Chapter 5: The Breakup

"Father, don’t worry. Let your old Caleb break this bowl." Wild Hair tries to reassure me, puffing out his chest, cracking his knuckles, then slamming his fists against the bowl. The metal rings, but doesn’t budge. He shoots me a frustrated look, like he’d have escaped already if not for the rest of us.

He glares at me, resentment clear—like he blames me for holding back, for being trapped at all.

Sensing things are getting dire, Pete jumps in: "Caleb, don’t sweat it. Call out the Five Regional Guardians, the Six Saints and Six Jacks—let everyone think of a solution." His voice is tense, words tumbling fast. He wipes his brow, bravado crumbling. The names hang in the air like a Hail Mary before Friday night football—desperate, hopeful.

In the original American Odyssey, Father Thomas seemed like a regular guy, but besides the three companions, all the holy guardians protected him. I remember folks in stories talking about angels on their shoulders, invisible hands keeping them safe. In this world, those hands are missing. The silence is deafening.

The Redeemer had promised: in times of disaster, heaven would respond, earth would lend its spirit. I glance around, half expecting the ceiling to open, a choir to descend—but there’s nothing but oppressive golden light. Hope withers.

Wild Hair chants for a while, growing more irritable. He mutters under his breath, stringing together half-remembered Bible verses and classic rock lyrics. His agitation grows, fists pounding harder each time.

"No one’s answering your old Caleb!" He bangs his head against the golden bowl. The echo is jarring, ringing like a church bell at midnight. I cringe with every blow, waiting for something to break—maybe the bowl, maybe my sanity.

How could this be? The golden bowl shouldn’t be able to cut us off from the outside. Panic gnaws at me. If it really can, we’re on our own—no guardian angels coming.

Have we been abandoned by the guardians? The question needles me. I force myself to breathe, to keep from spiraling.

A chill creeps over me. Wild Hair’s pounding gets more desperate. Each blow is a countdown, ticking until something worse breaks through.

Sam mutters, "Father, what should we do?" His voice is small, almost childlike, repeating the question like I have answers, like I’m still the priest they need. It rattles in my head, making it hard to think.

Only Pete is quiet. He’s stopped pacing, stopped grumbling. His silence is heavy—the kind that always means trouble.

Wait—Pete? The realization hits me like cold water. I turn, dread blooming in my chest.

I look over at Pete in the corner. He’s hunched over, back rising and falling with heavy breaths. The others barely notice, too wrapped up in panic.

He lies on the ground, his body swelling, bristles sprouting wildly. The transformation is grotesque—skin rippling, muscles expanding, hair bursting through his clothes. The air fills with the smell of wet fur and old blood.

"Snort." Pete lifts his head, snout and tusks growing longer. His face is almost unrecognizable—part man, part something far more savage. His eyes gleam with animal cunning.

He stares at me, drooling, smiling. His mouth splits in a grin, thick ropes of saliva glistening in the golden light. I see the hunger in his eyes—no pretense, just pure, primal need.

"Father, let’s break up." His voice is calm, almost friendly. But I know—this is where things get ugly. I brace myself, praying for a miracle, or at least a way out.