He intended it to be a compliment. And, thankfully, that’s the way she took it—with a headshake and wry smile. “I’d call it poor choices and dumb luck!”
“Don’t all good stories start out that way?” he bantered back. He began his own attempt to haul his solid body off the ground. “You can wait here, if you’d like,” he suggested. “We’ll get you up.”
Of that, he was sure. She was the tiniest by far. He alone could pull her up and Gospel was up there to help as well.
That was assuming Herald could make it to the top himself. About halfway there, he began to question it. The rock crevice had been supplying places to set a foot and rest, but they had since phased out. Now the rock was rippled with tiny bumps here and there. Otherwise, it was flat, smooth, and slippery from the ocean mist.
What was left of his pride had him making progress more than his actual strength did. He didn’t want Gospel to regret choosing him. Herald would have gone to Virtue’s rescue anyway. Gospel’s curt nod of approval when Herald crested over the top, however, made him feel better about the whole ordeal.
After they pulled Blasphemy to the top, Herald checked on the handgun. It was still secured to his belt.
I know when the time comes, you will not hesitate to use this.
Gospel’s precise words.
Security would have a fierce presence, even if they remained unaware of their efforts to get closer.
Herald took the gun in his hand. And they trailed along the edge of the cliff where they could, a path which became treacherous at times. Then, slowly moving inland, the sand became shrubs, the shrubs turned to trees, the trees to woods, and with the ocean waves so dynamic down below, they didn’t have to worry so much about every twig that cracked beneath their footsteps.
“Now,” Gospel whispered once the Compound appeared in the clearing ahead. “We just have to find the best way in.”
They had to let that thought settle in silence. The crunch of gravel was moving closer to their hiding spot.
Herald exchanged glances with Gospel and began lifting the gun, just in case. But Gospel held out his hand to caution him.
An Authority Figure passed by. There was no urgency or suspicion in his motion. He even began whistling a cheerful little tune. Oh, just another great day of inflicting misery upon the defenseless.
Fortunately for Herald’s throbbing ears, the shrillness eventually faded.
“I know one,” Blasphemy offered when the wind’s rattle through the autumn leaves made it safe to whisper. “By that old maple.” She had incredible eyes or knew beforehand that the tree in question was a maple. “He sleeps with his window open.”
Gospel was about to drive forward in pursuit of it—the coast was clear—but the same thought must have crossed his mind too. “And who is he, might we ask?”
Herald wasn’t going to be the one to say anything. That’s because, for once, he wasn’t the one who was jealous.
He could have sworn he heard somewhere that Gospel was of the homosexual persuasion, if anything. But now, he wasn’t quite so sure that was the case.
“Caleb.” In the moonlight, her eyes were empty of attachment, but her voice was so full of . . . regret? “He’s my daughter’s father.”
***
The window they sought was, in fact, cracked open. Even in late October in the Maineland. And contrary to its many, many, counterparts down the line, which were all shut and undoubtedly locked. The first-floor windows had white-painted bars over them, but they were still bars all the same no matter how pleasantly they blended in with the visage.
Perhaps this Caleb character wasn’t a religious rule-abider. None of them were, of course, and they had the noxious habit of picking and choosing. Security wasn’t one they were known for brushing aside, however.
Gospel was the first to climb the aging maple, jump like he had wings, and enter the second-story vulnerability. He made no more noise than the wind against a pane of glass all while brandishing the assault rifle and carrying his knapsack on his back. He was in place, ready to shoot, while Caleb slept soundly, never the wiser.
In comparison, Herald clattered into Caleb’s “humble” abode one long limb at a time. Luckily, it was at the exact moment Blasphemy shook his shoulder to wake him. Blasphemy had a hand over his mouth just as he was about to gasp.
As much as Herald felt responsible for Blasphemy’s descent to Fallowhood, this handsome young Braintree had to be more to blame by at least tenfold. Surely, he had the means to marry her and the connections to do so seamlessly, even if she was with child. And Blasphemy didn’t seem the sort to take on that risk without careful consideration. She must have loved him and believed it was forever.
Maybe Caleb didn’t deserve a bullet, but he certainly didn’t earn himself any pity.
Gospel had things under control, his finger on the trigger, but Herald had no qualms about pointing the second gun in his face.
“You make a sound, I shoot you,” Gospel began, shuffling forward. “You move, I shoot you. You don’t help us . . . you guessed it. Are you with me so far?”
With wildly wide eyes, Caleb managed a nod.
Blasphemy lowered her hand.
“Rita,” was the first word that tumbled out of his mouth.
Herald already knew Blasphemy’s real name. He was the only person who knew everyone’s on staff. Gospel wasn’t necessarily aware of hers, but he never let on as if it was any new information. And besides the flick of Blasphemy’s eyes in Herald’s direction, she didn’t make a big deal out of it, either. “Hi, Caleb.”
This young man was no “warrior of the cause.” Either cause. For or against. Therefore, soft and sweet was probably the right way to go with him, and Blasphemy did deliver.
Caleb’s eyes wandered over what was once a girl named Rita. Not today, though. She had a shaved head, mouth studs, and blood stains. And if she wasn’t Blasphemy, she’d be nothing more than what the code on her arm told her to be.
A flicker of guilt washed over his expression. Better late than never.
“What . . . happened?” he asked, his shock a bit excessive given the situation. What did he expect to happen to the work-to-the-bone girl he impregnated and abandoned?
“I was caught and wouldn’t bend to them. That’s what happened.”
“And the baby?”
“Your daughter’s fine . . . as far as I know.”
He breathed a little easier. “You should have come to me. I would have—”
“Look. What’s done is done. That’s not why I’m here. . . .”
She gave him the abbreviated run-down and appealed to him in a way that only she could. But it became clear that he wasn’t brave, overly principled, defiant, all that knowledgeable or even that curious about what went on in “The Vault” that was “downstairs.”
I see nothing . . . I hear nothing . . . I do nothing.
But he seemed more human than not. Blasphemy’s plight and Herald’s tragic love story found their way into his little conscience, though not without persistence, hashing, and yes . . . the guns helped too.
“Even with the key,” Caleb did well to complain. It struck Herald’s ears like a whine. “It’s not like you can just walk right down there. There are cameras and security checkpoints. I don’t even know how to get in. I’m not that privileged! And . . . and . . .”
There was always another “and” doled out to convince them that they had the wrong man and it was a terrible plan.
“Just tell us where the key is and we’ll handle the rest,” Blasphemy said, perhaps her final effort to acquire what they needed from him without brute force.
“My father has one,” he finally admitted. “He keeps his personal items in the top drawer of his bureau. But now might not be the best time. He wakes up pretty early!”
“And who’s your father?” Gospel asked, finally lowering the rifle, leaving Herald in charge of his cooperation.
“Leviathan. His room’s the suite at the end of the
hall.”
Herald almost chuckled. Soft golden curls, effeminate blue eyes, and son of Leviathan Braintree, number two in command of the household and the town, and the kid had the nerve to say he wasn’t privileged. It made every other word he said that much less believable.
“Why don’t you let me—”
Caleb shifted to get out of bed, to help, it seemed, only to be put right back there by Gospel’s glare, one so resentful, so deeply disturbing that even Blasphemy startled at the sight of it. Pointing the barrel of the gun at him again would have been kinder.
Blasphemy set her hand on Caleb’s chest, just to keep him there. “He’s got it,” she said of Gospel, peering at him, baffled at first, and then her look struck back with get over it and get the job done.
Only when her hand slinked back did Gospel leave the room.
“Sheesh,” she muttered under her breath.
Revealing this secret certainly had personal ramifications. Someday Herald would have to tell her how much he appreciated it. Not now, however. A glance out the window revealed an orange hue peeking through on the horizon.
Where did the night go?
They didn’t have a moment to lose. Gospel was back before he found the words anyway.
He presented the key ring on his index finger and kept the wad of them quiet with his thumb. Underneath his other arm, Gospel was carrying a garment bag.
“Phew,” Caleb emitted. “I’m glad that worked. Best of luck with everything.”
When he reached down to pull up the bedcovers, Gospel actually laughed. Then he chucked the garment bag into Caleb’s lap. “Put it on,” was the order. It was backed by another threat of a bullet.
Caleb peered down, his confusion evident, and unzipped . . . a dark gray suit. “What’s this for?”
He turned to Blasphemy for the answer, but Herald supplied it first. “He’s right. You look like him.”
Caleb did, indeed, resemble his pompous prick of a father. Herald had seen him once. He could have met him if he had wanted to. At a Portsmith University event. Herald’s aversion for him was purely instinct at the time. Even so, it burned Leviathan’s fake smile and finely polished sleaze into his memory for all of eternity.
Gospel’s plan wasn’t foolproof. But it would get them further than any ordinary attempt to sneak past the cameras would.
“This is insane! If they catch me, I’ll be no better off than you are!”
“Aw, life is hard,” Gospel taunted in reply, earning a twitch of a smile from Herald. “Now get the fuck up! This is how it’s gonna go.”
***
Herald had to give it to Gospel. He was a con artist extraordinaire. In just a few minutes, he had Caleb dressed-to-impress in his father’s suit. He had also raided Caleb’s closet, quickly identifying a white Holy Reclamation Academy sweater. It had the Redeemer’s black double cross knitted into the front of it.
Tossing it over, Herald put it on over his button-up dress shirt that had seen better days. Underneath his black blazer, the sweater would help him pass, at least on camera, as an Authority Figure.
Blasphemy was another trick of the eye. She was already in her Fallow jumpsuit. Blotched with dirt and blood, she didn’t have to pretend very hard that she had a rough start to her new existence. She would then “struggle” in front of Herald with her hands behind her. That would enable her to keep her camera out of sight. It would be prepped to snap and capture when the time was right.
Gospel claimed he’d follow them and that no one would see him. “If they’re on to us, the sirens will sound,” he added, his last words of advice before they experienced their first brush with the Compound’s inner defenses. “We keep up the act until they do.”
“And what happens then?” Herald asked.
He paused at the door before opening it. “We run like Hell.”
Without further ado, they slipped into the hallway. It was early Saturday morning, just before dawn. There were a few showers running. They could overhear voices here and there. Giggles in some cases. Faint banging on the wall. Man and wives enjoying the thrill of the early morning, always willing to serve God by spreading that Braintree light.
But, overall, the passageways were dim, quiet, and empty.
Caleb led them through the low-traffic areas that were familiar to him, not with his father’s confidence, but at least with obedience. Gospel made sure of that.
They descended below ground level.
No sirens . . . yet. But they had only tackled the easy part.
It was after the first locked door that the Authorities would be looking for trouble.
Another locked door followed. Key entry. Another one . . . and in again.
They didn’t look at the cameras but didn’t hide from them either.
After a while, Caleb couldn’t guide them through the maze anymore . . . or so he claimed. Gospel had to take over.
What was he surveying?
Exposed pipes and wires, lighting, camera placement?
They circumvented as many guard stations as they could, but, eventually, the closer they seemed to get to their destination, the harder that became. They had to go through one . . . or more.
The first one they encountered, they hit the jackpot. It was empty. But the second. . .
“What in the Redeemer’s name are you doing down here?” the Authority Figure said, rising from his chair at the sight of Caleb. Herald pushed Blasphemy into the room and positioned her beside him.
And Gospel snuck his rifle in between them all.
He fired. The rifle had a silencer on it and Herald knew the shot was coming, but it still made him jolt.
He peeked out the door. It was no doubt overheard by someone.
“What was that for?” Caleb hollered. He marched forward at their request, his footsteps heavy with reluctance. He was too busy trying to get a glimpse of Gospel behind him. “I didn’t think you were going to kill anyone!”
Gospel ignored him, and hastened Caleb’s pace with the gun digging into his back. “Hurry.” He swiped the keys from Caleb and placed them in Herald’s hands. “We’re close,” he informed him, nudging the body of the Authority Figure underneath the desk with his foot.
A fast stride was coming toward them from down the hall.
“I’ll hold them off . . . and catch up soon.” Gospel covered the entryway while Herald ushered Caleb and Blasphemy out the door across the room.
And they had, unarguably, walked through the gates of Hell.
The Fallow were wallowing like reanimated corpses. They were chained up and behind bars. Those who weren’t sleeping or dead, were using what remained of their voices begging for eternal rest.
The Braintrees weren’t just slave masters and sex traffickers. They were crypt keepers!
“This is what Gospel kills for. Do you blame him?” Blasphemy muttered to Caleb under her breath.
While Caleb was coming to terms with his shock, Blasphemy was adjusting her camera, snapping shots that required a flash. The lighting wasn’t particularly accommodating.
And neither was the odor. Herald pulled the sweater over his nose. Human excrement . . . and decomposition . . . mixed with the full sensory burn of a powerful disinfectant. Nauseating wouldn’t do it justice.
As much as Herald wished to be the hero for all, they were running dangerously low on time. The sirens would blare . . . any second. Herald could practically feel it clamoring through his head already.
“Run,” Blasphemy told Herald, seemingly in agreement. “I’ll find you in a sec.”
He didn’t want to get separated from anyone, but Virtue needed him. Blasphemy’s pictures—if they ever saw the light of day—would have to save the rest. If there was anyone left to save. . . .
He glanced over the bodies while moving as swiftly as possible, his gun down but ready.
Virtue’s head had been shaved, he remembered, but they had neglected to give her the piercings for some reason. And yes, it had been a rough couple of days.
Food and water, no doubt, were in limited supply. But it had been only days and not the years most of the Fallow in “The Vault” had clearly endured. In theory, she should still resemble a normal, healthy twenty-one-year-old woman.
But there were so many Fallow to scour through, some in better shape than others. Newly acquired, perhaps? More expensive?
All the while, he wondered, completely baffled and outraged. How did they get away with this for so long? Even when there were men and women out there who had made it their life purpose to expose this level of inequity. Those responsible were their town’s leaders and lawmakers, no less! Is that how they positioned themselves so far out of reach?
Not anymore. . .
Their days are numbered. And they will pay.
Although the cells of the Fallow continued on his right as far as he could see, a hospital exam room appeared to his left. The lights were dim in that one, but two rooms down . . . bright light, male voices, light banter. And he could hear them, doing things he almost had trouble believing a human could survive. Buzzing, pounding, grinding. If he didn’t know any better, he would have assumed they were building a goddamn house!
Before he even looked inside the room—call it instinct, or good sense, or an eerie premonition—he could tell it was Virtue they were dissecting.
After a deep breath, he did what he came here to do. Find her.
And it wasn’t the hideous men in lab coats, the barbaric tools they were using, or the gore everywhere that caught his attention first. Not her naked, inert body, not even a single scrap of cloth there to give her warmth or privacy. It wasn’t the metal studs and rods that were being forced through her extremities. Or the mangled foot, so caked in dried blood that it looked like a small flayed animal. This would all sink in and infuriate him, beyond measure or compare, within an instant or two.
Instead, it was her sleeping, unmistakable, angelic face. She’d wake up and nothing would ever be the same. But, for a fleeting moment, while she slept and before he gave his heart away to the bitterness and a whole body need for revenge, maybe they could both still pretend they’d have a long, happy life together.
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