Hells Escape: A Journey of Redemption

Clomp.

Clomp.

Their footsteps echoed dully against the stone as the cohort marched through the Canyon of Death. Their limbs moved without will, minds steeped in fog, eyes glassy and vacant. They were husks, strung together by some unseen thread, trailing along the river's edge as if reeled in by the current.

Damien led them—silent, and unreadable. Behind him followed the Grey Monk, then Jenna, Joseph, James, and finally... Blythe, or whatever force now wore her skin. Her mouth was stretched into an unnatural, crescent-shaped smile, far too wide to be real, and her pale blue eyes shimmered with something cruel and ancient. Nothing human remained in her gaze.

They marched without rest, without speech, without thought—for twenty-four hollow hours.

Suddenly,

Wheeeeeew!

The whistle returned, slicing through the air like a blade drawn from its sheath. But this time, it didn't come from Blythe.

Instantly, the spell shattered. The group staggered, blinking, chests rising and falling in confusion. They glanced around as if waking from a dream they couldn't recall, murmuring in half-formed words, trying to piece together what had just happened.

And yet, as before, the memory of the whistle slipped from their minds.

All except Damien.

It lingered for him—clear and unshakable—like a wound that wouldn't heal.

Damien winced as a sharp throb pulsed through his skull, and his eyes snapped toward Blythe.

She stood there, motionless, three supply crates resting at her feet. Tears streaked down her face, though her bewildered expression betrayed no understanding of why she was crying.

She's not under anymore, but that damn whistle… and the water—what the hell is it?

The questions drilled through his head with more force than his racing pulse. He narrowed his gaze on the crates.

Whoever or whatever is pulling the strings… it wants us alive, fed, and cared for, but it can't be nearby. Otherwise, why bother keeping the supplies intact?

A sharp voice broke through the silence.

"Where the fuck are the tents?" Joseph shouted, frustration boiling over.

Damien couldn't help but let a dry smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.

Not comfortable… but alive.

For Joseph, the past couple of weeks had been nothing short of maddening. His relationship with Blythe had crumbled, supplies kept disappearing without a trace, and now, somehow, the tents had vanished too.

It was unraveling faster than he could manage.

Damien, meanwhile, found it all quietly hilarious.

It's all going better than expected.

Then James spoke, his voice laced with outrage—a poor mimicry of Joseph's fury, like a loyal pup barking to match its master.

"The tents are missing!?"

Joseph and James wandered sluggishly, pacing in circles as they tried to make sense of what had happened—checking the river, scanning the cracked canyon walls, even pestering Damien and the others for answers.

"Why am I so tired?" Joseph wheezed, short of breath and glassy-eyed.

Suddenly, Damien caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The Grey Monk, normally unreadable, had stiffened—his face alight with something close to revelation. His gaze was locked on the canyon walls and the river.

Damien followed it.

He finally noticed.

Twenty-four hours ago, their camp had been set along a straight path, both river and cliff wall running parallel. Now, the stone bent subtly to the right, carving a wavy, meandering trail through the canyon.

A clear sign they'd marched, controlled, and manipulated, like cattle led by an unseen hand.

The Grey Monk leaned in close and whispered something into Jenna's ear. Whatever he said made her eyes widen with unease, enough for Damien to guess he'd just let her in on the truth.

I wonder how long they'll remember.

So far, anything connected to the whistle seemed to erase itself from memory. If the pattern held, the moment it echoed again, both Jenna and the Monk would forget they'd ever been controlled.

With a quiet sigh, Damien pushed himself up and walked toward Blythe. His throat was dry after the twenty-four-hour march, and even with everything that had just happened, thirst gnawed at him. Tears still streaked Blythe's face, but when she saw him, her lips curled into a soft, dazed smile.

"Hey... do you know what's going on?"

Damien shook his head.

"No... but I'm thirsty. Can I have some water?"

It might've sounded insane to drink after everything that just happened, but as far as he could recall, the controller had never tampered with the boxes themselves. Whatever it was wanted them safe, at least for now, and probably would until it was ready to meet them face-to-face.

Blythe nodded.

"Oh yeah, of course."

She removed the wooden lid from one of the boxes, but froze in place. Her smile vanished, and her eyes welled again as she stared inside.

"A lot of the supplies are gone! What is happening!"

So, my memory was slightly altered...impressive.

Joseph and James came storming in, practically shoving Damien aside.

"What!?"

They tore the lids off their own boxes, digging through the contents. After a few tense seconds, they both let out quiet sighs of relief. Their supplies were untouched, but Blythe's had been gutted—what was once ten bottles of water and five loaves of bread had been reduced to two bottles and a single, half-crushed loaf.

Even so, Joseph's voice rose in anger.

"Listen here!"

All eyes turned toward him, the man in silver armor, his blond hair tousled by the canyon breeze.

"If I find out who's stealing the supplies, I'll kill them."

Damien almost expected Blythe to snap at him, to scream or cry, but she didn't. She just stared, her eyes blank and silent.

Good... But why only her? Why take from her box alone?

Is it aware of my plans? That would explain leaving Joseph and James alone while stripping Blythe's box bare.

His gaze slid to Jenna.

She stood frozen, more lost than the others. Her eyes shut for a moment, brow twitching, and when she opened them again, she looked even more disoriented, as if she had just lost something precious.

No… It knows. Somehow, it knows. But how? Why am I the only one immune to the whistle? Why can I remember when no one else can, and why does something out there seem to be helping me?

He didn't know it yet, but the answer to that question would break him.