My Cult Leader Boss Thought I Was a Broke Temp Medic Until My Sleeve Slipped in the Infirmary Tent
Panic erupted. The compound residents, who moments ago were paralyzed by Elias’s fanaticism, now scattered like leaves in the wind. Mothers clutched children, men shouted, and the air filled with the acrid smell of burning propane. The roar of the fire was deafening, a hungry beast consuming everything in its path.
Amidst the chaos, Elias Crain, his face streaked with soot and rain, appeared to regain a twisted sense of purpose. He did not run towards the trapped families, nor did he attempt to aid anyone. Instead, he made a direct dash for his armored SUV, which was parked near the now-ablaze guard house.
He ripped open the back hatch. Inside, nestled among emergency supplies, were two heavy metal cash boxes, the kind used for secure transport. Each looked weighty, straining the hinges as he wrestled them out.
He carried one in each hand, their metallic surfaces gleaming dully in the hellish glow of the inferno. He stumbled slightly, but his greed-fueled adrenaline kept him moving.
“Repent!” he shrieked over the din of the fire, his voice hoarse. “This is God’s judgment! Return to your dormitories! This is the cleansing fire!”
A few disoriented recruits, their faces blackened by smoke, looked at him, their eyes wide with terror. They saw not a prophet, but a man fleeing, his hands full of what could only be his worldly possessions.
Jonas Lawson, the enforcer, stood by his side for a moment, his face a mask of confusion, then he, too, turned, his loyalty wavering. He looked from Elias, laden with boxes, to the inferno, then back to Elias’s vehicle.
Elias ignored him. He was a man possessed by a singular, selfish mission. He pushed past a terrified mother and her two small children, their faces streaked with tears and ash, his gaze fixed on the driver’s side door of his SUV. His escape was all that mattered. The fire was not a disaster; it was an opportunity for him to disappear with his stolen wealth.
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