DOMINION by Bentley Little (interesting books to read .TXT) 📗

if he should tell the chief about what had happened or if he should try to keep it quiet. The good mood which had been his upon initially approaching the Mazda had long since fled, and now he no longer felt like cruising the streets at all.

He felt like drinking.

He felt like getting drunk.

It’s almost here.

He did not acknowledge the boy’s wave as he passed the two teenagers on his way down the road.

21

The ground was wet, the sky overcast, the air redolent with the fresh, invigorating odor of recent rain. Above the rooftops, the trees appeared almost black against the gray background, their heavy leaves and branches disturbed only by the cool northerly breeze which blew against his face. Dion felt happy, for no real reason at all. Days like this inevitably put him in a good mood, no matter what had happened the night before. He breathed deeply, smelled fireplace smoke, exhaled, saw steam.

In a puddle on the sidewalk he saw a reflection of the sky, silhouettes of trees and rooftops, a charcoal sketch.

Fall had always been his favorite season. While most kids linked the seasons with the school year, waiting anxiously for summer and school’s end, dreading fall and the resumption of classes, his perceptions had always been more instinctual, less tied to the workings of the material world. He loved fall, always had. There was something about this time of year which made him feel healthy and alive. Autumn was usually assumed to be nature’s dotage, the season before its death, but as he had learned from Penelope, plants such as grapes belied that assumption, bucked the general trend, died when others bloomed, bloomed when others died, and he himself felt a little like that.

A van drove by, its tires hissing on the wet asphalt. He waited a moment, then crossed the street, stepping into and splashing through a shallow puddle. Looking down, he saw muddy black water.

Black water.

He felt cold suddenly, and he shivered, his mood dampened by the remembrance of last night’s dream.

It had been a bad one.

In the dream his mom had been staggering through a meadow, drunk and naked, holding in one hand an overflowing skin of wine, in the other a severed penis, blood still dripping from its torn, ragged end. There were other women nearby, also naked, also drunk, but his attention was focused only on his mom. He’d stepped forward, through a pile of rustling leaves. She turned and saw him and let out a great, excited whoop of joy. She dropped the wineskin, dropped the penis, and began dancing, a mad celebratory dance of wild abandon. A goat sprinted by, passing directly in front of her, and she leaped at it, grabbing the animal around the neck and twisting it to the ground. There was an audible snap of bone, and then she was on top of the goat, ripping with fingers, tearing with teeth, ecstatically smearing the blood on herself.

In the space between her legs, he could clearly see the goat’s hairy erection.

And then the other women joined his mom, all of them coalescing into one madly carnal, wildly anarchic group of grasping hands and hungry mouths.

His mom grabbed the goat’s erection, yanking it out and proudly holding it aloft.

And then he was alone in the darkness, floating face up in the waters of a black river, everything, all of his thoughts, all of his feelings, all of his memories, fading, going, gone until he was a blank nothing drifting onward into a bigger nothingness, the black water streaming through his ears, through his nose, through his mouth to fill him up.

He’d awakened cold, shivering, his blanket kicked off the foot of the bed, feeling… not frightened exactly, but… disturbed. He’d felt depressed as well, filled with a strange sense of loss.

The feelings faded with breakfast, were washed away with his shower, and were forgotten when he saw the gorgeous fall day outside.

But now he was worried. He walked slowly down the sidewalk toward school. There was something about the dreams he’d had lately that didn’t sit right with him. They didn’t feel like ordinary nightmares, did not seem to come from the same subconscious pool as the dreams he usually had. He was not sure what about them made him feel this way, but whatever it was had him scared.

“Hey, dickmeat!”

Dion looked up to see Kevin hanging out the passenger window of Paul’s Mustang.

“Need a ride?”

He shook his head, waved them on. “I need the exercise.”

“I thought you got your exercise doing push-ups on Penelope!”

He pointed toward Kevin, then pointed toward his crotch. “Your breakfast, bud!”

Kevin laughed. “Later!”

The Mustang took off, tires squealing on the wet road, splashing water.

Black water, Dion thought, looking at the spray.

He shivered.

Kevin closed his locker. “She called it what? The commune?”

“The combine.”

Kevin thought for a moment. “You know,” he said, “there used to be a religious cult that ran a winery around Santa Rosa, back, I don’t know, a long time ago. Fountaingrove, I think it was called. And it was run by a cult called the Brotherhood of the New Life. If I remember right, they used to use their wine in ceremonies. This sounds a little like that.”

“Penelope’s family is not a cult.”

“It doesn’t sound just a little spacey to you?”

Dion twisted his combination lock, pulled on it to make sure it had caught. “A little,” he admitted.

“Just keep your eyes open.” Kevin grinned. “You’ve got a rare opportunity here. You’re seeing all possible permutations of the female Daneam. You’re seeing Penelope’s future. In twenty years she’s going to look like one of them. Acorns don’t fall far from the tree and all that good crap. So you’ve been given fair warning. If you don’t like what you see, back out now. Save yourself some grief and heartache.”

Dion tried to smile. “I like what I see,” he said. “I hope so.”

Dion tried not to think of Penelope’s family as he and Kevin walked to class.

Bacchus, Mr.