Dominion

by Greg F. Gifune

  “You know it is, Daniel.”

  “What’s happening to me? Lord God, what’s happening to me?”

  “God can’t help you here.”

  “Why won’t you help me then?”

  The man continued working a moment then stepped back a bit to admire his work. “Excellent,” he said flatly. The black goggles again met Daniel’s eyes. He could make out faint traces of his own terrified reflection in them. “You’re beautiful.”

  As the heat grew even worse, the wind continued to howl, the flap in the tent snapping back and forth with a sound like batting wings.

  The doctor peeled off his bloody gloves. They made a sickening squishy sound as they pulled free of his hands. “It’s all right now.” He stepped back enough so that Daniel could see a row of three people sitting in folding chairs just behind him. The man tossed the gloves aside. “You may go.”

  Like a tug-of-war rope held taut by both sides suddenly released by one, Daniel expected resistance but this time found none and sprung up into a sitting position so quickly and with such force that he nearly fell off the table. He caught himself before he rolled off the edge and saw that the people in the chairs were Elliot, Audrey, and Brad Shaffer. All were dead, their bodies positioned and posed in the chairs, their faces streaked with blood. Empty, jagged, meat-red holes resided where sockets and eyes had once been.

  Screaming, Daniel scrambled back, kicking his legs but slipping and sliding on the slick table.

  And as he looked down to where the doctor had been working, he saw a series of eyes—their eyes—looking back at him, surgically implanted across his abdomen and chest like sea shells pressed into moist beach sand.

  Ignoring his bloodcurdling cries for help, madness took hold like the predator it was, dragged its wounded prey into the night, and returned Daniel to darkness eternal.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  As if rising rapidly through water from a significant depth and breaking the surface with tremendous velocity and force, Daniel emerged from the darkness, exploding into consciousness in a tempest of sight, sound and sensation. Breath, previously caught in the base of his throat ruptured free of him in a loud choking rush, and he found himself gasping for air.

  Bryce was standing over him with what looked like a wad of tissues in his hand.

  Daniel shot backward, finally able to draw a breath but still unsure of where he was.

  “Easy, man, easy,” Bryce said, crouching next to him. “It’s me.”

  The bookstore came into focus. Sounds of the rain and ice returned. He remembered Bartkowski and the conversation they’d had. He looked to his friend helplessly.

  “Here, just—just hold still a sec.” Bryce carefully took the tissues and wiped at Daniel’s upper lip and nose. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.” His mouth was moist and tasted of copper. Daniel reached up, took hold of the tissues so Bryce would no longer have to, and upon pulling them back from his face, realized they were covered with blood. “What happened?”

  “You fainted. Right after Bartkowski left your eyes crossed and down you went.”

  Daniel realized he was lying on the floor, partially propped up against the front counter. Visions of what he’d experienced fired through his mind, and the sound of a baseball bat hitting bone rang in his ears.

  “You hit your nose when you went down,” Bryce told him. “Lucky you didn’t break it. Jesus, you scared the piss out of me. I was just about to call an ambulance. When the hell’s the last time you had something to eat? Between not eating and no sleep it’s no wonder you keeled over.”

  “How long was I out?”

  “Less than a minute, thirty or forty seconds maybe.”

  “It was all wrong,” he mumbled, “all backwards.”

  “What was?”

  Daniel quickly lifted his shirt. His body was unaltered. Of course it is, you idiot, he thought. As emotion gripped him, he fought away the urge, perhaps the need, to break down and cry, and instead struggled to his feet with a focus and resolve born of increasing anger.

  “You might have a concussion, maybe we should—”

  “I saw things.” He wiped his nose clean then checked each nostril. The bleeding had stopped. “While I was out, I saw things. And they weren’t dreams or hallucinations. They were real. Somehow, they were real.”

  “You were unconscious.”

  “No. I’m into something else here, Bryce. Some other form of consciousness maybe, I don’t know. But what I experienced was real.”

  “What exactly was it you experienced?”

  “Hell.” Daniel watched the shadows slinking across the bookstore walls. “I think it might’ve been Hell.”

  Bryce remained still, consumed with a look of sorrow Daniel hadn’t seen in him since his divorce years before. “I’m so sorry about all this, man.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I’m just sorry you’re going through it at all. Only goes to show, you never know who you’re talking to online. You know, this all probably started innocently enough with Lindsay and him, and just got away from her.”

  “None of that matters now. We’ve got to get to the bottom of exactly what’s happening and we have to stop it.”

  “Let me lock up,” Bryce said. “We’ll grab some fast food or something, you need to eat. We’ve got enough time before we have to meet Bartkowski.”

  “We need to head back to my place,” Daniel said. “I want to check something out.”

  Bryce seemed to consider this a moment, then agreed. “OK. Just remember, this guy’s out there somewhere, probably close, and he’s dangerous. For all we know he could be watching us right now, waiting to make a move. We need to keep our eyes open and be aware, and we need to stick together. Strength in numbers, know what I mean?”

  Daniel looked out the front window at the night and street beyond. The weather had gotten worse, and traffic had become virtually nonexistent. “He might be out there right now, you’re right, watching our every move. But it doesn’t make any difference if he is. There’s a pattern to this, a sense to it, a meaning and a timing behind everything that’s happening. I can feel it. Nothing seems real anymore. But it is. It’s all real.”

  Several seconds came and went before Bryce responded. “You’ve seen more than Lindsay and a few weird things on your computer, haven’t you.”

  He looked at his old friend with an expression that left no doubt what his answer was. “What the hell you think I’ve been trying to tell you? And I’m not alone.”

  “But if these things you’re talking about are real it—Danny, they’re not possible.” He brought his hands to his temples. “They’re not fucking possible.”

  “I don’t think we have any idea what’s possible and what isn’t.” He started for the door. “But we’re going to find out.”

  Bryce looked like he wanted to say something more, perhaps something profound or telling, comforting or wise, but managed only a tired sigh.

  Daniel pulled the door open. A rush of cold wet air sweep past as night crept in. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Life had become a dreamscape where none of the rules applied, where nothing was required to make sense or possess order and structure. From the moment Daniel had gotten the call telling him Lindsay had been in an “accident” the world had revealed its true nature as something other than what it had pretended to be for so long. Life had become an alien notion, an existential nightmare he could neither fathom nor control. He could only hope to survive it, because nothing had returned to normal, and he knew now nothing ever would. Things would only continue to grow worse and spiral into chaos until he solved the mysteries behind what was happening. Even then it might be too late to claw his way back to anything reminiscent of sanity and normalcy, because madness had become the rule, and if he was to have any chance he had no choice but to accept that.

  After casing the street and apartment for several minutes, they determined it was safe to go in
side. Once in the brownstone, Daniel led Bryce to the kitchen and the answering machine. There were no new messages, so he brought up the saved message of womb sounds, hit PLAY then left him there and went to the living room.

  As the sounds echoed through the house, Daniel pulled a photo album from the bookcase and rifled through several pages of photographs encased in plastic sleeves until he came across what he’d been looking for.

  He looked down at the original snapshot of the copy Bartkowski had given him. It was on a page that included five additional photographs—some of Lindsay, some of Daniel—but of the shots featuring her it was clearly the best picture and showed her in the most attractive light.

  Unlike the rest of the photographs secured to the page, it was noticeably askew, a lone crooked entry in a display of perfectly straight pictures. She had peeled back the plastic, removed the photograph, made a copy, sent it to Russell and then returned it to the album. She’d gone through all those motions, he told himself, consciously made the decision to do so and then hastily returned the photo to the album. He wondered why she hadn’t taken the time to put it back straight. Lindsay had always been meticulous about things like that. Was I nearby when you did it? Was I unexpected? Did that force you to hurry? Her big smile pierced his heart. He’d always dreamed only the love they shared could make her smile that way.

  Daniel stared at the photograph a while, unable to bring himself to straighten it. Instead he closed the album and put it down on the coffee table, putting some part of Lindsay away with it.

  The message on the answering machine ended, returning the brownstone to silence.

  After a few moments Bryce appeared in the doorway, pale. He seemed at a loss for words. “I’ve heard womb sounds before,” he eventually said. “Both times Maggie was pregnant. They’re wonderful sounds, miracle sounds, you know?” He pointed back at the kitchen. “Those are different. How could something so natural and beautiful feel so frightening, so…”

  “Abnormal?”

  Bryce nodded.

  Your wife may be dead, but Lindsay is alive.

  “Maybe rebirth isn’t as beautiful as initial birth.”

  “What the hell is rebirth?”

  Daniel’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open. “Daniel Cicero.”

  Heavy, stressed breathing, and then: “You need to get over to my office right away.”

  “Bartkowski? You said two hours, what—”

  “Forget what I said. You need to come now. There’s a new development.”

  “What is it?” A muffled sound, as if he’d put his beefy hand over the mouthpiece a moment. “Bartkowski? Are you there?”

  “There’s something here you need to see,” he said uneasily. “Something Russell Gorton wanted to make damn sure you saw firsthand.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  In an attempt to find the exact address to Wayne Bartkowski’s office, Daniel slowed the car while Bryce read the street numbers. The icy rain had let up a bit but was still coming down steadily. The city was quiet, traffic minimal. Still, Daniel found himself looking beyond the buildings, pavement, street signs, lights and occasional passing cars into the surrounding darkness, searching it for things only weeks before he would’ve thought ludicrous but was now convinced inhabited the outskirts of his conscious existence.

  They were still about three blocks from their destination when they noticed the bright intrusion in the night sky. A few people on the street were running, some in the same direction they were headed, some in the opposite direction.

  “Oh no,” Bryce said, voice shaking.

  Wayne Bartkowski’s office, situated in a squat, single-story, flat-roofed commercial building not far from legendary Fenway Park, was engulfed in flames.

  Several official vehicles had already arrived, and as fire engines took up position and firemen emerged from them to battle the growing flames, two policemen cordoned off the area while a third began to direct traffic away from the area.

  There were no immediate parking spots, so Daniel turned the corner, found one on a side street and pulled in. Both men turned and looked back over their shoulders at the fire, the enormous flames shooting high into the otherwise dark rainy sky and mixing with the swirl of police, fire and ambulance lights.

  Without a word, Daniel and Bryce got out of the car and walked slowly toward the fire. A small throng of people had already gathered behind the police barriers, many of them huddled beneath umbrellas.

  “You’d think in this sleet it couldn’t burn like that,” a man said to no one in particular.

  “The rain’s definitely helping to slow it down,” another man said. “It won’t burn like that much longer once they turn on the hoses.”

  “I heard one of the firemen shout something about gasoline,” a middle-aged woman with penciled in eyebrows said. “I’ll bet it was arson.”

  “Who the hell torches their own place while they’re still in it?”

  “Oh my God, there was someone in there?”

  “Yeah, they pulled a guy out just before that back beam there collapsed, about two or three minutes ago. Good thing too, that fire spread so fast they couldn’t get back in by the time they had him on a gurney, what was left of the poor bastard anyway. If anybody else was in there it’s going to be dental record time. The guy they took out’s in the back of the ambulance. Notice how it hasn’t gone anywhere yet? No big rush, see?”

  “Maybe it was suicide,” the woman said. “I seen an article on that in the Herald once. A man in India or somewheres like that poured gas all over him then set himself on fire.”

  “Don’t matter now.” The other man shrugged. “Write him and that building off.”

  “Yeah, total loss.”

  From the rear of the crowd, Daniel watched the fire and what remained of the building. He pictured Bartkowski inside, talking on the phone to him less than half an hour before.

  There’s something here you need to see.

  He pictured him dead, burned beyond recognition in the back of the ambulance.

  Something Russell Gorton wanted to make damn sure you saw firsthand.

  He’s laughing at us, Daniel thought. He’s watching and laughing at us right now.

  Bryce, shoulders slumped and eyes weary, no longer seemed cognizant of the rain. It spattered and dripped from him in steady, sloppy streams as he stared at the flames with disbelief.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Daniel said.

  “He’s here. He’s really here.”

  He took Bryce’s arm and turned him away from the fire. “Come on.”

  “We don’t—we—we don’t know it was definitely Bartkowski they took out of there,” he said as they hurried down the street to the corner and the shelter of the car.

  “Yes we do.” Daniel looked behind them several times. No one was following. “Gorton killed him and set the place on fire. Now all his files are destroyed, all his records, his computer, everything.”

  “You think he was right there when Bartkowski called?”

  “I could tell something was wrong when he called, but I never thought—”

  “There’s a precinct not far from here,” Bryce said grimly. “We tell them everything and let them sort it out. We need protection. He’s here.”

  “He wanted us to see this. The sick bastard wanted to make sure we saw it so he could show us what he’d done.” As they reached the car, Daniel looked back down the street at the flames flickering above the rooftops. “Well he’s already shown me worse, a lot worse.”

  “Worse? A man just lost his life, Danny. Bartkowski’s dead. That makes at least two people this sonofabitch has killed.” Bryce slid into the passenger seat and let his forehead rest against the dashboard. “How did this get so out of control? How did it get so—Jesus Christ, this—how did this happen?”

  Daniel joined him in the car and slammed closed his door, muffling the rain sounds. He looked out at the black sheets of ice and rain sliding over the windshield, sealing them off in a
metal cocoon. It didn’t seem possible Bartkowski could really be dead. It didn’t seem real yet. He wondered if there was a Mrs. Bartkowski sitting at home and unknowingly reaching for a ringing telephone, unaware that the caller on the other end was poised to deliver news that would shatter her sense of place and time and safety and forever change her life. He wondered if they had children, grandchildren even. “Poor bastard tried to help me,” he muttered, “and it got him killed.”

  “How did this happen?” Bryce said again.

  Daniel turned his attention to his friend. “I’ve known you a long time, Bryce. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  He kept his head buried in the dashboard. After a moment, Bryce sat back, flopping against the seat like a rag doll. “I just can’t believe this shit.”

  In shadow, it was difficult to tell if the moisture dripping across Bryce’s face was rain or tears. “I thought if I was rational and logical, I’d make sense of what was going on.”

  “This is something beyond logic.”

  “You keep saying there’s more to this, something supernatural or whatever label you want to give it. Talking about seeing her—not on a computer screen but really seeing her—and all the shit with your mother and…” Bryce wiped his face; his tone more controlled and together than it had been just seconds before. “Look, Gorton’s a sick, twisted sonofabitch and he’s fucking with your head. That’s all this is, nothing more. It’s a demented madman screwing with you.”

  “But why Bryce, why is he doing this?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that maybe it seems like something otherworldly is tied up in all this, but it’s not. It’s all Russell Gorton. It’s all him, manipulating things and making us think we’re crazy. He wants us to think he’s more than he is, more than some pervert on a computer jerking off to conversations with somebody else’s wife who got so full of himself and his own power trip that he’s taken it to an extreme and turned the whole thing into a nightmare.” Bryce let out a sound somewhere between laughter and pain. “But he’s not. He’s not because he can’t be. He’s not because if he is then everything we think reality is just went to shit. Everything we think we know means nothing.” Rain pummeled the car, thumped against the roof and doors. “You ready to go down that road? Can you handle that? I’m not sure I can.”