The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  She screamed. That was all she could do. Her body would no longer move. But it could still feel every hot breath . . . every drip of moisture. Every anticipatory whisper of torture yet to come.

  Two red eyes appeared in her line of sight, high by the treetops. A snout followed. A chest that would make a barrel look small came into the firelight, its skin as red as fire. It had snakes for hands. At its naked waist, the broadest serpent of all reared its ferocious head.

  The hypnotic red eyes hovered over her. They blurred and distorted, faded and then closed in on her eyes. It was all she could see. All she could think about. All she was and would ever be.

  Was her head about to explode?

  Oh no, it assured her. Her mind would be the last to go.

  The true pain began as a sting between her legs. The pressure was building, building, slowly, writhing through her, engorging itself on her flesh, and then. . .

  A burst. An explosion of agony. Her dress became saturated with a deep crimson at her center, deeper and darker by the millisecond.

  She let out one final scream before she coughed and sputtered, choking on her own blood.

  ***

  Virtue was staring at a white ceiling. But she had no reason to stop screaming. She was still in chains.

  And she was still in Hell.

  Her stomach was twisting in knots that would not let up. She could still feel that beast inside of her, turning her pelvis into mush. Her head felt worse. The pounding and pressure clouded her vision with red spots. Considering the “medicine” they had force-fed her over the last—she couldn’t even guess how many hours—and the lack of food or water, it was amazing she could even pry herself out of her grisly stupor.

  She turned her head to the side with an explosive need to vomit. On a stretcher—her wrists and ankles chained to the side bars—she tugged hard, trying to roll over. The stretcher jostled from the force but steadied itself. With only a few inches of slack from her chains, her mess just barely made it over the edge of the mattress.

  Once her heart rate and breathing stabilized, she felt slightly less ill and had a chance to take in her surroundings. She was in some kind of laboratory or hospital. It smelled of disinfectant and sick people with a hint of spoiled food and human excrement.

  White curtains shrouded her view to the left. Was she alone in the room? Probably. The only thing she could hear was her own panicking. Although, on her right, a green-tinted light buzzed out a dim glow above an industrial-sized sink. It was probably the “night light.” That guess was the only thing that gave her any concept of time. There were no clocks or windows. No people roaming around to ask . . . barter with . . . or beg.

  A metal table full of surgical instruments stood about an arms-length away from the sink. Just past it and directly in front of her loomed a door. It was all the way open, kept that way with a doorstop, but it was too dark out there to see much other than the ominous outline of . . . bars. An occasional moan or cry would echo in. Then, a clank, and a sudden squeal of pain. Although it didn’t quite sound human, she found it hard to believe it was the voice of an animal.

  Virtue’s body—or what was left of it—was covered in a white sheet up to her neck. Even so, she shivered and it wasn’t just from fear. Shimmying around a little, she peeked down and figured out why she was so cold. The sheet was the only thing she was wearing.

  At that, she felt sick again. And then she was sick again.

  Then, her stomach settled for the time being. She tried to get a better look at herself. She scrambled to get the sheet off. With patience and persistence, she shifted it down to her abdomen and then her waist.

  Last she knew, her fertility and future were still narrowly in her possession. No stitches on her pelvis. No surgeries. No . . . penetration as far as she could tell. It’s not like they’d be gentle.

  But now, why the pain? All over.

  What did they do to me?

  Air filled her relieved lungs. Her stomach was smooth. No blood or scabs. What she was experiencing, could it just be nausea and cramps?

  Good news, but she had to get out of there.

  At her incessant wiggling and jerking, she was able to get the stretcher to move . . . inch, by inch, by inch. She needed those surgical instruments.

  Maybe she could unlock herself. Maybe she could defend herself. Maybe. . .

  Virtue was heading over at a less-than-ideal angle. She tried to correct her position, a little too overzealously, and . . . the entire stretcher tipped over. It fell into the instrument table. Both she and it went crashing to the ground.

  She hit her head on the unforgiving tile floor. And almost lost another round of bile from her empty stomach.

  The mattress was on top of her and so was half of the metal stretcher. The sheet was tangled around her limbs and chains, not even close to covering anything on her body, however. And the sharp objects fell . . . nowhere near her reach.

  Tears filled her eyes. And at that moment, she realized she had company.

  A bald woman hobbled into view, her chains clanking. A Fallow. She was able to move her hands with the ample amount of slack she had, but they were tethered to her feet. It all seemed a little much. She was elderly and there was something wrong with her legs. Her feet were bowed and she walked flatfooted. Even if she tried to run, how far would she get?

  “Looks like we had a little spill.” She spoke softly and glanced over her shoulder at the door, a bit fretfully. Then she widened her eyes at the extent of the disaster, from vomit, to toppled bed, to scattered instruments. “I hope you weren’t trying to escape.”

  Virtue didn’t answer, but she detected a note of sympathy in her eyes and jumped at the opportunity to get answers . . . anything that could help. “Where am I?”

  The woman crouched beside her, grinned solemnly and shook her head as if to say, what a poor, silly, stupid girl. “It doesn’t matter. There’s no way out. The best thing you can do is . . . behave. Less painful and humiliating that way.”

  “Painful?” Virtue questioned aloud. Humiliating? She wondered, also, though she bit her tongue before asking.

  How could things possibly get worse?

  They’re the best in the business. They’ll figure it out. He loves me. He’ll come for me. I know he will. . . .

  Her pathetic, wishful thinking was interrupted by a sweeping plod of footsteps . . . different ones, fast and determined. Angry even.

  “What . . . in the Redeemer’s name is all this racket about?”

  A man. His voice eerily smooth, calm, and slightly high-pitched, and yet the promise of misery came forth like a screech.

  A pair of tattered, foul-smelling slippers stopped in front of Virtue’s face. His dingy socks went up to the high shin. He had aberrantly hairy legs. Plaid boxer shorts. Lab coat. No pants.

  “You again,” he accused, though, as far as Virtue was aware, this was their first encounter.

  He squatted beside her and stroked a hand over her bald head. And she had no idea what he found attractive about her condition and situation, but that didn’t seem to stymie the bobbing below his waistband. His manhood, however small and enmeshed in curly gray hair that it was, even made an appearance.

  Virtue pinched her eyes shut and then couldn’t hold it in. She retched all over his slippers.

  The hideous man was also much stronger than he let on. He corrected the position of the mattress, and with his hands roughly to her ribcage and hips, he tipped everything back upright in one swoop.

  The sheet that had been her only source of warmth and protection slipped to the floor. And he didn’t make any effort to retrieve it for her. She was just splayed there, chained and naked.

  “Get this cleaned up,” he barked at the old woman, who was already in the process of tidying up the various messes Virtue had made.

  “Right away, Dr. Asmodeus.”

  She worked surprisingly fast for someone so encumbered. Behave was her word of advice. She not only practiced it but believ
ed in it.

  The surgical instruments were back in place. She used the sheet to mop up the rest. With a clean spot, she even dabbed at her master’s slippers. He tolerated it, at first, but soon nudged her off. “Leave us.”

  He watched her stagger out of the room. Then he set one hand on Virtue’s stomach and dug every one of his possessive fingertips into her internal organs. At the same time, the beady eyes behind his glasses drifted all over her, eventually settling in on her face. He smiled, revealing black-shadowed teeth at her show of what could only be terror. “Now . . . what am I to do with you?”

  Was she supposed to answer that?

  Her whole body was shaking at this point for any number of reasons—the chill, dehydration, drug withdrawal, infection . . . or shock. “What do you want from me?” she spoke up through chattering teeth. The silence—and his hyper-focused gaze—too unnerving to leave be.

  “Banknotes,” he said quite matter-of-factly, shrugging one shoulder. “That pristine flower of yours was worth a small fortune. But, with all the trouble you and your little friends have caused—abandoning your Fallow obligations, destruction of church property, killing Authorities. Some of our best, brightest, and most loyal, by the way. A few, I knew personally. They had wives and children. They were good citizens. Good clients. They always gave back. But they’re gone now. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

  He began tracing light circles and figure-eights over her breasts and around her nipples, a process that became abrasive as fingernails and pressure were gradually applied.

  Behave. Don’t answer. Behave. Don’t answer. . .

  “Cheated and very angry,” he supplied after a pause for effect. “And, unfortunately, what you’re worth is nowhere near enough to compensate for those financial and personal losses. Since I can’t exactly bleed my clients dry, it’s you who now owes me.”

  The “doctor” walked away and dragged over the table of surgical instruments, all of which were now unsterile.

  “What do you owe me, you might ask?” He picked up a scary looking instrument . . . a speculum . . . or something along those lines . . . and he squeezed it wide open before her even wider eyes. “Pleasure,” he stated, setting the surgical tool back down. “Oh, no, no, no!” he laughed. “I’m not a monster! A virgin is a virgin. That’s our guarantee.” He pulled out keys from his spacious lab coat pocket. “But. . .” He unlocked both of her ankle chains. She thought about kicking him, while she had the chance, but he had grabbed her by the shins and flipped her over onto her stomach before she could inspire her muscles to move. Her wrists were crossed over her head. All slack was gone. Almost all vision too, unless she lifted her head. It was hard to figure out where exactly he was. As if he suspected she might lash out with her “free” limb, he was well out of range anyway. “I can’t let your new master have all the fun.”

  For some reason, he locked back up only one of her ankles. She knew better than to believe that was a good thing.

  Next, he reached for a long rod. He presented it with a flourish and then traced the cold metal down her spine. As he crested over her behind, she finally used that free leg to kick at him.

  She made contact a couple of times, but it did little more than amuse him . . . and then anger him. Once he captured her foot by the toes, he crushed it against the mattress with unbearable force. With his dominant hand, he then took a hard swing at her exposed flesh with the rod . . . again, and again, and again. Legs, back, bottom. He did not discriminate.

  When he had his fill of that, many long seconds—minutes later?—he set the rod down and hugged her leg against his chest. He stroked his fingers lightly over her calf and the bottom of her foot, as if he were consoling a small child.

  “There, there. Go ahead. Cry those tears.”

  She had no choice but to obey. She had no strength left to keep them in. Or any will.

  “You’re not going to be any more trouble, are you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good. Because if you are, I have so many brothers . . . sons . . . nephews, and they aren’t at all particular.”

  She nodded.

  “That’s a good girl.” He patted her on the raw bottom. Then all tenderness left his touch. He flexed her foot hard, squeezed it in his fist and clamped it to his chest. “And, one last thing, and then we’re square, all right?”

  He reached for what looked like . . . a bone saw?

  “I was going to save this until your surgery first thing tomorrow. There is quite the list of things to improve upon, but, I just can’t wait,” he claimed, annunciating every “t.”

  He brought the saw to the back of her heel.

  “No!”

  She put up a hopeless fight. But he held on to her leg so tight, she couldn’t even flex her knee. And the more she squirmed otherwise, the harder he clenched. Her bones were about to snap. She buried her face in the mattress . . . when they finally gave way.

  It all made sense. Why that other Fallow would never run, even if she was capable. Behave was the only choice she had. “Doctor Asmodeus” made sure of it.

  “Shhhh. . .” he purred. She expected a hard, quick slash, but no. He slowly grinded through the back of her heel, every tooth of the saw felt and endured. “The Fallow are sleeping. There is to be no more yelling.”

  She didn’t listen. She couldn’t. She screamed her lungs out. Was he taking her entire foot off?

  “That’s enough,” he said, calmly . . . coldly. “I want you quiet. Do you understand?” He held the blade in place. He stopped sawing, but he increased the pressure against what had to be pure bone by now.

  Her words flew out. “I do. I understand.”

  “It’s for the best that way.” Wasting no more time, he picked up where he left off. She bit down on her lip and buried her mouth, her nose, her breath. She wished she could do the same for her ears. Grate, grind, crack. “Because tomorrow, considering how much you still technically owe me, general anesthesia is, of course, optional. And we have a lot of flesh to snip through, including this other heel.”

  He plucked the saw out of what remained of her left foot. Was it still attached? She thought it was hanging on by a thread, but she didn’t dare check or try to move it. She didn’t think she could even if she made it her goal to find out.

  As her shin collapsed lifelessly to the mattress, sopping wet with her blood, Asmodeus took a hard swing at her right heel, launching the functional bones and muscles left in her body into another lurch.

  It must have been the blunt end, though. It exploded with pain that gradually dulled and did not feel wet.

  “That’ll be all.” He set the saw back on the table of dirty surgical instruments and walked to the door, not even bothering to chain back up her bloody, useless leg.

  In the doorway, he paused, gripping the trim for support. He closed his eyes. His jaw dropped. And a convulsive wave of pleasure ripped through him, culminating in his epic, drawn out, holy release.

  “Have a nice night,” he supplied jovially once he caught his breath.

  He just stood there in soiled boxer shorts and a red-speckled lab coat, watching her bleed and tremble—no stitches, no blanket, no medicine, no nothing—while smiling like a madman.

  “You’ll pay for this,” Virtue murmured, her voice too meek and broken to do more than make him giggle.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, you see? Don’t you know that God’s on my side?”

  Finally, he left her alone with her hate. She hated him, the Captain, and God for being such sadistic bastards. And she hated herself more than anyone or anything. Because . . . they were righteous and she . . . was just a cripple, a slave, and a whore.

  Perhaps a corpse that would soon be lost and forgotten.

  But again, she didn’t think she was that lucky.

  Chapter 16

  Blasphemy

  “Is it that bad?” Blasphemy took Gospel aside to whisper.

  He made a wide-eyed, it’s as bad as it gets express
ion to answer her as everyone began filtering over.

  Herald, however, was left by the wall in pieces. He wouldn’t move. Or lower his hands from his ears. It was Doxy who eventually convinced him to snap out of it . . . to not give up. To hear and listen. To think and then do.

  She escorted him over by the arm, some tugging required. They were the last ones to come over, turning the formation into a circle.

  Gospel took a moment to light a lantern. He set it on the ground in the center of their group. Stuck in the gutter in the dark of night with awful things going on outside, the steady flame would likely be their only reprieve for a while.

  He didn’t exactly flourish underneath the pressure of the many demanding eyes, but his fists twitched closed and stayed that way. He was holding himself firm. “Well, she’s probably alive and I know where she is.”

  Herald brushed his palm over his face, his first attempt to pull himself together. “But?”

  “They. . .” Gospel accused and then paused. “Took her to the Town Magistrate,” he finished softly, but there wasn’t a single person who missed hearing him.

  Their reactions varied.

  Parody shook her head, crossed her uninjured arm over her stomach. Doxy answered her with a rolling-eyed glance as if to say, Figures. . .

  Meanwhile, Herald brought a shaky fist to his forehead as if he meant to pull an invisible knife out from between his eyes.

  And Law looked taken aback. Then a higher awareness flushed through his cheeks. It almost looked like guilt. “The Braintrees. . .” he stated, his voice airy with disbelief.

  “You know them?” Doxy volleyed at him.

  Law turned to Herald. With an offhanded flutter of his fingers, he gave Law permission to explain . . . and apparently break The Chronicles code that protected their anonymity.

  “By blood . . . they’re family. Solomon’s my great uncle.”

  Although Herald apparently knew this already, everyone else reacted with a combination of shock and silent judgement that seemed to weigh heavy on Law. And that said something. He wasn’t one to buckle to anyone, ever.