DOMINION Bentley Little (accelerated reader books .TXT) 📖

he saw a group of naked women shoving their way inside.

Then the door closed, and the wild laughter was silenced.

What the hell was going on here? He looked over at Deets. The rookie was standing in place, mouth open, an expression of dumb surprise on his face.

“Come on,” Horton said, unholstering his gun, his confidence returning with the feel of the heavy revolver in his hand. “Let’s go.” He started jogging toward the door, gratified to hear Deets’ boot steps behind him.

The two of them reached the door simultaneously, automatically positioning themselves on either side. Horton reached over and knocked loudly. “Ms. Daneam?” he called.

There was no response from inside, not even laughter, and Horton looked at Deets and said, “On three.” He nodded at the rookie. “One. Two. Three.”

Deets turned the doorknob and Horton swung out, pushing open the door.

Nothing.

Before them was an empty lighted hallway. There was no sight of anyone, no sound, and they looked at each other and proceeded forward slowly, guns drawn, trying doors as they passed them, though all appeared to be locked.

“They could be behind any one of these,” Deets said.

Horton nodded.

“They were… they were naked,” the rookie said.

Horton nodded again.

“Why were they naked?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t like this.”

That makes two of us, Horton thought, but he said nothing, tried another door. From somewhere ahead, down the hall, he heard a scream, and he looked at Deets and the two of them started running toward the sound.

The hallway turned, forking to the right, and ahead, on the left, one of the doors was open. Horton stopped, hugging the wall next to the open doorway. “Police!” he yelled. “Step out with your hands on your head!”

There was no response, and he moved in front of the doorway in classic firing position.

There was no one in the room.

He quickly walked inside, and the smell hit him almost immediately. It was overwhelming, a powerfully noxious mixture of old wine and older blood, stale sex and violence. He retched, instinctively doubling over, puking on the floor in the corner next to the door.

“Jesus,” Deets said behind him, gagging.

Horton wiped his mouth, straightened up. The room was windowless, furnitureless, and in its center was a gigantic empty wine vat, built into the floor and sunken like a hot tub. He walked forward. As he reached the edge of the vat, he could see that it was not empty after all. Glued to the bottom with dried blood were assorted bones and the carcasses of rotting animals.

“Holy shit,” Deets said.

Horton started for the door. “Come on. Let’s get out to the car and call for backup. I don’t like the setup here.”

“There is no backup. They’re all at the riot.”

“They’re not all at the riot.”

Deets followed him out the door. “What’s going on here?”

“I don’t know,” Horton admitted. He looked down the hall the way they’d come.

And saw the women.

They were crouched near the turn of the hallway. They were dirty and disheveled, some holding spears, others wine bottles, covered with what looked like mud and blood. He stood, unmoving. He was scared. But he was also aroused, and as frightening as the women looked, as threatening as their appearance was, he found himself looking between their bent legs, trying to see their shadowed crotches. This was not the right reaction, he told himself. This was not the way he was supposed to feel. But there was something sensuous in their stances, something provocative in their complete lack of modesty and the pride they seemed to take in their filth.

He smelled alcohol, wine, and he breathed deeply, inhaling the fragrance. He imagined what it would be like to throw himself into that gaggle of women, to feel them strip him and take advantage of him, kissing him, licking him, stroking him, sitting on his lap, sitting on his face. They were all sisters too, weren’t they? That would make it even better.

They screamed as one and rushed him.

He was slow to react, nearly stunned into immobility. He staggered backward, pointing his gun at the women but not ordering them to halt, the way he should have.

Deets’ reactions were quicker. He moved in front of Horton, both hands on his firearm. “Stop right there!” he demanded.

They took him down.

It happened fast, too fast, and Horton wasn’t even sure what exactly occurred. He knew only that they were instantly upon the other officer, screaming, laughing, stabbing with spears, clawing with nails, biting with teeth. How they had reached him so quickly, why he hadn’t fired upon them, how they disarmed him, which one was the first to reach him, he didn’t know.

Horton fired a shot over the heads of the women, not wanting to fire into their midst for fear of hitting Deets. The report was thunderous, and he saw a puff of plaster explode outward from the far wall, but the women did not even seem to notice. They continued to claw crazily at the man buried beneath them, and Horton saw blood flying: drops at first, then splashes.

He realized that he could not hear Deets screaming at all. He could only hear the women.

He knew instinctively that Deets was dead, and part of him wanted to stand there and shoot, empty his gun in the women, kill as many of them as he could. But he was more afraid than he had ever been in his life, and his gut told him that if he didn’t haul ass now, he probably wouldn’t make it out alive.

He ran.

He wished the women had come from the opposite direction so he could’ve run out the way they’d come in. He had no choice now but to run deeper into the building, hoping that he’d reach the other end and find an open exit.

They were coming. He could hear them, above his breathing and the slapping of his shoes on the concrete, laughing wildly and jabbering in some foreign tongue. He wanted to try some of the doors lining the corridor, see if