit,” the man formerly known as the emancipator said. He wiped his face with a napkin, then picked up a handful of fries and drug them through a ketchup and mustard mixture. He turned his attention back to the conversation. “Man.” Cosmo shook his head heartily. “I’m glad no one got hurt. I’m lucky, you know?”
“Yeah. You might be coughing black for a while.”
“Fuck,” Cosmo muttered, staring across the restaurant. “Still doesn’t add up. It really doesn’t, you know? I don’t see how you can be so zen about the whole thing.”
“Learned it from you.” Laird put his wing down and leveled his own gaze. He let his mouth open as he felt around for the words to address the issue. The exodus. It was the big question, and no matter what explanation he assigned it, he never felt satisfied. Perhaps he never would. “We’ll just have to live with it,” he said finally. “That we aren’t gonna understand this thing. It had a life of its own, Coz. We were just a part of it.”
Cosmo shook his head again. “How’s it possible? I mean, the things those people did—the money they gave, man—just to walk away from it all?”
“Yep,” Laird agreed. “Best I can do is people go through phases.”
“Phases,” Cosmo repeated.
“Yeah. Like pogs or the keto diet or the fucking shakeweight. Like that time Taylor got really into hang gliding.”
Cosmo Hendricks bobbed his head. “He was kind of religious about that.”
“Phases, dude.”
“Yeah, but nobody ever fell through a frozen lake for the shakeweight,” Cosmo said.
“That you know of.”
“Come on, dude. You know what I mean.”
Laird exhaled deeply. He picked up a wing, and then put it down again. “Right,” he said. “This phase was bigger than that. Different. I guess we touched on something with some power. Something we don’t really understand. Like, I thought I understood it, but I didn’t. Maybe that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
Laird shrugged. “I don’t know. The cosmos.”
The men stopped talking then, because they’d come too close; to the void, to the yearning question of all humanity, and to the answer—but not a final answer, nor an answer that satisfies. Just an answer that raises more questions, and those questions go on forever.
They ate the fried food and listened to the nearby televisions. Basketball was on.
“Hey,” Cosmo said finally. “What would you think about me giving Sadie a call?”
Gently, Laird set his wing down and looked directly at his friend. “I think that’s a terrible fucking idea.”
Cosmo rented an extended-stay room at the Broker next to Laird’s. They were going to live there a few weeks and figure out their next move. When one has recently left a position as the leader of a large and active religious cult, it’s difficult to know where to go.
They sold the pizza place to Retha and Roy. Cosmo and Laird haggled over this; Laird wanted to remain owners in a hands-off fashion, and pay the former deputies an increased wage to continue running it. It was, after all, a profitable business. But in the end, Cosmo convinced him it was best to cut ties; Retha and Roy were the he
art and soul of the place, anyway, and staying in business with them after what had transpired would be sort of weird. They settled on a fair price and Cosmo and Laird reaped a reasonable profit. The name remained.
Cosmo Hendricks was intent on paying back the investments to all cult members who had made them, but he soon realized how difficult this would be. For most of these people, they didn’t even have contact information. And this was the truly odd thing about the dissolution of the Cosmography congregation: it fully and totally dissolved. Logic would indicate that some of these people stayed in touch, but for Cosmo and Laird, the last they saw of most of them was their bare asses sauntering off into the winter sun. For Laird, it harkened back to the well-worn phrase:
And just like that, as mysteriously as they’d arrived, they were gone.
The compound was on the market, but the realtor advised them it would probably sit there for a while; sprawling communes in the woods that had previously belonged to religious cults were a niche market. Cosmo vowed to somehow pay the members back for all their effort—and investment—in its purchase and construction, but again, how could he locate them? All of their investment bookkeeping had been done on paper, handwritten, often using only first names as reference points. Perhaps he’d have Laird draw up another pamphlet. That had worked the first time.
It was baffling to him that they’d vanished so cleanly. No ask for refunds, for closure? No interest in seeing what became of the thing that had dominated their lives for more than a year? Mystifying.
“Remember,” Laird told him once, “how it felt like a dream to you? Well maybe it felt like a dream to them, too.”
For Laird, he remembered everything. There was no haze, no fog, no dreamlike stupor, only a short stretch of his life that was extremely weird, mostly unexplainable, and—if he was being honest—often a shitload of fun. Maybe it was his burden to live as the only one who remembered it all lucidly. If it was, he was fine with that. He was just happy to have his friend back.