Bentley Little - Dominion

DOMINION

BENTLEY LITTLE

Girls!

They were all girls, every last damn one of them. He stood at the top of the stairs, staring down into the dimly lit basement below. The infants crawled through the blood and mud and filthy, rancid water, mewling, crying, screaming. The mothers, chained to the wall, lay limply against the stone, heads lolling, half dead, their nude bodies still smeared with blood and afterbirth, gnawed umbilical cords angling stiffly from between their spread legs.

His eyes darted from one newborn to another, searching hopefully for a penis, but he saw none, only small, hairless cracks.

Mother had been right. He was not a man.

He began to cry. He could not help it. Hot tears of shame forced their way out from under his eyelids, streaming down his cheeks, only adding to his humiliation. An unintentional sob escaped from his mouth, and one of the women looked dazedly up at him. He saw her through the blurred curtain of his tears. He did not know whether she knew what was happening, but he didn't care.

"It's your fault!" he screamed at her, at the others.

One of the women moaned incoherently.

Still crying, he retreated into the kitchen, where he opened the cupboard doors underneath the sink and unwound the hose. He turned on the water full force and carried the hose back across the floor through the basement doorway, dropping the streaming snake end down the stairs.

He would fill up the basement and drown them all.

The water poured from the hose in a steady flow, coursing down the steps before merging with the low, dirty puddle which already existed at the bottom. Three of the women heard the splash-babble of the water and groggily raised their battered heads, expecting their daily hosing off, but when it didn't come, their heads slumped again with a muted rattling of neck and arm irons.

He watched as the water level in the basement slowly rose, his tears stopping, drying, disappearing. He wiped his eyes. It would be two hours, maybe three, before the basement filled up above their heads and drowned them. He would come back later, after it was done, and drain the basement and dispose of the bodies.

He stepped into the kitchen and closed the door, standing uncertainly for a moment before walking down the dark, narrow hallway toward the front of the house. Outside, he could hear the loud rumble of motorcars on the street, the excited screams of children at play. He stood for a few minutes at the front window, staring at the lawn outside, before realizing that the spot in which he was standing was the precise spot in which Mother used to stand while spying on the neighbors.

Blackness rushed over him, and he stepped away from the window, taking slow, deep breaths until he again felt all right. He looked down at his hands. Mother had always said that his hands were too big for his arms, were out of proportion compared to the rest of his body, and he had always tried to keep them hidden in pockets or behind his back. Now, though, they didn't seem that large, and he found himself wondering if they had shrunk. He wished Mother was here so he could show her his hands, ask her.

He wandered disconsolately through the empty house, past the drawing room, down the hallway, up the stairs, and found himself, as always, going to Mother's bedroom.

Mother's bedroom.

He sat on the red silk bedspread and picked up the leg chains attached to the tall wooden posters at the foot of the bed. He had not opened the windows since Mother died, and the room still smelled strongly of the mingled odors of wine and perfume and old sex. He breathed deeply, inhaling the delicious fragrance, at once sweet and sour, tangy and musky. He glanced around the room. The Oriental carpet was still stained with blood from the last time, dark red now faded to a dusty brown which blended in with the multihued rococo pattern. On the dresser in front of the oversize mirror were empty flagons. The soiled undergarments of various ladies and gentlemen were strewn about the room, many of them torn and tattered, ripped off willing bodies in the heat of passion.

His eyes were drawn to the door next to the closet, the door to the room where the unwilling participants had been brought.

He stood up and took the long brass key from its hook above the bed, using the key to unlock the door. This was the room in which she had worshiped, in which she had given herself over to her rituals. Precisely what these rituals were he did not know; she had always refused to tell him. He knew only that they demanded many sacrifices, that he had been forced to find for her two, three, sometimes four victims each time.

Mostly men. Women if necessary. And he knew that the rituals were loud.

He'd been able to hear the cries echoing through the halls of the house, feel the bodies being flung to the floor, slammed against the wall. It was good that they lived in such a large city. Otherwise the sacrifices Mother had required would have been missed, the noises heard by all. As it was, the victims' absences had seldom been noticed (he'd always chosen them well), and the sounds had merely blended in with the noises of the street.

Mother, however, always said that having to perform the rituals in this room, instead of in their proper place, was what had perverted their purpose, was what had led to his mistaken birth.

He stood in the doorway and slowly scanned the silent room. Broken bones were still scattered about the floor in no particular order, as if thrown there in a frenzy. The bones were clean, all flesh stripped. The walls of the room were painted with pictures of trees, painstakingly detailed renderings of forestation for which Mother had paid a substantial amount to a local artist who had later joined her for two days in the bedroom.

He stepped into the room and breathed deeply. The odor here was stronger due to the fact that the room had no windows, but it was more blood smell than sex smell and was not nearly as pleasant as the scent of the bedroom. He walked forward, kicked a jawbone out of the way. He had brought in the sacrifices, but he had never had to dispose of them.

After Mother had finished her rituals, there had never been anything left to dispose, only these cleaned bones and blood and occasional isolated bits of meat.

He had often wanted to join Mother in her rituals, but she had told him bluntly that he could not participate. Only in the last year, after she had reread the prophecies, had she decided that he should be allowed to carry on after her death. Only then had she fully regained her faith.

Only then had she told him what he must do.

Now even there he had failed her.

He thought of the infants in the basement. He would give them another hour, then check to make sure they had all drowned.

After that he would try again.

There was nothing more he could do.

He regretted that he'd had to dispose of the mothers as well. It had felt so good when he took them, when he beat them and forced them to submit to his will, when he felt the hot animal passion rising in them as well. Then he had truly felt that he was his mother's son.

But there would be more. He would find them the same way he had found these, and he would take them the same way, make them bear his children.

And if they failed to give him a boy, he would try again.

And again.

An hour later, he returned to the basement. The women had all been drowned--he could see their hair spread outward across the top of the filthy, bloody water like twisted lilies--but the babies were alive and happily swimming.

He stood there, shocked. This could not be!

Furious, he leaped from the top of the stairs and jumped into the cold, dark water, anger coursing through him. He grabbed the head of the nearest infant, pressing her down. There was a sudden sharp pain in his index finger, and he cried out, jerking back, letting the baby up. The thing had bitten him! He shook his hand to clear it of the hurt, then pressed the infant down again, gratified to see small bubbles percolate upward through the water.