Cataclysm (Supernova Saga)

by Parker, C. L.

  Kerrigan was stunned, unable to find the will to imagine a world without the man she loved, without the father of her unborn child. Under different circumstances, she would risk her life without a second thought, but her life was not the only one at risk anymore. She had another one nestled in her womb who depended on her for protection, for the chance to live.

  Instinctively, her hand went to her stomach. There was a part of Dominic growing inside of her. Proof of the love they shared. Somehow, she had to find a way to become strong enough to sustain all three of them. She refused to believe destiny had brought them together only to have fate rip them apart before they even had a chance to truly begin.

  “So we’re just supposed to sit here and do nothing?” She choked back sobs.

  Even in her frantic state of mind, her head was clear enough to weigh her options. The decision was made—she could not tell him about her pregnancy. Doing so would mean his refusal to let her do anything at all. Even after she had trained hard enough to no longer be at risk, she knew he wouldn’t go for it. He would always put her and their baby first.

  “For the time being.” He didn’t sound nearly as optimistic as he had probably hoped.

  He took her chin between his fingers. “Hey, look at me.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she did as he asked.

  “I’m not giving up. I just found you, Querida, and I’m going to fight like hell to stay here with you. Even if it means letting Drake,” he said through clenched teeth, “molest my dreams. He might win the battle, but we’re going to win the war. Okay?”

  She nodded because it was the only thing she could do.

  “Good. Now, about this Drew character...”

  “I don’t want to talk about Drew right now, Dominic. All I want is to go up to our bed and lie in your arms. I just want you to hold me.”

  That was all he wanted, too.

  A childish giggle permeated the otherwise bleak and lifeless home. The Animaniacs’ Pinky had just kicked Brain into the bars of their cage while doing a Russian dance. Pinky looked over at his leader and asked, “Whatcha’ doin’ over there, Brain?”

  “Pondering your afterlife, Pinky,” Brain answered in his morbid tone.[1]

  Another giggle. Nicky reached across the counter to turn off the only television in the tiny two-bedroom home. “You’re supposed to be doing your homework, Colt,” he said, taking his own seat at their kitchen table. One of the legs was shorter than the other three, and the chairs were all mismatched, but it served its purpose.

  Colton groaned as only a seven-year-old could. “But, I was watching that.”

  “Homework first. That’s the rule.”

  The younger sibling grumbled and picked up his pencil to get back to work. After a moment, he stopped his scribbling and looked up at his brother. “I’m hungry, Dom.”

  Nicky looked over at his mother, Sarah, still passed out on the couch. Her hair was oily, her skin pallid, and dark rings lined her eyes. A near-empty bottle of vodka sat on the off-centered coffee table. It wasn’t a new sight. They were used to seeing her in that state. Drunk. Again.

  Knowing he could never depend on his mother to actually be a mother, Nicky leaned back from his own homework and sighed. “Tell you what. You do your homework, and I’ll make you something to eat. Deal?”

  Colton smiled. “Deal!”

  Nicky pushed back from the wobbly table and went to the cupboard. As usual, the pickings were slim. Actually, the pickings were none. Their mother never stayed sober long enough to go to the grocery store. It was a rare occasion that she ever left the couch, let alone the house. There were two slices of bread in the blue and white plastic bag, but only a corner of peanut butter left. He opened the refrigerator, finding a quarter of a gallon of milk, butter, and a slice of cheese.

  “How ’bout a grilled cheese sandwich?”

  Colton gave an excited nod. He loved grilled cheese sandwiches. So did Nicky, but there was only enough for one. He would rather his little brother had it. One would think a mother would be worried about their nine-year-old standing at a hot stove cooking with butter in a skillet, but Sarah didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps it was because she didn’t have the presence of mind to think twice about it.

  Once the butter had completely melted, Nicky made fast work of the sandwich. The melted cheese oozed from the side of the toasted bread, and he turned the stovetop off. Then he grabbed a saucer from the dish drain and slid the sandwich onto it. He took special care in cutting the sandwich in half—diagonally, just like his little brother liked it—and then he sat it in front of Colton before resuming his place next to him.

  Colton looked at the plate and then over to the empty space in front of Nicky with a frown. “Where’s yours, Dom?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not hungry. You eat it.”

  Sarah Grayson stirred on the couch. It was the first sign of life they had seen from her since they had arrived home from school nearly two hours before. Knowing she hadn’t eaten anything all day, Nicky got up and grabbed another clean plate. He took the offered half of Colton’s sandwich and placed it on the plate before walking it over to her.

  His mother looked up at him with slotted eyes. “Hey, Nicky. How was school?” Her voice was raspy and still carried a slight slur.

  “Fine, Mom. Here. Eat.” He held the sandwich out to her.

  She looked at the offering and then back to her son before she took it from his hands. “Thanks, baby. Have you eaten yet?”

  He nodded, hoping she couldn’t hear his growling stomach. She forgot to eat a lot of the time, so she needed it more than he did.

  “We need groceries.”

  She sat up, holding her head and wincing from the piercing pain that shot through her skull. “I know, baby. I’ll go tomorrow. Promise.”

  Dominic’s dream changed, and the house he had called home warped into a grungy alleyway filled with old newspapers and overflowing dumpsters. He was in Jacksonville. The sound of crowded streets had faded into the sparse comings and goings of the vehicles still prowling the streets at three o’clock in the morning. The stench of garbage was thick from the place where he stood upwind. The vision of his mother melted away and morphed into a balding man in his late forties. He was cowering in the corner, his heavy stomach hanging over his too-tight belt. He was crying, pleading for his life.

  Dominic was fourteen, but he stared the man down like he was twice that age. His hand trembled with fear, causing the gun he held to shake. It was his first big job, one he hadn’t wanted to take, but his mother had left him no other choice. She had neglected to make her appointment at the state’s welfare office and caused them to lose their food stamp allotment. He couldn’t let his family go hungry, so he had to do what he had to do.

  Ricardo had offered him the job, but not without a measure of trepidation. He didn’t think Nicky—now known by everyone, except his mother, as Dominic—was ready for such a big leap. Dominic agreed, but he was the man of his house, and a man was supposed to take care of and provide for his family.

  At first, the cowering man had thought Dominic was a joke. He had laughed at him and called him a punk kid, telling him to run home to his mommy and he might not beat him within an inch of his life. He wasn’t laughing so much when the butt of that punk kid’s borrowed handgun struck him in the mouth.

  A bead of sweat rolled down Dominic’s temple. The air was so muggy that even the wee morning temperature was almost too much to bear. He squeezed his left eye shut and used his right to focus on his target. Sweat stung at the corner of his eye, blurring his vision and forcing him to blink to clear his sight.

  What had this man done to sign his death warrant? He hadn’t asked because it wasn’t his business. His business was his starving family. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if this man would be leaving behind a family of his own. Possibly a son his age and a pregnant wife who depended on her husband’s income to support their growing family. How would Dominic’s actions change the li
ves of those unseen faces? By taking this slovenly man’s life, would he doom his innocent family to the same life he had been cursed with?

  He couldn’t think about it. It was too much responsibility to put on a fourteen-year-old’s shoulders, not to mention his conscience. But he knew he was about to make a decision that would forever haunt him. A decision that would change him permanently.

  “Deep breath in, mijo.” Ricardo’s voice was a whisper behind him. He must have sensed Dominic’s reluctance, and he was there to get him back on track. He had insisted on accompanying Dominic on the job in case something went wrong, and it wasn’t until he showed hesitation that Ricardo exited the back seat of his sedan and joined him. He was there for moral support, a coach of sorts. It was an honor. Ricardo was a king among thieves and murderers. He didn’t go on jobs, but Dominic was on the fast track to becoming his prince, and he wanted to be there for his adopted son’s first kill. “Good. Now, let it out... nice... and slow, and then squeeze the trigger.”

  The gun stopped shaking when he let out a long breath and curled his finger around the trigger, slowly squeezing.

  “Please!” the man cried, disrupting Dominic’s concentration. “Don’t do it, kid!”

  “Shut the fuck up, singao.” Ricardo didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. His tone was lethal enough to drive the point home. “If he doesn’t do it, I’ll do it myself. Either way, estás muerto.”

  Ricardo put his hand on Dominic’s shoulder and leaned down until he was level with his ear. “You don’t have to do this, mijo. Give me the gun, and you can walk away right now. You have nothing to prove.”

  A vision of his mother and little brother flashed before his eyes: Colton in hand-me-down pants too high on his shins, the soles of his shoes flapping, and he was entirely too thin. The same was true for Dominic. His mother—well, she was a lost cause, but he still had to care for her because she refused to care for herself. If something happened to her, he and his brother would end up in foster care and they would be lucky if they weren’t separated. It wasn’t a chance he was willing to take. Colton would never survive on his own without his big brother there to protect and care for him.

  It was his family versus this stranger’s family. A stranger who had obviously had some underhanded dealings with the wrong people, or he wouldn’t have been in the cowering position he was currently in. There would be blood on Dominic’s young hands, and he was dooming his soul to Hell with this one action. But his family was worth it.

  He squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out into the still night air, amplified by the echoing acoustics of the concrete buildings that caged them in. There was no place for the sound to go. It would forever be captured in his memory, and so would the look of horror on the face of the man who was unlucky enough to have been his first kill.

  The smell of gunpowder wafted in the air, and the man slumped to the ground. No life remained in the eyes that stared back at him. The man’s last vision wasn’t of loved ones telling him they loved him. It was the face of his killer, a fourteen-year-old murderer.

  “Dominic? Are you okay?” Ricardo’s voice was solemn, fatherly. “Give me the gun, chico.”

  Ricardo used his large hands to pry Dominic’s stiff fingers from the handle of the gun. Once it was free, Ricardo stuffed the gun into the waistband of his pants under his jacket. Dominic was frozen in place, unable to avert his attention from the dead man. He barely even registered the feel of Ricardo’s arms turning him so that his head was tucked beneath his mentor’s chin.

  “It’s okay, socio. It’s all over. You did good. See? I call you socio because now you are a man. Eh?” Ricardo squeezed his shoulders.

  The sound of his voice changed, as did his height and the shape of his body—even his smell. “That’s my boy! A brutal murderer, just like his father.”

  Dominic shoved away from the sinister presence. As he scrambled out of reach, he looked up into the face of evil. Drake.

  His first thought was to blast him from his dream, but then reason stomped down the instinct. If he did, it would take too much of his energy—energy he needed to keep from fading out completely. With stifled frustration, he staved off the itch.

  “I’m nothing like you!” Even at such a young age, his voice sounded venomous.

  Drake took a step forward, gesturing toward the dead man slumped against the brick wall. “You... are exactly like me, my boy.”

  “You think you can play God!”

  Drake regarded him with cool satisfaction. “But isn’t that exactly what you just did? You took that man away from his family. You stole his last breath, the last beat of his heart, and you stand there and call me a monster? Why, you’re no better than me, boy. You are your father’s child.”

  “No!” Dominic seethed. The tendons in his neck were stretched taut, and his hands were balled into fists at his sides. He could feel a heightened sense of energy surging through his bloodstream, but he had to keep it at bay. Eventually, Drake would give up on toying with him and go away on his own.

  “This is the first of many, many lives, isn’t it, Dominic? How many? Hmm? How many lives do you eventually take?”

  A myriad of nameless faces flashed through his mind. There weren’t that many, but even one was too many when he considered the countless innocent lives that were affected by his actions.

  And it was all his fault, the soulless bastard of a father.

  If Drake hadn’t been warped and demented, if he hadn’t tortured the mother of his children, if he hadn’t plagued their lives with the disease of his touch—his eldest child wouldn’t have had to resort to a life of crime. Yes, the ultimate decision had been his. It was his hand that had dealt the blow of death, but his wicked sperm donor had forced his hand. Dominic might as well have been a marionette and his father the diabolical manipulator in control of his movements.

  No more. He would not allow this man to control his actions.

  Fury and vengeance fueled his hatred of the man he blamed for everything that had gone wrong in his life. The inferno of ire and spite blazed out of control, hot white energy building and building until it was impossible to control any longer. His emotions won out over his common sense, and every ounce of self-preservation was dwarfed by his need to remove the vile man from his sight.

  He narrowed his eyes at his father, and Drake’s facial features morphed until he looked like something that must have crawled out of the pits of Hell. He was demonic, evil reincarnate to the nth degree. Dark laughter slithered out of the demon’s black lips, his teeth, pointed with jagged edges. His eyes became soulless black pits with an eerie orange center. His skin, blood red with puss oozing from gashes cut into his flesh, bubbled with boils and blisters. A gurgling sound erupted from his chest with a hearty laugh that made Dominic’s skin crawl.

  A voice that sounded like three baritone men speaking in unison addressed him. “You dare to threaten me with your peon magic, boy? You have no idea the power I have obtained!”

  Confidence surged through Dominic with the light of energy that permeated every neuron of his being, and he gave his father a smug smile. He was not afraid. “You have so much power, yet you can’t use it. You are nothing compared to the Light, and you know it. You’re scared, old man. Scared that you’ll be trapped in that godforsaken fowl for the rest of eternity.”

  The demon Drake snarled, his lips lifting to reveal black gums over razor-sharp teeth. His chest heaved with angered breaths, and his voice boomed through the small alley. “I will devour your soul, you little pissant, and I’ll have your little brother’s for dessert. Then, I’ll use the bones of your little slut to pick my teeth. You could have saved them all by sacrificing yourself, but now you’ve pissed me off. My power is—”

  “Fuck your power! And fuck you!” Dominic spat.

  White light spilled from his pores and illuminated him. A pleasant tingling sensation tickled his skin, and every hair on his body stood on end. It wasn’t the same kind of tingling as wh
en he transformed into a ghost. This was something serene, peaceful.

  Propelled by an abundance of energy, he rose from the ground. He was weightless, suspended in air as if angels had taken him under the arms. The energy funneled itself into a singular beam that took aim on his target and slammed into the demon Drake’s chest. With a roar, his image exploded into a thousand tiny micro particles that dispersed and dissipated into thin air.

  As if the magical spell had broken, Dominic fell, careening toward the ground at a remarkable speed. The wet asphalt, eager to make his acquaintance, lifted to meet him halfway. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the impact, but to his relief, he landed with a thud onto a soft mound instead.

  He opened his eyes, finding his face buried in his pillow. He was in his bed, and Kerrigan lay next to him, sound asleep. She stirred, snuggling deeper into her pillow while reaching out to pull his arm around her. Her hand went straight through him and he felt a jolt of shock as her solid form sliced through his translucent one.

  She opened her eyes and smiled, and then looked alarmed when she registered his ghost form. She craned her neck around to find the sun shining bright through the window, and then back to him.

  “Oh, God! What happened?”

  It was as he expected. He had dispelled too much of his energy.

  “I fell asleep. He was there again, and I couldn’t... I tried, Querida. Fuck! I tried not to use the energy. He was just—”

  Kerrigan tried to quiet him. “Shh, Dominic. It’s okay.”

  He could tell by the desperation on her face and the way she held her hand up as if to touch his face that she wanted to hold him, but she couldn’t. And he couldn’t find the strength to force his body back to his physical form.

  “I’m fucked, Querida. I’m so goddamned fucked.”

  [1]Animaniac’s short of Pinky and the Brain, Episode 72. Originally aired on October 6, 1993. Quote is used without permission under Fair Use policies and all rights remain with the original copyright holders.