The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  The water was deep enough down there to be a nuisance. As the four of them plodded around in it, the anxious motion, at the very least, drowned out the disturbing shriek of the rats, which undoubtedly outnumbered them.

  In the slim crack of light emanating from the manhole cover above, Doxy was eventually able to locate and get a temperamental flashlight working. Although every so often, she’d have to bang on the side of it to get it flickering again, a process that, after a few minutes, was grating on everyone’s last nerve, especially Herald’s, it seemed. Every occasion that it faltered, he’d stop pacing to stare at it as if the damn thing were adding seconds to the time he was stuck waiting for Virtue.

  “Do you want me to look at it?” Law asked her as calmly as he could.

  But Doxy must have gotten nicked by the lingering edge to his voice or the fact that his body was still warm. Because her beads of fury lashed back with spite akin to hellfire and damnation. “Be my guest!”

  She tossed the flashlight into his unprepared hands as if it were inconsequential and not the only ticket to redemption and enlightenment that remained in their possession.

  Someday Law would learn. The good things in life were not free. Because they came with expectations. And failure to fulfill . . . well, the role of elucidator fell in his hands and his alone.

  As luck would have it, his touch, his efforts, his desperation, were no more effective than Doxy’s were. And he was now the object of everyone’s contempt.

  And like the light, time wasn’t on their side either. The more that passed them by, the heavier the cause became and the greater the likelihood it would unravel by seams that had never been weaker.

  The eventual rattle of the manhole had them gazing into the bright light as if it held all the answers.

  Parody appeared first, descending the ladder with care and caution that wasn’t customary for her. With just a tap of the foot against a ladder rung, a leap, and a twist, and she should have essentially floated to the ground, much like Gospel did after closing the manhole cover. He landed on his feet just after her, no ladder required.

  “I’m sorry, Herald. . .” were the first words she said upon turning around. Her entire center was drenched in blood. The right forearm she was cradling against her chest was a gushing, gruesome mess. The bone fracture had punctured itself right through the skin.

  Doxy tore through her bag and Blasphemy ripped off the pant leg of her Fallow-mandated bodysuit. With the meager amount of medical supplies they could invent or conjure up, they moved to assist her while Herald absorbed his worst nightmare with a stagger. The blood, the apology, the expressions they all wore. Even Gospel looked solemn.

  “I did everything I could,” Parody told them as Blasphemy eased her into a sitting position against the gutter’s damp wall. There were a few raised bricks on the ground there, sparing Parody from a seat full of street drainage, at the very least.

  The light in Law’s hand flickered and waned to non-existence. It was his responsibility to bring it back from the dead. And he was failing miserably.

  “Is she—?” Herald lifted a shaky fist to his mouth rather than say the word even the flashlight seemed to be shouting out loud.

  “I don’t know,” Parody answered quickly, avoiding Herald’s gaze. In the inconsistent light, her eyes followed suit, quivering over every other face, as if seeking a reprieve. “He . . . he grabbed her!”

  “Who did?” Law asked in Herald’s stead.

  Herald had paced away from the light, sending a few more rats into a shrill skitter.

  Law lifted his foot—and sequestered a gag—when one brushed by his ankle.

  “A man,” Parody continued as Doxy sat beside her, taking her good hand and squeezing it in a show of solidarity. “Out of nowhere.” Blasphemy kneeled on the opposite side of her. “Pulled her right out of my grip. Slid up her sleeve.” Parody shrieked in air when Blasphemy tried to unclench the arm for a better look. “Checked her code—”

  “Code?” Law demanded even though Parody’s teeth were practically grinding bloody trenches into her lower lip. “Why? Why Virtue and not you . . . for example?” He leveled out his voice a moment too late. It still came out like an accusation. “You were all neglecting your work assignments by being there. What did it say, exactly?”

  “‘X’ something,” Doxy answered in her place, her eyes flaring wide, warning him to back off.

  “21.” Blasphemy supplied the information, minus the emotion and judgement, all while dressing the horrific wound without a flinch. “That’s her age. It seems unlikely to be a coincidence.”

  She gave Law a different wide-eyed look, one full of innuendo. Gospel met his gaze as well. Based on what they had seen at Captain’s estate—something that was clearly not common knowledge yet—they were both disclosing their suspicions.

  By this point, Herald had returned to Law’s side and managed to get caught up in the crossfire. “What? What is it?”

  Law held up his hand. And then one finger. We’ll get to that.

  “And . . . and that man . . . he was so proud of himself,” Parody added, rerouting everyone’s attention. “Like he had been looking all over for her. And was about to receive a big reward.”

  “Was he Authority?” Herald asked, crossing one arm, jabbing out the other, and taking another step forward.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. No uniform, though.”

  “He certainly knew what he was doing,” Gospel chimed in. “He broke Parody’s arm in one quick snap, like he had done that a thousand times before.”

  “You saw him?” And did nothing . . . was Herald’s insinuation.

  “At a distance!” Gospel replied, as defensive as Law had ever seen him get. Just like everyone else, failure wasn’t something that sat well with him. And he didn’t appreciate being called out on it. “They were gone before I had a chance to reload.”

  Gospel shifted the rifle sling higher up on his shoulder, his subtle way of asserting his power—not something anyone should ever take for granted.

  “She’s probably going to wherever it was they were taking her before we rescued her,” Blasphemy supplied, well timed to dispel some of the tension.

  “And where’s that?” Herald pressed on.

  The Fallow exchanged glances, the grimness exaggerated by the light that was failing them once again. “No one knows . . . for certain,” Blasphemy said tentatively, leaving room for doubt. A hunch was just a hunch, but assuming the worst was usually their wisest option. This was Portsmith after all. “Virtue didn’t even know. She was strapped to a bed for the most part and heavily drugged. Whatever they said about her or did to her, she slept through most of it.”

  Gospel turned to leave. “I’ll see if I can find out more.”

  The light went out, abruptly and completely. And in the flash of time it took for Law to get it functioning again, Herald had Gospel pinned to the wall by the lapels of his trench coat. “I owe you my life. But if anything . . . above and beyond what’s already too cruel to fathom were to happen to her, you may as well rip me open, flay me on the rooftop, and let the birds pick my bones dry! Is that clear enough?”

  “Clear as day, Herald.” Law used words in his attempt to break the unbearable impasse. His physical strength wouldn’t quite cover it.

  Gospel pushed back, trying to free himself. But, one on one, hand to hand, face to face, Herald had the advantage. The spiteful glint in Gospel’s eye, however, should have brought Herald to his knees immediately.

  His refusal to relent confirmed the extent of his death wish.

  Law set a hand on his shoulder. The touch was eventually able to instill some prudence.

  “My apologies,” Herald finally muttered, backing away. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  He looked at Parody the moment she let a tear slip.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said to her. Parody nodded, not necessarily in agreement, but grateful all the same. “Or yours,” he said to Gospel just before tu
rning and pacing back into the dark depths. “It’s mine. It’s always been mine. It was my responsibility to protect everyone and now . . . look at us.”

  Gospel straightened out his coat, his sigh fortunately just irritable. The animosity that had sparked in him had dimmed by the time he waved for Law to come closer. “You should tell him,” he whispered, though he spoke loud enough for Herald to overhear, probably by design. “We don’t need any more surprises.”

  That last part was a warning, delivered without a flinch of sympathy or remorse.

  “Tell me what?” Herald inquired, whirling around. “What does he know that you haven’t mentioned?” he asked Law, charging back toward them.

  “You should sit,” Law suggested, his hand pressing against Herald’s chest. He was indeed a force to reckon with . . . when and if he could effectively channel his energy.

  Law also bobbed his head toward the ladder. Go, was his message to Gospel.

  They couldn’t let another moment go to waste.

  The waning light of day came in as Gospel careened up the ladder and out the exit. He closed them back inside of what was beginning to feel like a crypt.

  The notion brought on a shiver, one that the godforsaken flashlight didn’t weather. The useless piece of crap from the aptly named “Dark Times” suddenly gave him the urge to smack something other than plastic.

  When it finally lit up the scene again, he rounded on Herald. They were both lucky Law was a gentleman and Herald was the saddest sight he had ever seen. “You’re a loose cannon right now. We fear you and what stupidity you may accomplish while our backs are turned.” Law jabbed a thumb at the exit . . . and truly, their only hope. “But he’s a fine-tuned killing machine. A weapon we wouldn’t survive a single day without. Best to keep him pointed in the right direction, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Fine. Say no more.” Herald fell heavy into a seated position beside Blasphemy. “But do tell whatever it is you’ve been keeping from me!”

  “If you gave the eternal love bit a five second break every once in a while, you’d know already!”

  Blasphemy set a hand on Herald’s shoulder, urging him to stay seated. “I’ll tell him,” she offered, gently but fearlessly. “Captain,” she began, “has skeletons . . . and I’m not being figurative here. . . .”

  Law owed her a world of credit. She had a knack for finding solutions before the problems got entirely out of hand, all while remaining admirably even-keeled. And being forced into Fallowhood didn’t change any of that, except in her will to succeed.

  He made a point of setting the flashlight within her reach. His will to bring light had burnt out for the time being. As dark as it was in the other direction, he had to embrace it.

  Any more provocation and there would be bloodshed at his hand, and not the kind that would do a damn thing for the greater good.

  Still within earshot, though just barely, he found a place to sit, close his eyes, and contemplate. Yes, he had his life to be grateful for. He had been given another chance. But still, he could feel it. Slowly but surely, there was a noose closing in around his neck.

  He’d never escape it. Death would find him. It would hunt everyone else down as well, picking them off one by one.

  It was only a matter of time.

  Would death consume them now or later? Today . . . or tomorrow?

  When Gospel finally returned . . . the darkness in the outer world equaled that which dipped below. He was alone and showing signs of wear—bloody knuckles, torn trousers, hallow eyes, and no words.

  And yet the truth was impossible to deny. Virtue was dead or as good as dead.

  And then they were six . . . soon to be five.

  Because, if his cry of anguish was any indication, Herald was sure to follow.

  Chapter 15

  Virtue

  HERE LIES VIRTUE.

  She shifted on her bed of rocks and dirt. The motion was accompanied by a metallic rattle. Her wrists, bound by chains, were tethered to her own gravestone. Her legs were pulled apart and taut, her ankles bound to tree trunks.

  The earth shook beneath her. She stopped struggling, out of breath, as she sank. Accepting her fate—her death—she surrendered. The ground did too, however. It took away an inch of her life, no more, no less.

  It emboldened her into another battle . . . with unbreakable chains.

  Again, she sank deeper toward her death.

  I want to be free.

  That was all she ever wanted.

  Patience, she was always told by her father, was a virtue. And, by golly, she wanted to be virtuous! So out of respect for her chosen name and her faith in the goodness of man, she lay there . . . as cold, quiet, and still as the headstone that damned her.

  Drizzle began falling from the sky, its turbulent shade a depth close to night. The mist dulled the warmth of her tears and soaked through her . . . wedding dress? That’s what it appeared to be, maybe once, long ago. Dirt, blood, toil, and time had since desecrated its immaculacy.

  She usually had the desire to know what she had gotten herself into. At that moment, her one wish was that she’d never have to find out.

  The moan of the breeze, and in response, the creaking sway of the bare branches above, rattled the certainty through to her aching bones.

  She wasn’t that lucky. Something unnatural was coming for her.

  Soon, the rattle of someone else’s chains crept into her awareness.

  A man hobbled in from behind her gravestone. He wore a black blazer and a tweed cap that partially shielded his face. His broad shoulders suggested youth and strength. His hunch and slow gait spoke of death and despair.

  His chains were, indeed, bulkier than hers were. And yet he was slinking forward, even bearing the burden of a shovel.

  He stopped, his back facing her, and began digging at the grave site next to hers. He pierced, scooped, lifted, and plopped the soil in a steady rhythm.

  “Herald, is that you?”

  He did not answer. But that was no surprise to her. Her voice broke out as a measly croak, hushed completely by nature’s more powerful forces.

  “Herald!” she tried again.

  The figure paused, mid-dig. His head swiveled in her direction. Though he had what resembled Herald’s face, he was otherwise, a memory, and he was not resting in peace.

  As if ashamed, his hollow eye sockets narrowly met her gaze. Then they dropped and his face turned, revealing blue veins that webbed through his pale, decaying skin. Also, hard to miss, were his lips, sewn together. For a twitch of time, his mouth tugged at their stitches, as if he wished to speak.

  But then he shouldered the shovel and began dragging his chains away from her.

  “Wait!” She tugged at her shackles and lifted her head as high as she was able. “I’m not afraid of you!”

  It was true. She wasn’t. If a tiny part of its soul still belonged to Herald, she trusted him completely. She wouldn’t let the morbidity come between them or prevent her from making one small appeal.

  “Please help me!”

  He tapered to a stop and turned his head just to give her an ear. “He gets what he wants. . .” His lips never moved. And yet a whisper swirled over her, its sparkle visible, like an incoming frost.

  “Who does?” she asked and received no immediate answer. “Please, Herald. The chains. The shovel. While there’s still time!”

  He tinkered with his own chains while he deliberated, stroking them beneath his wrists. “Forgive me, my love.”

  And then his constraints shifted, forward not back. With him, not against him. He crested over a hill and disappeared into a gully of fog.

  In his absence, a new sound ebbed over her. Voices . . . moving closer . . . growing louder. By its rhythm, its haunting musicality, she knew it was a chant before she could make out the words.

  The clouds grew angrier overhead. With dashes of light, they rumbled and roared, and went black as night.

  “Let him come . . . Let him come . . .”r />
  The first flicker of firelight pierced through the barren branches of the surrounding forest. The orange glow abducted her eyes and made her heart quicken.

  Closer, they weaved—a procession of light that seemed to have no end.

  The people were carrying something . . . heavy, round, pale, except for the glow of fire emanating from . . . eyes and a mouth?

  But these were no Jack-o-lanterns.

  The possessed men, women, and children were unrecognizable, but the heads they carried?

  Law, Gospel, Blasphemy. . .

  Virtue thrashed with all her strength. Which wasn’t much. The hopelessness had soaked through her, making her cold and weak.

  She stopped moving. And started her own chant.

  Wake up . . . wake up . . . wake up!

  The nightmare refused to let her escape. It wasn’t done with her yet.

  “Let him come . . . Let him come!”

  One by one, the worshipers placed the severed heads on the ground beside her and kneeled behind them in prayer. They had her surrounded on three sides. Only three sides—the fourth, left vacant, from ankle to ankle.

  She thrashed until her limbs were bloody. “Herald! If you can hear me. I can’t do this. Kill me! Please!”

  Above her cries, they shouted louder.

  “Let him come! Let him come!”

  A breeze rustled the hem of her wedding dress. In. Out. In. Out. Each gust grew more persistent. It kept lifting her skirt, higher and longer, to a point it never dropped. The way she was angled, she could barely see around it.

  Maybe that was for the best.

  She closed her eyes but couldn’t tune out the rest. The moisture, like a hot breath, was building on her thighs. Even while holding her breath, she could smell the blood, earth, and burning flesh.

  The voices dimmed as if in anticipation. The sound that took its place . . . a low breathy rattle, as if a beast was either purring . . . or growling.

  Under the influence of some absolute power, Virtue’s eyes refused to stay shut. Pain was building in her abdomen and nothing real had even touched her yet.