Dominion

by Bentley Little

  She took the bottle of wine out of the car.

  They walked.

  The air felt good on her body, the bottle felt good in her hand, and she realized that she was enjoying this. She was having fun. For the first time since Dion had … changed, she felt happy.

  God, she hoped she wasn’t going to screw this up.

  They reached the edge of the field. It was, if possible, even more crowded than before. In addition to the celebrants, there were satyrs and nymphs, centaurs and griffins, and though such a scene might have looked delightfully pastoral in a painting or a Beethoven-scored segment of Fantasia, the reality was something else. The creatures before them were not only base and dirty, they were threatening, frightening, scary not only for the wildness of their demeanor and the anger of their expressions but for the unnaturalness of their existence.

  A centaur stomped on one of the griffins, and with an ear-piercing screech the eagle-headed creature rose into the air and attacked, dive-bombing the centaur, lion’s claws tearing into its horse back.

  A green-tinted nymph, watching the scene, smiled wickedly, started rubbing herself.

  Penelope grabbed Kevin’s hand, pulled him forward. “Here goes.”

  As she’d expected, as she’d hoped, they were not molested. No one hindered their progress, no one got in their way. No one seemed to notice that they were here at all. Dionysus knew, she was sure, but he sent no one after them, made no effort to stop them.

  They could have done this days ago, she thought. There was no way the celebrants would have known that they weren’t of them.

  They were stupid to have run, stupid to have hidden. Dionysus and the maenads were dangerous, but the rest of them were sheep, mindless zombies, existing only for hedonistic pleasures. She and Kevin and Jack and Holbrook had ascribed far too much sense of purpose to Dionysus’

  followers. They had given the bacchantes more credit than they deserved.

  Ahead, a homemade sign by the side of the river, written in bright fluorescent colors, read styx. On the far side of the waterway, the land was barren, blackened. The dead shambled mindlessly amidst the burned trees and charred rubble.

  Mother Janine and Mother Margaret, naked and screaming, rushed by, pine cone-tipped spears held aloft and dripping blood. Penelope considered calling out to them but decided against it. She did not want to deal with them.

  Where was Dion?

  That was the big question. She looked across the field to the trees where his throne had been. Was he there? Somehow she didn’t think so, but that was as good a place to start as any.

  She had started to lead Kevin across the open land when Mother Janine jumped in front of her. Her mother was visibly lactating, twin dribbles of runny milk marking her sunburned skin from nipple to navel. “Are you here to join us?”

  Penelope tried to make her voice as slurred as possible. “Where is he?”

  “You want him?”

  She nodded.

  Her mother pointed northeast, toward the mountains. “He is on the new Olympus, readying the house of the gods.” Her voice dropped lower, and she grinned slyly. “He’s waiting for you.”

  Penelope felt cold.

  “You’ve never had a man until you’ve had a god.” She snickered darkly.

  “I bled afterward. I’m still bleeding inside.”

  Penelope backed away.

  Mother Margaret had come up behind her. “He got tired of waiting for you, you know.” Penelope smelled the wine on her mother’s hot breath.

  “He’s going to have us repopulate Olympus.”

  They were surrounding her. Did they know? Could they tell she was faking it?

  “Where’s Mother Felice?” she demanded.

  Mother Janine laughed drunkenly. She turned away without answering, hoisting her spear and running after a teenage boy who was dashing across the meadow.

  Penelope turned around. “Where is she?”

  Mother Margaret grinned. “Ask her.” She pointed toward Dion’s mom, who was standing silently next to her.

  She looked from her mother to Dion’s, a growing anxiousness within her.

  “Where’s my mother?”

  April’s voice was low. “She’s dead.”

  “What?”

  The shock must have shown on her face. Dion’s mother nodded, and there was real sympathy in her expression. “He used her up. He finished her off. He was done with her.”

  Penelope stumbled back, feeling as though she’d just had a heart attack and been punched in the stomach at the same time. Her legs were wobbly.

  It seemed nearly impossible to breathe. Kevin took her arm, held her up.

  “Where?” she managed to get out.

  April was already walking, gesturing for them to follow. Both of her mothers had fled, and Penelope walked through the crowd, across the field, after Dion’s mom, using Kevin as a crutch. She felt empty inside, hollowed out, and everything around her seemed to be happening slowly, as if on a delay, a few seconds behind what should have been.

  Her mother was dead.

  It was still a fact to her, had not yet been translated into an emotion, and she followed Dion’s mom past a daisy chain of men and nymphs, past a crowd of feasting satyrs, into the trees.

  Her mother was lying on the grass in front of the god’s throne.

  Penelope knelt down next to her mother. She could not see for the wash of tears, but she took her mother’s dead hand in hers, stroking the cold, soft skin. “We never got to say goodbye,” she said, and the act of speaking started the sobs. “We never …” But she could not finish the sentence.

  Kevin watched Penelope crying over the body of her mother and started crying himself. What had happened to his own parents? Were they dead too? He had not had a chance to say goodbye either. Their last contact had been at the house, when they’d come after him and he’d run away.

  Was that the last time he’d ever see them?

  More than anything else, it was the sight of Penelope clutching her mother’s hand, sobbing, tears and snot flowing unchecked down her face, that brought home to him the personal tragedy of what had happened here.

  They’d been so busy running and hiding, planning fights and escapes, that the dead bodies they’d seen had just been horror show props, disgusting background, objects in their way. As frightening as those corpses were, though, they were all relatives of someone: mothers, fathers, children, uncles, cousins. Each body was a loss.

  He had not seen it that way before.

  He stood above Penelope, wiping his eyes. It was awkward to watch her, uncomfortable to witness such unadulterated grief, but he could not look away. She cried and he cried, and it was a while before he realized that Dion’s mom was crying too.

  Dion’s mom.

  One of them.

  He turned on her. “What are you doing here, huh? Why are you hanging around?”

  “I’m here to help you,” she said.

  Kevin looked at her coldly. “We’re here to kill your son.”

  She hesitated only a second. “I’m here to help you. I’ll take you to him.”

  Penelope didn’t know how long she knelt over her mother’s body—too long, she was sure—but she could not seem to pull herself away. For a brief second she considered taking her mother across the river—Styx—and into the land of the dead, but she knew that her mother was gone and nothing could bring her back—especially not that travesty of afterlife.

  But she could not tear herself away. It was as if her mother was not completely dead as long as Penelope sat by her, and she held her mother and cried until she had no tears left.

  Finally she stood, her back hurting, her legs cramping. She wiped the last vestiges of tears from her eyes. “Let’s go,” she said, and the resolve was evident in her voice. “Let’s kill the motherfucker.”

  She met April’s gaze.

  “I’ll take you to Olympus,” April said.

  They drove up the highway toward Rutherford, taking small
side road detours wherever the highway was blocked.

  The wineries along the way had been raided and razed, drunken celebrants perched atop casks and crates as the buildings burned behind them.

  Inglenook had collapsed it on itself, the old winery building now looking like a bombed crater, chunks of stone wall and strands of ivy protruding from the caved-in earth. Mondavi had been flattened into nothingness by Caterpillars and steam rollers that were still having some sort of demolition derby atop the winery’s remains.

  Penelope was driving. Kevin had said that he still did not completely trust Dion’s mom, and although she had offered to drive them, he had insisted that Penelope take the wheel instead. His right hand had been on the screwdriver tucked in his waistband as he made this demand, but April had not argued, and the two of them had gotten into the backseat, leaving Penelope alone in the front.

  “Just in case,” Kevin said.

  They reached Rutherford, and April told Penelope to head east on Highway 128.

  “I don’t want to burst your bubble,” Kevin said, “but we’ve been here, we’ve tried this. The road’s blocked.”

  “Not until the last mile.”

  She was right. The ambush they’d encountered before was gone, and though the road was damaged and heavily rutted, they were able to drive past Lake Hennessey and into Chiles Valley before a wall of felled trees festooned with ribbons and garlands and dead Christmas lights effectively ended the highway. Penelope braked to a stop.

  “You’ll have to hike it from here on in.” April leaned over the front seat, pointed toward the high hill before them. “It’s up there.”

  Penelope’s gaze followed her finger. “Olympus?”

  “At a lake.” She tried to think of the name.

  “Berryessa.”

  “That’s it.”

  Kevin leaned forward, looked through the windshield. “Somehow,” he said dryly, “I’d imagined mighty Mount Olympus, home of the great Greek gods, as being a wee bit taller.”

  “Be thankful it’s not,” Penelope said.

  They got out of the car, slamming the doors. “I want the keys,” April said.

  “What for?” Kevin demanded. “So you can take off? How are we supposed to get back?”

  “You won’t need to get back. You’ll either fail or succeed. Either way it’ll be over.”

  Penelope looked at her. “What are you going to—?”

  “I’m going to go back and kill your mothers.”

  Penelope nodded. She felt nothing. No anger, no hurt, no pain, no regret.

  “Then I’ll kill myself. And that’ll be it.” She looked away, turned toward the hill, was silent for a moment. “But I want you to tell Dion …” Her voice broke. “Tell him I’m sorry. And tell him that I would have done things differently if I’d known. I wanted him …” She trailed off, wiped her nose. She turned back toward Penelope, trying to smile.

  Her cheeks were wet with tears. “What am I talking about? He’s not Dion anymore. Dion’s gone.”

  “But if he’s not,” Penelope prodded gently, “what do you want me to say?”

  “Just tell him … Hell, just tell him I love him.” She took a deep breath, wiped her nose and eyes. She held out her right hand, palm up. “Can I just have the fucking keys?”

  Penelope nodded, handing over the key ring.

  April gestured toward the bottle Penelope held in her hand. “You going to drink that or what? I could sure use it if you’re not.”

  “We’ll split it.”

  They had not thought to bring a corkscrew, but Dion’s mom expertly uncorked the bottle with one long-nailed finger and downed half the bottle in a single gulp before passing the bottle to Penelope. She closed her eyes, savoring the flavor. ‘That helps.”

  Penelope hefted the bottle in her hands, met Kevin’s worried gaze, then tilted it to her lips, drinking. The wine was sweet and smooth, filling her instantly with a comfortable warmth.

  And a growing heat.

  She finished the wine in four long swallows, and she tossed the bottle against the roadblock, where it smashed against the logs. She felt good all of a sudden, energized, filled with an unfamiliar euphoria, and she wondered what it would be like to fuck Kevin and April at the same time, to sit on Kevin’s No.

  She closed her eyes, reined herself in.

  “Are you all right?” Kevin asked.

  She nodded, eyes still closed. Gradually she opened them. It was going to be hard, but she had to maintain control, had to keep herself from losing it.

  At least until they found Dionysus.

  Then she’d let herself go.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I think we’d better get going.”

  April moved forward, grabbed Penelope’s shoulders, looked into her eyes, and Penelope felt a connection. An understanding, a sharing, passed between them. “Hold on to it until you need it,” April said softly. “Use it, don’t let it use you.”

  Penelope nodded.

  April smiled. “If I can do it, you can do it.” And Penelope realized for the first time what an effort it had been for Dion’s mother to keep herself under control for this long, to force her mind to override her emotions.

  “Good luck,” Penelope said.

  It was an odd wish, hoping the woman would successfully kill her mothers, but April’s response was the same: “Good luck to you.”

  She was wishing them success in killing her son.

  Why had it worked out this way? Penelope thought. Why had all this happened?

  “Ready?” Kevin said.

  Penelope nodded.

  April walked around the car to the driver’s side, and the two of them slid down the small embankment at the edge of the road. They heard the car engine start, heard the car drive away.

  They looked at each other.

  And started up the hill.

  The other maenads were waiting for her when she arrived back at the meadow.

  April staggered toward them across the littered ground, acting drunker than she felt. They knew. They’d somehow discovered her plan and were waiting to kill her. She wished she’d brought some type of weapon. The power was within her, coiled and ready to be unleashed, but it was in them as well, and they outnumbered her.

  Where was Margeaux? Janine and Sheila and Margaret were in front of her, standing together, but Margeaux was nowhere in sight. She glanced surreptitiously to her left, to her right. No Margeaux. Sneaking up on her probably, planning to grab her from behind.

  She looked warily from Janine’s face to Sheila’s to Margaret’s.

  Margaret smiled as she approached. “You did it,” she said. “You brought her to Olympus.”

  April blinked.

  They didn’t know!

  “Yes,” she said, keeping her voice slow, slurred, calm.

  “You’re the only one who could’ve done it,” Sheila said. “She doesn’t trust us anymore.”

  Janine grinned lasciviously, rubbed her lactating breasts. “You deserve to be rewarded.” She dropped to her knees, motioned April forward.

  April took a deep breath, sidled next to her, felt the other woman’s soft hands caress her thighs.

  It was now or never.

  She looked down at Janine, ran her hands through the kneeling woman’s hair.

  And twisted off her head.

  The others were too stunned to react, and before! Janine’s spurting body had hit the ground, April was al-f ready clawing at Sheila’s breasts, ripping through skin,! ripping through flesh, ripping through muscle. Margaret 1 attacked her from behind, but she was already turning to] meet the onslaught, and the three of them went down in| a wailing, slashing frenzy of tooth and nail.

  “How could you?” a voice screamed at her. “We’re! your sisters!”

  “He’s my son!” she cried.

  She’d thought it was Margaret screaming at her, but as | she rolled away from the body on top of her, spitting 1 blood, she realized that Margaret was dead. It was herii own voi
ce she’d heard. She’d been screaming at herself, j She was growing weaker by the second, and she usedj all of the strength within her to sit up on her elbows.

  There was a hole ripped through her abdomen.

  In front of her, Sheila was coughing, still alive, but the coughs were weak, and one of them caught in her throat | and then she was silent.

  April fell back onto the grass, looking upward at the| sky.

  She closed her eyes, feeling the last of her strength ebb| out of her.

  “Dion,” she whispered.

  The hike was tougher than she’d expected, the distance farther, and as the midday sun shone down on them and her head started to ache, she wished she’d saved the wine until after they’d reached their destination.

  An hour later, as they began following a winding foot path up a fairly steep slope, the vegetation started to change. The trees thinned out, the underbrush grew scarce, and ordinary flora was replaced by wildly colored plants with strangely designed forms: magenta cacti with round umbrella-shaped leaves; Day-Glo yellow ground cover grown into intricate doily patterns; bright orange shrubs with arrowhead-tipped leaves.

  “I guess we’re on the right track,” Kevin said.

  Penelope nodded. She did not feel like talking. Whatever sense of humor she possessed had fled, and she thought of nothing but the grim task before them.

  And Mother Felice.

  More than anything, she was doing this for her mother.

  Halfway up the hill, they heard screaming. Loud, short bursts of what sounded like unbearable agony. A few minutes later, they saw the source of the cries: Father Ibarra, the Catholic priest, was chained to a rock on the hillside. An oversize eagle was perched on the boulder next to him, pecking at his exposed abdomen in even intervals as the priest screamed in agony.

  Kevin picked up a rock, threw it at the bird. It hit the boulder just below the eagle’s talons. The bird did not flinch. Kevin glanced toward Penelope. “Should we try to help him?”

  Penelope shook her head. “We can’t help. It’s the god’s punishment.

  There’s nothing we can do.”

  They ignored the screams, continued on.

  Twenty minutes later, they reached the top.