Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels

by White, Gwynn

  Back in this reality, the one of flesh and bone, you lived as long as you breathed. When you stopped, you ended. Game over.

  Of course, with reports of time dilation, the kid might have lived a thousand lives in the Maze and woken up an hour later on his bed and split before his mom got back. Maybe he won and took his money to a sandy beach. Although that doesn’t explain where the mom is, but baby steps.

  He washed his hands and face and dabbed his cheeks with a towel. He pushed back his coarse black hair. The circular scar looked like a third eye of scar tissue. Unlike his almond-shaped eyes, it was perfectly round. Hunter had lied to Freddy about it. He’d survived punching the needle, that much was true. But he didn’t volunteer. Someone else did it to him. Hunter had never been in the Maze, but he’d argue it was a skip through Candyland compared to where the old bastards had sent him and the other boys.

  He kept the scar so that people would know he survived the punch.

  If you didn’t have a scar, that meant you never punched. But maybe one day you would. So who better to investigate a case involving a punch than someone like Hunter? Someone who had been there.

  Ever jones for a taste?

  There was a knock on the front door.

  Hunter listened. It came again, softly. The door handle turned. He went to the front door and pulled it open. A slight man jumped back, a manicured mustache twitching beneath an angular nose. Thin lips pulled back to expose perfectly square teeth.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  Hunter fought the urge to punch the man in the mouth. His hate was instantaneous. It was the face, the jittery mustache, and oily eyes. He reeked of disapproval, wearing it like a cheap cologne.

  Hunter flashed his ID. “The super let me in.”

  The man studied it like he was preparing for an exam. He looked over Hunter’s shoulder. “I’m Sunny’s husband.”

  “She’s divorced.”

  “Ex-husband. I’m just stopping by to see if—” He looked past him again.

  “What?”

  There was some haggling. Henk was his name. He didn’t expect someone to answer the door nor someone to hand him a federal ID. It was all happening so fast.

  “She doesn’t answer my calls,” he said. “I was worried.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Hunter pulled out his notepad.

  “Are you writing this down?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I told you I’m worried.” He shook his head, took long paces into the apartment and around the couch, glancing at the kitchen. He looked in the bedrooms. He stopped at the bathroom and grimaced. It wasn’t professional to shit at a potential crime scene, but the police weren’t treating it like one. And it had already been established Hunter wasn’t professional.

  “My wife was nuts. Her head was a rock and it never changed.”

  “You’re divorced, Henk.”

  “Ex-wife. Whatever.”

  “You fought a lot?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You ever hit her?”

  He twitched. “What? No, listen, she was tough, that’s all I’m saying. She had it hard growing up and I don’t think she was ever getting past that. You know there’s only so much changing a person can do.”

  “So this was her fault, what happened to your son?”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “What happened to your ex-wife?”

  “Ran off with someone probably. She was always looking for something better. The queer probably flipped her.”

  “You think she’s gay now?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Because you’re an asshole?”

  “Are you kidding me with that? Can I see your ID again?”

  Hunter flipped it open. Most people were a bit surprised he was a federal agent. He enjoyed watching their disbelief transform into puzzlement.

  “Your ex-wife and son are missing. Do you care?”

  “Why do you think I’m here?”

  Henk wandered around the kitchen, trying to look casually at the open box with the address ripped off. He hesitated, even glanced back as he looked inside it. Henk noticed the bread crumbs and opened the refrigerator. Hunter had already confessed to using the bathroom. He wasn’t going to admit to raiding the fridge.

  “Do you use?” Hunter asked.

  “What?”

  “Mood-changers? Mind-benders? Drugs?”

  “No.” He sniffed. “She did, though. All the technology my wife had access to at work, like a junkie working at a pharmacy.”

  “She worked in manufacturing.” Hunter was surprised he remembered that. Henk was making it sound like she worked at 511.

  “She wasn’t using a punch,” Henk said. “But there are other ways to get out.”

  “Get out?”

  “You know.” He knocked his head. Awareness leaping.

  “You sound jealous.”

  He suddenly went still. His eyes narrowed. Steely resolve finally bubbled up from a dark deep hole in that coward’s yellow belly. He suddenly felt like a threat.

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Hunter Montebank.”

  “Mr. Montebank, do you have family?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Henk shook his head, glaring. “Mr. Montebank, let’s get something straight, all right. I’m not here to entertain your wet ass. I’m here because my son is missing and my lesbian bitch of an ex-wife is missing. Pardon me if I’m a little uptight and unpredictable right now, but my life went into the shitter a month ago.”

  “A month ago? This happened a week ago.”

  “A week, whatever!”

  He walked slowly across the room and stood too close to Hunter. He was several inches shorter, and unless he possessed some hidden strength or misleading ability, Hunter was positive he could break the shit stick in half. Doing so would be a new level of unprofessionalism.

  Even for Hunter.

  “Am I a suspect?” Henk hissed.

  “Just an asshole, Henk.”

  “That ain’t against the law.”

  “I don’t know the law, Henk. I’m not the police. I investigate cybercrimes. Whether you toss off to donkeys is not my concern. If your son and lesbian bitch of an ex-wife,” he gritted through it, “were involved in Maze activity, then I’m your man. And if your bank account suddenly spins like a pinball machine, then I’m your man. I’ll be back to investigate you. That’s why I’m here, Henk.”

  Hunter clicked his pen poised over the notepad. “So why are you here again?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck… me…” Hunter punctuated the two words. “Anything else?”

  “She went to 511.”

  “The address place?”

  “That should tell you everything you need to know.”

  Henk stepped back and finally blinked. The testosterone surge dried up. He went from unpredictable supersecret ninja to reluctant and more than slightly bitter divorcé. He started for the door.

  “I hope you find him,” he said. “Really do.”

  “Who?”

  “Who are you looking for, Mr. Montebank?”

  “Your son.”

  Hunter flashed his phone, the photo of Grey and Sunny Grimm. They looked to be hiking, a waterfall behind them. The boy wasn’t smiling, but he looked content. It seemed a little outdated. He was maybe ten years old. Now he was eighteen.

  “I could use a more current photo,” Hunter said.

  Henk’s smile slid wide. “I hope you find him.”

  “Hope your bank account doesn’t spike.”

  “Do you even know what the Maze is?”

  “It’s my job.”

  Henk turned at the door. “It’s not a game, Mr. Montebank.”

  “Winners and losers, Henk. Sounds like a game to me.”

  “You forget who you are when you’re inside. You become someone else. When you die in the Maze, you’re reborn again and again. It goes on and on
, forever and ever, until you remember who you are. If that sounds like a game to you, I assure you it’s not.”

  “You sound like an expert.”

  “I do my research.”

  “You don’t seem concerned that your son is living and dying, forever and ever.”

  “I’ll cry later, if you don’t mind.”

  Hunter grabbed the door before Henk could close it. He searched the man’s face for a hint of guilt. Maybe he was just thrilled his son had somehow taken the plunge, an investment that would pay off. How could he be guilty when only the willing could enter the Maze?

  Maybe he’s just a shitty father.

  Hunter stood in the quiet apartment. So far, this case was the highlight of his questionable career. He should probably tell Freddy about Henk and his weirdness, but the detective wouldn’t do much about it. There was no evidence condemning the man and it wasn’t against the law to be an asshole.

  He went back for the other bread heel to ease the outset of the shakes long enough for him to reach the hotel, where he could put his agitation down for a few days.

  His head was growling.

  6

  Hunter

  After the Punch

  Hunter entered the hotel lobby with his shoes in hand and socks stuffed inside. His fingers danced on the counter as the clerk checked him in. The shakes were lurking. His stomach was twisted and empty, but food would have to wait. A different hunger demanded his attention.

  The sky was a darker shade of gray, the sun a dull disk falling between buildings. In his room, he pulled the heavy curtains closed—couldn’t look at the steel sky another second—and double-checked the door lock.

  The bed was standard. He’d be a little sore in the morning. He’d done this on yoga mats and thick blankets over concrete, even a park bench, waking up brittle and broken. A bed would be just fine.

  He travelled with two bags. One for business, the other for this. The one for this was smaller and, for all intents and purposes, normal. It contained a foam horseshoe pillow that he positioned at the foot of the bed, designed to lay facedown for twelve hours. Or more. Next, there was the laptop. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

  The last item was hidden in a seam. He began to salivate.

  The jones is real.

  Hunter checked the door a third time, shut off his phone and turned the air conditioner as low as it would go. Then stripped naked.

  He washed his face. The back of his head quivered, the itch clawing through tissue, sinking its teeth into the soft underbelly of his brain. The scar on his forehead pulsed, the dead and buried stent still jonesing for a spike. It had been decades since it felt the steel kiss. Long ago, he’d considered plastic surgery to cover the stent that was still dormant, but the scar reminded him of where he’d been. How he’d become this. How he’d changed since the Foreverland days.

  And how he didn’t.

  Hunter threw the bedspread back and crawled over the sheet. He readjusted the foam pillow, plugged the laptop into the wall and connected a thick cable. He lay on his stomach, test driving his position for a minute, sliding pillows under his feet. When he could wait no longer, when the demand had become a burrowing beast, he reached into the secret pocket of his bag to find a long vial.

  Then his fingers searched the back of his head.

  7

  Grey

  Before the Punch

  Family Dental Center was wedged between a Laundromat and a bagel shop where some of the city’s finest graffiti was on display.

  Candace was twisting her hair behind the counter. His dad had hired her out of high school. She was only a few years older than Grey and had even sat next to him in study hall a few years ago. She didn’t care about him then, either.

  A Zen waterfall was in the corner, a plastic molding of gray slate set in a basin of Mexican pebbles. It dripped onto the carpet. No one seemed to notice.

  “Lock the door,” Candace said.

  Grey turned the latch and crossed the lobby. Candace finished typing before buzzing him through. Somewhere in the back his dad was laughing, the kind of laugh that started and stopped like an unreliable car. He was the kind of dentist that buried all his fingers in a patient’s mouth and then asked a question.

  Ha-HA.

  His office smelled like mouthwash, the medicine kind. Grey popped in his earbuds and watched bubbles stream around a bloated goldfish. The body bobbed in the turbulence like it was attempting to live again. The milky eyes said otherwise.

  Grey sprinkled food in the tank anyway.

  Dr. Henk Grimm looked inside his office, thick magnifying glasses perched smartly on the end of his nose. The neatly groomed mustache wriggled like a caterpillar. His lips were moving, but the words never made it past the ongoing musical assault on Grey’s ears. He nodded. His dad went toward the lobby.

  Grey pulled out his earbuds.

  Candace’s laughter played beneath his dad’s dead-car laugh. She was probably bending over to turn off the space heater because her naked toes were always cold. His dad’s laughter stopped because she was probably hanging halfway out of her blouse. Then there was murmuring. Another giggle. It was the start of a cheesy porn.

  His dad paid her more than an electrical engineer. It was a sex loophole that only Dr. Henk Grimm could exploit—pay a marginally skilled receptionist to manage the office and work late hours when needed.

  And other duties as needed.

  His dad was a mediocre dentist with two pending lawsuits, both botched extractions that resulted in chronic pain. His teeth were perfect, but a bald spot was growing on his head, which would soon be remedied by the most recent hair treatment.

  His dad flopped down at his desk. “Need you to look at this computer, bub. It’s slow as hell. But not now.”

  He scrolled through his email, laughed at one of them, watched a video of a fat guy falling off a bike and laughed again. Grey sprinkled more food on the goldfish.

  “Ready?” His dad was out of the office before Grey could answer. “All right, we’re leaving, Candace. Have a good weekend, okay? Look forward to seeing you Monday.”

  He clicked his tongue.

  “Have fun this weekend,” she said. “Drive safe.”

  Grey threw his hoodie up and followed his dad past the graffiti. He was already three storefronts ahead of him, taking long antelope strides while thumbing his phone.

  “We going somewhere?” Grey asked.

  “Not we. Me.”

  “Where you going?”

  “None of your business at the moment.” He started the car and jerked into traffic.

  “Why don’t I just stay with Mom, then?”

  “Because it’s my weekend to have you.”

  “That doesn’t make sense if you’re leaving.”

  His dad shook his head while stroking his lip. Exasperation leaked from his nostrils. His parents’ divorce was a beautiful thing. Not only did Grey never have to floss again, he only heard that exasperated sigh every other weekend. Marriage went rotten, but not divorce.

  “We’ll hang out tonight,” his dad said. “I’m leaving in the morning. You’ll have the condo all to yourself. I’ll be back on Sunday.”

  Then his dad took a call.

  Grey inserted his earbuds and leaned back. He woke up in the parking garage. His dad had already taken the elevator. Dad-son bonding time turned out to be pepperoni pizza and texting.

  * * *

  Grey zoned in and out of sleep until 11:00 a.m. The condo was quiet. There was a note taped to the refrigerator.

  Feed the fish.

  A white card was clipped next to it. It was stiff with sharp corners. Two parallel creases marked it lengthwise, like his dad had folded it neatly into his pocket. Now it was flattened out and positioned on the freezer, a thick exclamation point in the middle with today’s date.

  Unlike the office, the condo fish were still alive. Grey dashed food on top and took in the view from the ninth floor. The blue sky passed clouds betwe
en glass buildings. The river that split the city was deep and dark, winding under bridges that connected the two halves.

  His dad couldn’t afford this place.

  His debt was massive. Grey went through his mail when he wasn’t around. His dad could barely make the monthly interest. But why save for tomorrow when you have today?

  The Henk Grimm motto.

  Grey cranked the stereo and finished the leftover pizza. He texted Rach to come over. She texted back she didn’t have a ride, which was bullshit. She had a car. When he offered to send a car, she had already made plans. The refrigerator was sparsely loaded—half a block of cheese, yogurt and peanut butter. He found a box of energy bars in the pantry.

  Then he went through his dad’s closet.

  Plundering his old man’s privacy was like a treasure hunt. He did it because he was bored. He did it because he was curious. Most of all, he did it because his old man deserved it.

  The revolver was still behind the giant red suitcase. The adult movie collection was next to it—guns and porn. His dad still wasn’t hip to the Internet. He indulged in a higher class of degradation. He referred to them as art films when Grey was around, like he was spelling out words a five-year-old wouldn’t understand.

  Grey went through the desk drawers, looked under the bed and in the storage closet. He made a new discovery when he pulled out the bottom dresser drawer. A hole had been cut out of the divider. Grey retrieved a Ziploc full of weed.

  “Bingo.”

  He texted a pic to Rach. Party, anyone?

  He booted up the computer and waited for her reply. The computer was clogged with spyware and Trojans. It took minutes to load a simple webpage. The inbox was mostly spam, no naked snaps from Candace. Nothing in the cache either.

  He was scrolling aimlessly when Rach texted back. Even a bag of weed didn’t tempt her. He pondered how to answer that. Maybe he just needed to lay it out for her, let her know what he was feeling. First he had to figure that out.