Camp Nameless

By Rain Siyakim Chetdav

Once in a millennium emerges an all-encompassing assisted reality and science fiction novel that exemplifies literary greatness and unique storytelling dexterity. Camp Nameless main character, Leigh-Ellen Srey, a fearless protagonist who welcomes challenges from all aspects of life from flying USAF F-22 Raptor in Iraq to training in artistic gymnastics for the 2024 Paris Olympics in her preteen years.
Camp Nameless derives its sequences of events from Leigh- Ellen’s point of view which derives from her dream sequences, and dream sequences within dream sequences; readers will engulf in events such as post nuclear apocalyptic Korea, multiple virtual reality environments, US West Point Military Academy’s
outpost summer camp, and military covert operations with
multinationals elite troopers.
Camp Nameless is an enmeshed-up genres…but the one thing remains constant is Leigh-Ellen Srey’s zany, witty persona: she speaks her mind and outwardly exhibits her personal belief in sense of judicatory for all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781532094057

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Copyright © 2020 Rain Siyakim Chetdav.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-9406-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-9404-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-9405-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020916507

iUniverse rev. date: 08/28/2020

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Camp Nameless

Omaha Beach Training Area

Day 1 Gatherings

Quest Alpha

Valhalla

Chapter 2 Dream Sequence 1 @ Chameleon Junior High School

Enchanted Water Park

Thyda Robotics Academy

June 2017

Chapter 3 Prequel to Dream Sequence 2 Alpha @ Seoul, South Korea

Monkey 7 Compound

Bunker Zulu, United Nations Headquarters, Seoul, South Korea

Chapter 4 Leigh-Ellen Srey’s Eighth Grade Year—No Smartphone or Tablet Edition

Leigh-Ellen Srey’s Eighth Grade Year

Leigh-Ellen Srey Turns Thirteen Years Old

Chapter 5 Dream Sequence 2 Alpha @ Chameleon High School

Washington State Fair Students’ Night

Chapter 6 Dream Sequence 2 Bravo @ I-5 Exit 118 Gymnastics

Hong Kong 2018 U11-13 World Gymnastics Championship

Lillehammer 2018 U15 European Gymnastics and Championship

Chapter 7 2019 Vancouver U11-13 Interim 2024 Paris Summer Olympics

Vail, Colorado—2019 US Olympic Trials

2020 Tokyo Olympics Team USA in Women’s Gymnastics

Chapter 8 Dream Sequence 2 Charlie @ Seoul, South Korea

Chapter 9 Dream Sequence 2 Delta @ Bunker Charlie

Zombie Apocalypse

USS Donald J. Trump Aircraft Carrier

Chapter 10 Dream Sequence 3 @ Baghdad, Iraq—USAF Eighteenth Fighter Squadron, First Lieutenant Dana Olgica

Chapter 11 Dream Sequence 4 @ USAF Virtual Reality Hybrid Research BETA

Chapter 12 Dream Sequence 5 @ West Point Military Academy

CHAPTER 1

CAMP NAMELESS

A n unremarkable nocturnal breeze blew, accompanied by the endless churning sounds of crickets. At 3:30 a.m. Wednesday, I struggled to wake my mind for the upcoming challenges or, more appropriately put, to climb out of an academic pitfall that I’d inadvertently gotten myself into.

West Point Military Academy cut no corners with its dealings with its students in reference to community service delinquency. Dr. Roth, the dean of student affairs, lived up to his motto: Give me mine, and I’ll give you yours. In short, no community service translated to no graduation, a freeze on your financial and academic records, a prohibition against registering for classes, your eviction from the dorms, and sanctions on everything related to academics.

I’d planned to binge sleep for the entire summer break and have my parents serve me since I was their baby home from college. Or so I thought. That daydream came to a sudden end during finals week several days ago. At midweek during finals, Dr. Roth had personally delivered an envelope with a handwritten explanation: Come see me with one or more escorts.

That explained how I had been volunteered to serve as summer camp counselor, something I’d never dreamed of. I knew nothing about babysitting teenagers, especially ones from low-income neighborhoods, from the slums of Tacoma and its vicinity with its government-funded housing projects.

I conducted a thorough examination of myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom just minutes before leaving for Fort Lewis Army Base for my first official day at Camp Nameless. I’d inquired about the camp’s name and location, but no one volunteered any rationale. I was taken aback for a moment. Somehow the definition of the word volunteer did not include the concept of free will. The academy called volunteering selfless service, Dr. Roth called it responsibility, and I called it horseshit. I didn’t know of any antonyms in Webster’s Dictionary for the word volunteer accepted by universities that expected postsecondary undergraduate students to fulfill the school’s requirements prior to graduation.

If logic serves humanity in terms of indicating a higher level of intelligence than the members of the animal kingdom have, then what separates us humans from talking apes but the reason we have to comprehend logic—assuming that there are logical solutions to illogical situations? There was no logic to so-called mandatory volunteering. The more I contemplated it, the more the ordeal of humankind angered me. Perhaps humanity had nothing else to worry about, and therefore it had picked a soft and easy target to tinker with.

My hair had gotten darker, longer, silkier, livelier, and thicker. It stopped at the top of my tailbone. I was inclined to see myself with longer hair instead of medium-length or short hair. I hadn’t gotten a haircut during my entire first year at West Point. When I left home over eight months prior, my hair had reached to my upper shoulders. Hopefully, this volunteer fiasco wouldn’t require me to get my hair messy. Messy hair traditionally meant a woman took a liberal approach to self-beautification or lacked any such approach entirely.

My hairstylist oftentimes reminded me, Messy hair is an indication of moronism, laziness, and uncaringness. It makes you an honorary piglet. Women with body image issues experience, among other things, physiological and psychological disarray. One other issue my hairstylist mentioned was that she was in conflict with messy-haired females who voted for liberal candidates for political office. Once last year I highlighted about 80 percent of my hair and dyed my bangs a dark orange. My hairstylist almost had a major, irreversible mental breakdown when I showed up for an appointment with her.

At exactly 4:00 a.m., I started my classmate’s 5.0 convertible Mustang. The engine roared at start-up, putting out a very strong Vrim, vrim! sound. Its powerful V-8 thrusters propelled the car forward, almost causing me to lose control of my muscles. It was a sporty auto. It felt as if the Mustang was shot off by a catapult, akin to fighter jets being shot off from navy aircraft carrier battleships.

The breezy morning air rushed against my upper body and against the convertible top as it unsealed itself from the car, rolling backward into its slot. The owner had warned me not to put the top down while the car was in motion. Reverse thrust is killjoy, she lectured seconds before she’d tossed the keys over to me. The car’s owner and her family were vacationing in Europe, Asia, and Africa for the entire summer. I had volunteered to take care of the 5.0 until school started.

Early morning light peeked through as the sun rose in the eastern sky. A zephyr blew of its own accord; the windchill was around 45°F with visibility in the teens. Every so often headlights appeared as cars came in the opposite direction. I turned on the radio to BBC. A female reporter from the United Nations was interviewing a member of the Security Council, discussing the so-called progression toward the Second Korean War. Even novice Eagle Scouts had an opinion on the matter, the difference being that the Eagle Scouts were much more believable than the UN guy.

Speaking with a British accent, the interviewer asked, What sanctions has the UN Security Council imposed on North Korea for its latest violation with its nuclear missile launch preparations?

The German man answered, Nothing’s official yet. China and Russia are vehemently opposed to any new sanction. Japan and Taiwan have also expressed some resistance.

Is this the end of the once mighty UN? she asked. What caused the insurrection?

Absolutely not, he told her. The UN is as strong and as united as ever. From time to time, members disagree on technicalities, such as the language used to describe the sanctions. Members debate on issues on which there is disagreement. Modifications are made, or not, and then members vote, after which we move on to other issues.

I turned off the radio; I could take in only so much horseshit in one morning. The smooth, unending, elongated sounds of the engine sound continued as the 5.0 roared on I-5 South. Both sides of the highway were moderately busy with passenger cars, trucks, and city buses. By crunching down in my seat, I tried hard not to let the breeze blow against my hair. It took a laborious effort to keep my hair tamed. Even the long johns under my West Point Military Academy T-shirt didn’t keep me warm. Because I was wearing torn-knee jeans, I felt as if I were naked from the waist down. My feet were frozen, perhaps in the early stages of frostbite.

I started to contemplate that I was in a sea of wrongs: the wrong temperature to be driving a convertible with the top down, the wrong clothing for the weather, the wrong definition of the word volunteer, the fact that it was wrong for West Point to implement such horseshit—an additional academic burden for its undergraduates—the wrong location for a youth summer camp, and the wrong candidate for a counselor (my personality was wrong for the job). And most importantly, I was wrong for taking this horseshit too lightly. It would come back and bite me on my butt.

Of all the undergraduate enrollees, I found that the odds were in my favor. Dr. Roth outmaneuvered the odds, zeroed in on me, and won. It continued to puzzle me to this day how he knew who I was, down to the tiniest detail of my whereabouts on that day when he’d personally hand-delivered an envelope to me. Perhaps the Big Brother conspiracy theories weren’t all that wacko.

Vrim, vrim, vroom. The auditory sensations echoed around me in a perfect circumference, breaking the stillness and the darkness of the morning with a suspenseful, dramatic cacophony. I drove across the final bridge before the main gate to Fort Lewis Army Base. I wiggled my toes for a few seconds; I should have worn tennis shoes with warm socks as my parents had suggested. Instead, I had worn flip-flops and was essentially barefooted. Could anything else go wrong before the official start of this project?

At the front gate, a female guard checked my ID; she studied my driver’s license as if I were a wanted master forger. She shined her flashlight throughout the interior of my car as if I’d hidden something from plain sight. Only after she was totally satisfied that I was the only occupant in the vehicle did she hand my ID back. She said, And where are we going this morning?

Waller Hall, I said, annoyed. My physical appearance eliminated me as an army trooper; therefore, I should not have been treated like one.

Another guard came out. He shined a flashlight throughout the interior of my car, searching for anything illegal. He asked, PFC Logan, what’s the problem?

Sergeant Doles, it struck me as odd for a civilian to be doing business in Waller Hall at this hour. Waller Hall opens at 0900 hours for community-based business, PFC Logan answered.

Why Waller Hall? Sergeant Doles asked. He finally put his small flashlight away.

I reached over to the glove compartment and pulled out a printout that Dr. Roth had given me. It contained the info I needed to navigate through Fort Lewis. I gave the printout to the sergeant. He read it over quickly, then handed it back.

Camp Nameless. Must be summertime again, Sergeant Doles said. He signaled for the gate to open. Good day, ma’am.

I sped through the gate before any other shit could happen. As if it weren’t bad enough that I inadvertently had volunteered my summer days away, I also had to put up with additional horseshit.

Slow down! the female soldier bawled.

In defiance, I accelerated; the V-8 outputted a strong cacophony of Vrim, vrim, vroom! I wasn’t an army trooper. I shouldn’t be treated like one.

Moments later I found Waller Hall, a one-story, all-brick building one mile in length with industrial offices where people performed functions related to the military. In other words, it was the administrative headquarters. Dean Roth told me that I would be intermingling with military personnel and their spouses. Once I was inside the building, I discovered that the hallways were well lit. A handful of soldiers and civilians clothed in business suits moved to and fro in the many hallways. A sign for Community Relations showed an arrow pointing left. I proceeded in that direction. I reached the office of my principal supervisor, Dr. Martha Turner. Her door was open. I knocked, saying, Dr. Tucker?

After a moment of silence, a woman’s voice called from the back office. Come in. Have a seat. I’ll be out in a few seconds.

I went and sat in the waiting area. It was a typical waiting room. Outdated magazines were neatly stacked in the center of the table. Patriotic posters hung on all four walls. There was a very large framed poster of an oversized cargo carrier airplane named the Globe Master III. What kind of intelligence and academics did one need to qualify to fly one of those? To the left and right of that were posters of army soldiers rushing into combat accompanied by military war machines: Apache attack helicopters, tracked tanks, and armored Hummers.

Appearing from the back office, Dr. Martha Tucker stood in front of me. She was a slim black woman with her hair braided in cornrows and reaching to the tops of her shoulders. She was wearing a business suit with big reading glasses and a smile so wide that it showed all her teeth. She extended her hand. I stood up. We shook hands.

You must be Leigh-Ellen Srey from West Point, she said energetically with an equally energetic handshake, almost pulling my arm off. Dr. Tucker. Come into my office.

She led me toward the back office, not waiting for my response. I could have been a strangler or the Zodiac Killer. Without looking at me, she said, "Dr. Roth emailed me your bio. I must confess, you are so much prettier in person than in your photos. I recommended West Point to my youngest daughter—she chose Florida! Can you believe it? Nowadays, the only time I get an email from her is when she needs money. Somehow, college students think that Mom means ‘made of money.’"

I sat directly in front of her. After she had typed something into her computer, she faced me with folded hands resting on her desk as if she were about to pray. Her wide grin and smile hadn’t yet subsided. She and Dr. Roth were similar in personality—energetic in speech and in motion. The grins and smiles of those two PhDs betrayed their faulty outlook on reality; they acted as if nothing was wrong with the cursed planet Earth. Everything was good, everything functioned accordingly, so long as those two PhDs got theirs from us, at our expense.

It’s a rarity that a student volunteers for Camp Nameless, Dr. Tucker said. Can’t remember the last time we had one of those.

I admired the uniqueness, cleanliness, and orderliness of her office with its halogen lights giving off just enough illumination. On the back wall hung her doctorate degree from MIT, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I was volunteered. I had no doubt that she completely understood the difference between volunteered and was volunteered. I had been volunteered for this assignment not of my own free will but of the will of Dean Roth.

Without changing her wide grin, she surreptitiously changed the subject. You have such beautiful hair. And so long! Must be high maintenance. Before I could utter one word, Dr. Tucker continued, When I was your age, my hair stopped at about my midback. Maintaining it was such an atrocious endeavor. Before we were married, my future husband called me Rapunzel. How do you like West Point?

Challenging, I said. I stared out the windows to her left and saw some soldiers exercising. They were attired in gym shorts, T-shirts, and tennis shoes, not camouflage uniforms. The first light of day shone brightly, revealing sights that I had missed in the dark hours. Lots of things were going on out there. Some groups of soldiers were running, and other groups of soldiers were doing push-ups, sit-ups, and other strenuous exercises. Randomly, armored Hummers roared by. Above us, helicopters flew over.

You’re a 4.0 student majoring in mathematics, she said, reciting my bio without having heard it from me, and nothing confuses you. Henry says you’re the studious type of apprentice.

My first-year GPA, according to West Point, was calculated at 3.998. I had recalculated it and found that the school had made an error. My actual GPA stood at 4.03. I had appealed the matter to the administration and had won.

I wanted to debate with Dr. Tucker about this thing called volunteering. Was the definition of this dreaded word aligned with my understanding of the word? Or was Dr. Tucker mandated to use it so as to be in agreement with every other university educator? In short, was she also trying to sell me some horseshit?

What exactly will I be doing, Dr. Tucker?

Martha, she corrected me. She looked as if she were in shock, her grin lessening by 50 percent. Henry didn’t brief you on your primary assignments?

No, I told her.

By Henry, she meant Dr. Henry Roth. Two PhDs could be on a first-name basis; that was totally appropriate.

Dr. Roth gave me written instructions for how to get here and whom to talk to. Nothing else.

I am shocked, she confessed. She overdramatized.

Several knocks were heard. Dr. Tucker, Sergeant Mills and Specialist Childs reporting.

With relief evident in her voice, she said, Come in.

Seconds later, two military police officers appeared. They were clothed in their official-duty uniforms: military fatigues with armbands stamped with MP and colored bright yellow. Small radios with cables crossing the MPs’ upper chest areas and rising up to their upper left shoulder areas demonstrated that the officers were properly caring for their communication gadgets. The two MPs’ pressed, crested fatigues with extremely shiny black boots and M9 pistols resting on their upper right thighs in weapons holsters gave the distinct impression of a very serious, no-nonsense business approach—an impressive first impression. The male MP, a husky Hispanic Caucasian, stood at 6'00" with a weight of about two hundred pounds—all muscle and no fat, especially no belly fat. If scraggy wrongdoers weren’t intimidated by his height, then his muscles would pick up the slack. The black female MP was several inches shorter than her counterpart with a weight seventy-five pounds lighter than her partner’s.

Dr. Tucker acknowledged them with an enthusiastic expression. She said, Sergeant Mills, Specialist Childs, happy Wednesday to you both. She motioned with her eyes for the two MP soldiers to follow her line of sight over to me. This is Leigh-Ellen Srey from West Point. She is the third person on your team.

The male MP soldier, Sergeant Mills, said, Welcome to our team, ma’am.

I’m Specialist Childs, your assistant.

I was confounded; what type of horseshit had Dr. Roth gotten me into? I was no older than the MP, yet he had called me ma’am. I was younger than the female specialist, but she was to be my assistant? And a PhD preferred to be on a first-name basis with me. Seriously? I believed my dean had withheld important information from me.

An awkward moment of silence ensued. Dr. Tucker expected me to keep conversation going. Leigh-Ellen Srey, I introduced myself.

Well, now that we’ve met, I suppose you want to get acquainted, Dr. Tucker said, staring directly at me. Her wide grin was almost gone now. Something was amiss. Leigh-Ellen, Sergeant Mills and Specialist Childs will take it from here. My door is always open during business hours. Good luck, and Godspeed.

By noon, my tour of several facilities ended at the chow hall. Sergeant Mills, Nathan, suggested that we grab a bite to eat before going our separate ways. It was a cafeteria-type dining hall. Once we had gotten what we wanted, we three sat at a table toward the back and to eat. Other army soldiers were eating lunch too. I noticed that there were as many male soldiers as females. Ages ranged from early adulthood, eighteen, to the midforties. Each soldier was clothed in military fatigues—clean, pressed, and wrinkle-free—with shiny boots. Short haircuts for the males; a short hairstyle that stopped midneck for females. I was the only female with long hair and flip-flops for footwear, never mind my torn pants and T-shirt with long johns underneath.

Nathan left us after lunch. Specialist Childs, Clair, wanted me to meet one last group of people who, she felt, were essential to my mission. Their offices were located in Waller Hall but at the far end and to the left of the main entrance. Our first stop was at medical. The physician assistant (PA) was a semiretired black woman with short hair and a sleepy eye. She was a civilian volunteer. She assured us that she had acquired lots of bandages, ibuprofen, latex gloves, and IVs for the duration of camp. PA Gray welcomed me. Good to have you on or side. She pointed to the back office and said, My assistant, Major Wong, a registered nurse, will be out here shortly.

We went down the line and met with others: supplies, rations, Red Cross, transportation, child protection agency, interfaith services, and commissary. There were also psychologists. Were all these people involved with Camp Nameless? I never knew so many logistics went into youth summer camp!

Later that evening, around six, at the community center located adjacent to Waller Hall, there was a reception. Not so much a party, it was more like a social gathering of all the volunteers under one roof, a chance for us volunteers to meet and greet one another. It was a very nice setup in the big banquet hall with the tables set, complete with candlelight and baskets filled to overflowing with fruit. Each table was outfitted the same in terms of eating utensils. Glasses were filled to the top with water, millimeters away from being overfilled. The professional look was courtesy of Adele Catering.

Lots and lots of people were socializing with one another. Dr. Roth and Dr. Tucker made the rounds to meet with as many of the people here as possible. Their wide grins and smiling faces were accompanied by energetic outlooks. The two PhDs brought a high level of energy to the otherwise subdued party. Dr. Roth had shown up unannounced. He and Dr. Tucker had been colleagues for years.

At one table toward the back wall, we sat quietly. I knew Nathan, Clair, and the two PhDs; everyone else, no clue. I preferred such distant interrelations. Those people weren’t the type of personalities I liked to be around. I and they were from different generations.

Still in their official army MP duty uniforms, minus their headgear, berets, which were neatly placed on the table in front of them, Sergeant Mills and Specialist Childs, Nathan and Clair, ate as if there were no tomorrow. A few others ate also. I was inclined to eat the main course, consisting of steak and lobster. I wasn’t much of a carnivore; if at all possible, I chose fruits and veggies with 100 percent fruit juices or water for my beverage. My two teammates ate and drank what was before them.

A commotion was heard as Mayor Modena walked in, escorted by a handful of people: security detail, members of the media, Fort Lewis officials, and several state legislators. Someone announced, Ladies and gentlemen, the mayor of Tacoma is among us. We will start in five minutes. Everyone who was scattered throughout room returned to their seats. My dean sat with Dr. Tucker at a table near the stage. Once Mayor Modena and her entourage got situated, they ate. I kept contemplating, What do all these people have to do with youth summer camp? I had assiduously inquired into the matter, but no one would give me a straight answer. Answers given were ambiguous, vague, or totally confounding. I felt dumbfounded.

A high school orchestra played soft classical notes. Adele Catering staff moved about gracefully to make sure their clients’ needs were met. Moments after the orchestra took a break, speakers walked up on stage one by one and made short, lighthearted comments. Things went on smoothly as if those who were involved had practiced what not to do. Their comments were basically similar as if the speeches had been written, recited, memorized, and repeated in practice to the point of near perfection. The common theme was how vital it was to properly meet the fiscal obligations in an attempt to keep Camp Nameless functioning from summer to summer, year after year. Finally, Mayor Modena brought this expensive evening to a close with thankful words to staff and volunteers for their best efforts at Camp Nameless.

As I am mayor of the great city of Tacoma, I can assure you that my office will do what can be done—and more—to keep Camp Nameless’s fiscal allocation in the red. Thanks, everyone.

As soon as she stepped down from the podium, another speaker stepped up onto the stage; he said something similar to the speakers before him. Once he got done, the high school orchestra started playing more upbeat, modern tunes. At our table, we were joined by several freshmen and junior volunteers from the University of Washington (UW). Traffic had caused their tardiness. They were associated with different teams. They ate everything heartily; it isn’t too often that college students are treated to steaks and lobster while dining with the mayor and being served by catering staff.

The moment Mayor Modena and her entourage left, almost in unison, everyone else followed except for those at our table, Adele staff, the members of the high school orchestra, several other volunteers, and a few janitorial personnel. Nathan and Clair cleaned up. The UW students and I looked at one another, feeling confounded, dumbfounded, and dazed; we were at a complete loss. We didn’t know what to do or not to do. If this were an act, then everyone involved played his or her role superbly.

We college students got up and helped with cleanup. No longer than two minutes after Mayor Modena and her entourage had left the room and most everyone else had followed, the room took on an eerie feeling as it grew quiet to the point of being soundless, muted, with an absence of noise: noiselessness. I took a fleeting glance over at Nathan and Clair, who were diligently cleaning up. Nothing seemed or felt out of the ordinary to them.

No longer than five minutes after the mayor had exited the room, the orchestra left with their instruments, followed by Adele staff. Two UW apprentices and I went from table to table, picking up trash and any uneaten or half-eaten food and dumping it all in a big trash can located in the center of the room. I froze, standing motionless, while I scanned the room and studied the emptiness. What had just happened? Once the mayor leaves, interest in community service ceases? The earlier words of wisdom and encouragement pertaining to selfless service, spoken by speaker after speaker up on the stage, Mayor Modena included, were gibberish and twaddle?

The evening ended with Nathan telling me about tomorrow; he didn’t mention having noticed anything abnormal. Was I the only one who’d seen the writing on the wall? Clair hadn’t made note of the earlier crock of shit either. Or maybe they both knew of hypocrisy but didn’t really care one way or the other.

Let’s meet at 10:00 a.m. at McChord’s welcome center to finalize the briefing. With that, Nathan picked up his four-year-old boy in one arm and his six-year-old daughter in the other, then led his wife and nine-year-old niece out. Clair also left the party, but only after I’d convinced her that I would be going home also. Instead of taking them to the guesthouse where Dr. Tucker had reserved rooms for them, I invited the remaining five volunteers—three freshmen and two juniors—to stay at my place for the night. On the drive home, we college students remained quiet. Who were we to correct the mayor or PhDs—or the army, for that matter? We kept our mouths shut, our opinions sealed away, pretending we had seen no evil and heard no evil, the same elusive, cryptic form of communication I had perceived throughout the evening with everyone else except us six.

One of the two junior Korean students was in an exchange program. She was slightly shorter than her male counterpart, who was also a junior. After admiring her surroundings, she spoke in perfect English with no accent, Nice car. She stretched her upper body up so that the cool evening breeze could rush against her medium-length curly, black hair. She was sitting in the front. I noticed that she routinely looked into the rearview mirror. Hanna Yong was her name, a twenty-one-year-old business major.

A friend’s, I told her. I’m safekeeping it for her this summer.

That ended all conversation until midnight, when I saw Hanna in the kitchen; she told me that it was a bad habit of hers to wake up prior to 1:00 a.m. to get something to drink. I asked her to sit on a stool; we talked over glasses of juice. The other four were sound asleep.

How do you know about Camp Nameless? I asked.

Hanna gulped half the juice in her glass. The UW community service bulletins. Didn’t want to go home for the summer. Too hot. Additionally, I am in no rush to get my BA. My parents have my marriage arranged once I’m done with college. Thinking about paying someone to marry me so that I don’t have to face my parents or partake in an arranged wedding fiasco.

I refilled her glass and mine. You’re not too crazy about your future husband?

I don’t know who that man is, she answered, and I won’t know until the day of the wedding.

We sat in silence for a few seconds. I didn’t know what to say. Hanna was a few years older than I. In Asian culture, older people guide the younger ones. Culturally speaking, it would have been unethical had I made suggestions, as well as offensive. Instead, I asked questions while elusively inputting my opinion along the way. Hopefully, she didn’t pick up on it or, if she had, take offense.

Which do you like less, I started questioning, pleasing your parents or doing what’s morally right?

All three UW freshmen joined Hanna and me. Two of them were black males, about the same in height and weight, but one wore an earring in each lobe. The other had a large afro with a pink comb stuck in the right side. I nicknamed them accordingly: 2E (for two earrings) and Afrohair. The third freshman was a white female about an inch taller than Hanna. She was clothed like a tomboy, so I nicknamed her Tomboy. They seated themselves on stools, and I poured them juice. I made PB&J sandwiches for everyone, and we ate in good company. Perhaps these three UW-educated students could offer better opinions than I could. I asked Hanna to tell the newcomers about her moral conundrum.

2E took a big bite of his PB&J. He gulped down a mouthful of juice. I can’t imagine spending one day with someone I’m not intimately attracted to, much less a lifetime.

Afrohair joined the discussion, saying, The divorce rate is well over 50 percent. Couples whose marriages have been arranged miss out on what true love means. I can’t see how those type of folks can be happy being married.

Tomboy finished her juice and PB&J. She stood up, stretched, then sat down again. You choose whom to love.

Clandestinely, I shifted the burden of proof to the three UW students. What choices are available to Hanna? On one hand, she wants to please her parents. On the other hand, it is she who lives her life, not her parents.

It seemed her parents want themselves to be happy, not you, Hanna, Tomboy lectured. If your parents cannot be happy with whom you choose to love, then they have problems, not you, Hanna.

Afrohair picked up his glass of juice and said, Cheers! I’ll drink to that, sister.

As if there weren’t enough horseshit to deal with over this summer camp issue, additional problems came forth and smacked us in the face. We carpooled from the welcome center. Sergeant Mills drove the government-leased seventeen-passenger van with Specialist Childs on the front passenger side. Also in the van were the six of us college student volunteers plus nine civilian volunteers. The ages of the civilian volunteers ranged from the late fifties to the early seventies. Nathan and Clair were in their army MP fatigues without their M9 pistols. We gathered inside the hangar. Stages were set up with the governor as the honorary speaker. Other important folks were there. It was a situation akin to Fort Lewis reception, but this one was about one hundred times bigger. Everything was bigger and also larger in number, which meant longer speeches from more speakers.

Everyone but the six of us was wearing business clothes. I was dressed the same as yesterday, except I was wearing running shoes with socks. Lots and lots of people were socializing with one another. Bigwig politicians shook hands with campaign donors and had their photos taken with constituents. Members of the media gained access to lawmakers for TV interviews. I lingered at the back. I knew no one there. The UW volunteers met up with their respective teams. Nathan and Clair were transporting something, or somebody, to somewhere. My dean and Dr. Tucker were like conjoined twins; they proceeded in unison.

Then I saw her. There she sat by herself, reading the Wall Street Journal. How adorable! A child at that age already taking an interest in reading what I assumed were the cartoons. I went over to her, knelt, and said, Hey, you’re so adorable. I’m Leigh-Ellen. Can I see what you’re reading?

She couldn’t have been more than seven years old. She was a white child with medium-length blond hair, light green eyes, a cute tuned-up nose, and the prettiest smile in the world. She looked up at me with her big cow eyes. I noticed she was wearing a sweater with an emblem: First Sunday of Lent, Gifted School. She handed me her newspaper. I flipped through its many pages, expecting to see the comics or at least crayon drawn all over the many pages. I saw no such thing. The child was a great pretender. For one moment, I had honestly thought that she was reading!

Your hair is so long and pretty, she said.

And you are so cute, I said.

After flipping through the entire newspaper and finding no comics or pages covered in crayon, I asked, Why do you have this type of newspaper?

With her big, cute cow eyes, she said, Awkwardness.

Wow, that was a big word for someone her age! I sat next to her for a few more seconds. I’d never heard of that comic.

As time progressed, the horseshit scene became more hectic with more speakers acknowledging the governor and his staff for some horseshit projects and several campaign promises achieved. To say that I wasn’t interested in the least would be an understatement. Hanna came and sat with us. She handed me a bulletin made for this preplanned, well-thought-out, brownnosing, butt-kissing fiasco. What did this plus the Fort Lewis horse and pony show have to do with youth summer camp? Or maybe the bigwig politicians were using the opportunity to be seen.

According to the official leaflet, we were about 75 percent done. Hanna shared a can of pop with me; I imagined what was going on inside her head. Hanna Yong’s problem involved a catch-22. She had an internal conflict, trying to decide which option would be least offensive to her parents and to herself. Any other option she conceived of promised no good outcome. Hanna wasn’t bothered by what was going on at this function. She seemed neutral, unswayed one way or the other. She had bigger fish to fry.

Her fellow UW business major came by. He read the letter that he’d received from Dr. Tucker earlier. He sat next Hanna. Those two seemed to be more studious than the three freshmen, at least from the outside looking in. All five were more studious than I. After a few moments of silence, I asked, What does it say? I folded the newspaper and placed it on the bleacher seat.

He crumpled up the letter and put it in his mouth, chewing on it. Stuttering, he answered, You don’t want to know.

Hanna Yong was neither amused nor surprised. With a nonchalant facial expression, she said, If you keep eating your mail, you’re not going to be hungry for lunch.

With a mouthful of paper, stuttering, he said, My shit smells better than that message. He looked over at the young child and said, Excuse my Greek.

Such a barbaric, primitive way of eating had captivated the young girl’s attention. She pointed at his mouth, laughing.

Into the night, the fiesta’s atmosphere remained lively. No one had left the party since the honorary speaker, the governor of Washington State, had not left. The bigwig politicians and members of the media were furiously roaming about, seeking interviews and photo ops, those brownnosing ass-kissers. Anyone who desperately needed to be noticed or wanted to be seen had a bogus elated expressions on their faces as they engaged in overly energetic physical interaction.

The governor spoke, thanking everyone. Then he and his entourage left, followed by most all of the bigwig politicians. No longer than ten minutes after the governor had left, everyone else scattered and went away—akin to roaches once the kitchen light is turned on, they scrambled in every which direction, trampling upon one another while trying to get away. Ten minutes and twenty-five seconds after the governor had left, the mammoth hangar seemed almost empty. The few remaining people were volunteers, including our team, several uniformed air force troopers, the civilian volunteers who had ridden with us in the van, the contracted catering staff, and the janitorial services personnel.

Each of us started cleaning. At the center of the hangar, 2E, Tomboy, and I were sweeping up the area when I caught a glance, to my immediate left, of the young child surrounded by what seemed to be two pilots. They were dressed in pilot fatigues. One was male, and the other was female. They were both white and were about the same height, 6'0". I wanted them to know that a young child was reading a newspaper written for intelligent adults.

The young girl recognized me with a wave. I introduced myself to the two pilot-looking people. "Hello. I’m a volunteer from West Point Military Academy. I am compelled to let you know that this adorable child was reading the Wall Street Journal newspaper not too long ago."

I expected them to be in shock, to be in awe—sort of speechless from the news. Instead, the female introduced herself while extending her hand for a handshake. I’m Major Blair Welch. This is my husband, Zachary Welch. She looked down at the young child, who was looking up at me with her big, cute cow eyes, her wide smile showing several missing teeth toward the back of her mouth. And this is our firstborn, Janice.

Zachary extended his hand. Thanks for volunteering.

They made no note of my comment; they had to go. Janice rushed over to hug me, then caught her both her parents’ hands. They all left.

Either Blair and Zachary were shitty parents and didn’t care much about their child’s astounding, unique intelligence, or else they’d heard such comments before and therefore it was no big deal to them. I stood frozen, lost in thought and dumbfounded—again. Clair came by and handed me a broom.

She and I started sweeping as others were finishing with the cleanup. Nathan drove somebody to somewhere. Hanna and her fellow UW business major, the guy who liked to eat his mail, whom I called Shredder, were at the center of the hangar, diligently helping with the cleanup. Their three freshman counterparts also had their hands full. Other volunteers, be they elderly, retired military or their spouses, or detailed service members in their official-duty uniforms, partook in the cleanup. Everyone did something to help; each one of us put forth some effort into cleaning up. No one lollygagged; it seemed as if we knew what needed to be done and did it without any hindrance.

At 7:30 p.m., once everything was cleaned up and we had locked up, we were officially released. Instead of going home immediately, Nathan invited us to see a basketball game between his team and another team made up of soldiers from the infantry units.

The game took place in the gym at Fort Lewis. The audience and fans were spouses and offspring of the soldiers. The whole thing was facilitated by other army troopers, including the referees, medical services, the journalists, the food vendors, and the day care area adjacent to the gym and down the hallway. There were some army troopers still in their official-duty uniforms or BDUs (battle dress uniforms). Clair was over at the medical table with Shredder.

Hanna and Tomboy volunteered to help with day care. I sandwiched myself between 2E and Afrohair. Those two did more cheering, jumping up and down, and standing up than sitting down. They loved basketball, their unabashed attitude telling of their inner convictions. Instead of getting involved with the festival, I kind of sat back, contemplating all of this. If all this was a practical joke, then it had been devised by people who were extremely dedicated to the cause.

With my eyes I scanned the gym as the game progressed. I thought how different this was from the two earlier get-togethers. There were no bigwig politicians, no mayor or governor, no newspeople, no people dressed in business suits, no catering service, no neatly decorated sites set up by a professional catering staff, no one making speeches, and no handshakes in front of the cameras: no horseshit.

Instead it was basketball players playing their hearts out. They gave it their best. The referees did their job, and the coaches and reserve players encouraged their respective team members. Their offspring couldn’t have cared less about the game itself. They played among themselves. Whether it was simple games of chasing or tagging one another, or playing with their electronic gadgets, or eating junk food, they were doing it with a carefree attitude. They had no worries about being seen by some bigwig politicians or exchanging handshakes or being in photos with the mayor or governor. It was an authentic sight with everyone doing what they were doing without worrying about being politically correct. The milieu seemed relaxed, not uptight as was the case earlier. There was no special seating or reserved spots for so-called VIPs, special guests, or any other personalities; once people showed up, they just found an empty seat. It was a self-service event, no pandering to bigwigs.

We were off for the weekend. Dr. Tucker requested that Nathan and Clair drive five UW volunteers back to their campus in one of the government-leased vans. I told her not to do that, saying that I would take them in the 5.0 Mustang. Besides, the weather conditions were right for a top-down convertible ride. Tomboy got in the front passenger’s seat. Often, she groomed her short hair. The other four were cramped in the back. They thanked me for the several nights’ stay at my place. The official accommodation was to have been at the Fort Lewis guesthouse for the duration of camp. I had invited them to stay with me at my place. All five graciously accepted my gift of accommodation with either hugs or high fives. My parents and some of their friends from our church volunteered to cook and clean for us.

Nautical breezes kept the temperature around 80°F. We roared along I-5, heading toward UW’s main campus in Seattle, about an hour’s drive from Tacoma. Other passenger cars and industrial delivery trucks dominated both sides of the five-lane highway with the hideous sound of gears shifting and of combustion engines, accompanied by black smoke. I outran most of the other vehicles, speeding at 80 mph. The V-8 had a tremendous amount of thrust; it propelled itself forward with ease despite the weight it was carrying. At 85 mph, I switched on cruise control, situated myself conformably, and leaned my head back against the headrest. A strong wind rushed against my face. It felt great! It renewed my mind.

The sun had positioned itself at about a ninety-degree angle. It was a clear, sunny day with groups of clouds clustered across the blue sky. We arrived within an hour. My new friends’ dorms were a few feet from each other. All five agreed that they would be ready within the hour. I went to the mall nearby. At one of the coffee shops adjacent to the main entrance, I sat and read a newspaper over a cup of java. It was uncanny that I was by myself, just unremarkable Leigh-Ellen Srey, a scraggly nineteen-year-old Cambodian woman with no special talent or ability.

The shopping center seemed quiet and lacking in excitement; the parking lot was virtually empty. It was 11:00 a.m. Pacific Time, and a sunny Saturday for that matter. The shopping district should have been swamped with people of all ages shopping. Inside, the coffee shop was quiet with only a few customers. There was one group of young people having a Bible study. West Point’s shopping district was never this quiet, summer break or not. Three young men in their early twenties dressed in white shirts and black pants with black ties and name tags affixed to their left shirt pockets sat at the table next to mine. They acknowledged my presence, and I returned the gesture. I tried not to listen in on their conversation. Their haircuts were short, and they were businesslike in appearance with no earrings, nose rings, or neck tattoos.

I started reading the newspaper when a group of older couples walked out of the coffee shop with hot java in their hands: two women in their late fifties perhaps, one white and one black, both with short hair, and three men in their late sixties, one of them black, one of them white, and one of them Hispanic. All three were obese and breathing heavily, with messy hair and untamed mustaches; their teeth were stained from years of coffee consumption. Four preteens, two boys and two girls, with smoothies in hand, tagged along with the older couples. They took up three tables to my left, about twenty-five meters away. At all costs, I avoided making eye contact with either group. I donned sunglasses to make it harder for them to make eye contact with me, a trick I’d learned at the West Point shopping district. The situation wasn’t a new one; I’d experienced it before, repeatedly. Usually friendly chats turned into aggressive and, more often than not, religious personal debates. All sides claimed to be in the right, and the talk routinely went in circles.

I glanced at my watch; it had been only fifteen minutes since I dropped off the five UW volunteers. How I wished that I weren’t alone so that I could defend myself from these two religious attacks. One minute after they’d all sat down, one of the older women tried to make eye contact with me. The three businesslike young men did the same. I should have gotten up and left when I had the chance earlier. Too late. Now I had a situation to deal with. I could be rude by standing up and walking away, but I wasn’t that uncivilized. With a Southern Baptist background, I wasn’t viewed too favorably by either group.

A city bus stopped nearby on a long two-lane road running parallel to the shopping center. A group of young people, maybe in their early twenties, three males and four females, stepped out. At first sight, I honestly thought that they were on their way to a horror costume contest, but we were months away from Halloween. Their behavior was most raucous, uncaring about others’ personal space. Four females, dressed in all-black robes with their faces painted like skeletons, their hair messy and long, spray-painted multicolor like a rainbow, stumbled in my direction. They walked, laughed, and giggled as if they were drunk on alcohol or high on some illegal substance. They acted as if there were not tomorrow to contend with. The three males were dressed in what looked like Spanish fiesta costumes, complete with large-brimmed hats, fake mustaches, and wide grins. They had some type of handheld instruments they were playing as their female counterparts drunkenly stumble-danced their way over to me.

The youths looked like a freak show. I honestly believed that they were frightened rather than enlightened. The three young men shook their heads, wearing disgusted facial expressions. The older couples acted likewise. Additionally, one of the obese white men scolded the preteens he was with, reminding them that it wasn’t nice to stare. The freak show group sang and stumbled their way over to us with a raucous cacophony. They stopped twenty-five meters from us and stood in a horseshoe formation. They bowed in unison. One member took several steps forward and held out her hands. She wanted our attention.

For twenty-five dollars, we will put on a wonderful play just for you. She bowed her head. They waited patiently to see which one of the three groups would start the bidding process. The young businessmen and the older couples totally ignored them. I took one sip of hot java and looked at my watch: forty minutes remaining. I should have accepted Hanna’s offer to wait in her dorm while she packed. Tomboy had offered me a similar thing. But I just had to read the newspaper over a hot cup of java at the coffee shop in the shopping district on an early summer day when about 90 percent of UW’s students weren’t anywhere near campus. Sometimes I wondered what made me unremarkable.

The speaker remained standing with her head bowed. Those she was with were also frozen in their tracks. Their eyes didn’t blink; they didn’t move one muscle. They stood frozen solid like statues, like dummies displayed at stores. I wondered how much longer the one with the bowed head would stay in that uncomfortable position before tumbling over. Surely her blood wasn’t circulating properly; it would be only a matter of time before she blacked out. Minutes passed, then what seemed like an hour. I hadn’t been able to read a word of the newspaper. Which one of three groups was the lesser of three evils?

The bright sun had positioned itself at a 110° angle. The early summer temperature lingered around 85° with light, breezy winds blowing from an unidentified direction. Individual clouds were spread throughout the blue sky; the daylight was ultraclear. One could see high up into space from the ground. Traffic increased as vehicles moved to and fro on the main roads. More and more people started coming over to the shopping district. Several other coffee shop patrons took seats in the hopes of seeing a free impromptu live play. In curiosity, other shoppers stood and stared at the frozen group of performers. Some whispered to others, admiring the discipline the group displayed. Nothing happened surrounding them to force them to move a muscle. The young businessmen, the older couples, and the preteens retained their disgusted attitude toward the group.

I took out a $20 bill and a $5 bill and placed them on the edge of my table. The woman with the bowed head, without lifting her head, kind of slithered her way over to the money and gracefully took it, then slithered back to her original position. I wondered how she could see what she was doing since her long, messy hair fell over her face, covering her eyes. She knew exactly how far to slighter without bumping into the table and where money was and how far she would have to slither to get back to her original position.

In unison, the seven members of the group unfroze themselves. They huddled up as if they were devising a game plan. The tree males with large-brimmed hats started playing their handheld instruments; the four females with their faces painted like skeletons and clothed in all black with long, messy hair spray-painted in rainbow colors started dancing in a circular motion. It seemed more like stumbling drunks going through an obstacle course than a group of people following a choreographed pattern. The tallest of the females, the one whose head was formerly bowed, broke away from the pack about ten meters away. She smoothed her hair and tied it into a ponytail, fully displaying her skeleton face paint. The three men of the troupe continued playing their instruments as the three female members continued their drunken dance. The one who had broken away from the pack spoke in a shrill tone of voice.

She twirled around like a ballerina, stopping her twirling only to speak. She said, Are you ready to meet with him? She twirled again, stopped again, and said, Who is he? I will tell you who he is—when the time is right.

She slithered back to join in on the drunken dance. One of the three musicians clothed as if going to a Spanish fiesta danced his away over with his wide grin. While shaking his instrument, he appeared to speak, but no words came out. He continued to move his mouth with nothing coming out. After a few minutes, he bowed then slithered back to join his two compatriots. I glanced at my watch—thirty-five minutes remaining. I thought I should pick up my cell phone to call Hanna or Tomboy and accept their earlier offer; their places couldn’t be any more melodramatic than here.

Another female slithered over. She twirled several spins, stopped, bowed, and tied her messy hair into a ponytail.

Have you good folks heard of Ancient Death? While waiting for an answer, she twirled and danced again. The audience couldn’t have cared less; we were too freaked out by her face paint to pay her any attention. Several adults grabbed their small ones and led them away. The face-painted woman stopped to speak again as her compatriots continued doing whatever they were doing, which was drunkenly dancing and shaking instruments in every which way.

She held out her hands. Let me tell you folks about Ancient Death.

The other six stopped, rushed over, and sat in a horseshoe formation, looking up at the teller of tall tales like prekindergarten students gathered around their teacher for story time. The storyteller continued.

"Ancient Death appears in one of these scenarios. But I must warn you folks, it follows no one’s rules, it is bound to no jurisdiction, it lacks accountability, and it thrives on chaos, oblivion, and heresy. It has no allegiances. It is intangible, a set of ideals and a system of beliefs, conventional wisdom and forced conversion. It synergizes in lawlessness.

"It’s Ancient Death, who lacks appearance and is invisible to most, although the venerable can see it.

"Its formless specters, its invisibility, its notoriety, derives from its ancestry.

"It has a lean body, a skeletal form, and is clothed in black rope showing its skinless forearms.

"It lacks genitals. It identifies with no gender. It has hollowed eye sockets, its facial skin dull.

"Its skeletal hands and feet, its bony structural body, its bony neck, seem weak. Its teeth are sharp as machetes.

"It’s Ancient Death, which lacks empathy. It roars like wild lions. Weaklings it devours freely. It has no minions.

It is its own god from centuries of old. Its specters have danced with Zulu tribes, danced with Napoleon and Plato, danced with Christians and Jews.

In unison, the six sitting cross-legged on the floor chanted, Tell us more! Tell us more!

The poet twirled several spins; she performed some choreographed steps, but she seemed like she was demon possessed with her body twitching in every which direction. Tell me more, you said?

The audience didn’t say one word; they were noiseless. No one was mesmerized by her message. All were disturbed by her ghoulish appearance. Tell us more! Tell us more! the six sang in unison.

I took another sip of my lukewarm java. I took a fleeting glance at my watch. Only three minutes had passed by. It seemed much, much longer than that. The bright sun was positioned at a 110° angle. The temperature had picked up by several degrees. The sky seemed higher and bluer with clusters of clouds of several types spread throughout its expanse. I saw no sight of rain clouds; there was no forewarning of adverse weather on the horizon. With its gentle breeze, the wind made known its dominance. Buses and passenger cars roared to and fro on the main roads. More folks started coming to the shopping district. The coffee shop filled with more customers, and more patrons took up the few remaining empty tables. The audience was more curious about the outward appearance of the group of ghouls and goblins than about their freakish drunken ballet.

The ghoulish poet stopped twirling. She held out her hands, wanting attention.

It’s Ancient Death. It feeds on misery, on destruction, on pained agony. Mercy? It has none. Sympathy is something it despises. It’s Ancient Death, and it has only one rule: lawlessness.

I wondered, if I were to donate another $25 to the group’s cause, would they stop and go away so that I could finish reading my newspaper while sipping this lukewarm java? This group attracted attention, but for the wrong reason. Their message was as grotesque as their clothing and their skeleton face paint.

It’s Ancient Death. Its specters danced centuries ago. It’s Ancient Death. Its specters are carried away by wind, away to the four corners of the earth, away to meet with its clients, with its other victims. Their souls it devours. Ancient Death does not distinguish between fallen souls. It incinerates both rich and poor, people of each gender, those who are dumb and those who are educated, the stillborn, the young, and the old. Ancient Death eradicates them all.

She paused for moment; she twirled several spins and continued in the demon-possessed ballet with saliva starting to appear at the corners of her mouth. She froze, held out her hands, and started up again with her melodramatic, sadistic poem.

"It’s Ancient Death. It seeks not to be cease its diabolical schemes. Ancient Death cannot be pleased. It adores oblivion and despises serenity.

"It’s Ancient Death. It seeks one of three. Most mortals will disbelieve until it comes to thee …

"It’s