The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  There was some good left in the world. If God meant well, he would forgive Herald for what he had to do. And if he didn’t, well, then, he’d gladly suffer the consequences.

  He marched in and pointed the gun at the creep slicing into Virtue’s lower abdomen. “Drop what you’re doing!”

  The doctor . . . surgeon of heartlessness . . . was . . . sterilizing her! And where he abandoned the gash, she was bleeding profusely!

  Herald took a gulp and attempted to steady his violently shaking hands. If . . . when he fired the gun, he’d have to shoot straight! How was that even possible?

  He swung toward the motion at the top of Virtue’s stretcher. There were four of them . . . and one of him. They all had sharp objects in hand.

  The squirrelly looking gouger on the left was the first to obey. He pulled the sharp rod from Virtue’s lower lip, dropped it to the floor, and put his hands in the air. The two others closely resembled the first—how did their fathers, uncles, cousins and probably their mothers tell these mutants apart?

  Two of the evil triplets followed the first one’s lead. The long needle and serrated blade made a racket as they settled on the tile.

  More blood began gushing out of Virtue. Out of her lips and fingertips. She appeared to be missing a few fingernails.

  “On your knees! In a line!” Herald skimmed the gun over their faces and pointed out where he meant for them to go. “Hands behind your head!”

  They took his demands seriously.

  Three ducks all in a row. . .

  But the first lowlife—the shirtless, pantless, dirty old man and clearly the most experienced monster in the room—lifted his scalpel but had the nerve to smile.

  His happy mouth lifted further just as the sirens began their mind-numbing rise and fall.

  The fluorescent lighting dimmed. Flashing red emergency lights took over.

  “Drop it!” Herald lifted the gun higher, aiming directly between his jammed-together eyes. “Now!”

  The man simply shook his head and laughed, though the scalpel did clatter to the ground. “You must be the one and only Herald!” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard so much about you! I admire your ambition, but you’ll never win.”

  “And you must be Dr. Asmodeus Braintree.”

  “That’s right!” the doctor replied as if Herald had said his name with reverence rather than contempt. “My reputation precedes me as well!”

  “Over there! On your knees!”

  With his hands lackadaisically raised, Asmodeus shuffled in his slippers over to his accomplices on the floor. He kneeled beside them.

  Rapid gunfire erupted outside of the room.

  Gospel. . .

  He hoped.

  Blasphemy suddenly appeared at the edge of Herald’s vision. Her camera was clicking. Papers were rustling.

  Tenacity. Her job, not his. . .

  Herald placed the gun to Asmodeus’ forehead.

  “You don’t want blood on your hands,” he scoffed after a bout of freakish giggling. “You said so yourself!”

  “That does sound like something I would have said. But, times have changed.”

  “Herald?” Gospel called out from what sounded like the doorway. “We’ve gotta go!”

  “You won’t kill me,” Asmodeus continued, darker now, lurching forward a little, causing Herald to take a step back and readjust his aim. “You don’t have it in you. You are weak,” he seethed. “You’re a helpless child, wet behind the ears, still sucking at the teat!”

  “Just kill him, Herald,” Gospel interjected, ducking into the room between shots. He became the half of Herald’s conscience that rested upon his other shoulder. Who wore the halo? In times like these, it was impossible to tell. “Don’t let him get in your head!”

  What was going through his head? The sirens. The blinking red lights. Rage that was flooding into his fingertip. And a few choice words. “Honestly, you don’t deserve a bullet to the brain. . . .”

  Asmodeus smiled again, emitting a blast of warm air that reeked like the dead. “I’m glad we see eye to eye.”

  “No . . . you should be torn, limb by limb, and fed, while you’re still intact enough to watch, to all those poor creatures out there who were once human. But, you’re lucky I’m in a hurry. See you in Hell.”

  The gun fired. And then went head, to head, to head. Four bullets. And not once did Herald hesitate . . . or miss.

  The bodies collapsed on top of each other. Dr. Asmodeus Braintree made up the bottom layer of the pile of scum. He was exactly where he belonged.

  Herald stuffed the gun back in his belt. While Blasphemy went to work unwiring and de-tubing Virtue, Herald glanced at the master key he had ready in hand. He moved it toward her wrist chains. It wasn’t going to fit!

  More gunshots. “I’m running out of ammo,” Gospel warned them.

  The sirens continued to interfere with his already shot nerves. Though his fingers were halfway useless, his gut told him to dig through the bodies. And finally, in Asmodeus’s lab coat, he pulled out another set of keys. He had the big one . . . the master, but there were a variety of other keys as well, all shapes and sizes.

  “It looks like a small cross,” Blasphemy called out. “Try silver.”

  Right. The cuffs were silver.

  Grooved keys, flat keys, gold keys, and alas! A narrow silver one with a small cross at the end.

  Each cuff snapped open.

  Naked . . . bleeding . . . unconscious. Their next challenge.

  He maneuvered his arms out of his blazer while Blasphemy lifted the top of Virtue’s limp body for him.

  Even in the dimness of the flashing red lights. Even in such haste. The grotesque purple bruises all over her back were impossible to overlook. He had to force his gaze not to linger.

  “What did they do to her?” Blasphemy wondered aloud. But it wasn’t the type of question where she expected an immediate answer.

  They slipped her arms in the sleeves of the coat, buttoned it once, and it was one, two, three lift!

  With Virtue draped over his shoulder, he nearly lost his footing on the bloodbath as they dashed over to Gospel.

  But Herald found his balance . . . in more ways than one. It would only get worse for her if they failed to get out of there.

  They had come so far. How unbearable would it be if this was their end?

  Caleb caught up to them in the hall. “This way,” he insisted.

  They had no choice but to trust him.

  With two master keys in their possession—one passed off to Blasphemy and the other one placed in Caleb’s hands—they took turns, opening, holding the door, or running ahead to the next one—and they made steady progress, staying a door or two beyond the reach of their pursuers. For the most part. . .

  While Gospel was shooting the rifle in the rear, all Herald had to do was carry Virtue and keep up.

  Harder and harder and harder as they turned a corner and began climbing long flights of stairs.

  At the top of the third landing, the first window to the outside appeared. It had no bars and bestowed upon them a near holy display of daylight.

  Gospel bashed through it with the butt of his rifle, kicking out the final shards.

  It was about eight feet off the ground. But. . .

  Blasphemy climbed out first. Caleb went after her. Herald handed off Virtue to them. His feet hit the ground next. The thump was accompanied by . . . gunshots.

  With Virtue back over his shoulder, Herald’s head turned. They could spare a pause. But that was it. He could already feel Virtue’s blood soaking through the nice white sweater Caleb had let him “borrow.” Plus, they were out in the open now. No more locks. No more walls to hide behind. And few bullets left of their own.

  Gospel would catch up. He always did.

  He had his head out the window and looked about to jump, when. . .

  Shots were fired, closer this time. They hit something and Gospel wasn’t the one who had fired them.

  H
is leap turned into a flail and finished . . . as a collapse.

  Gospel had enough of his faculties left to roll a shoulder down to cradle his head and the front of his body.

  From the fetal position, he pressed his hand against the ground. His chest lifted. A knee went beneath him. But he was unsteady and shaking. While Blasphemy and Caleb ran to him, he gave Herald a look—blank with shock, but also pleading and vulnerable.

  It was sometimes easy to forget how young he was. Twenty-two. Only Virtue was younger. But now, with his skin going pale and his movement so brittle, it became painfully evident.

  He was too young to die.

  Blasphemy had Gospel’s arm over her shoulder and began helping him move. Caleb attempted to go to his other side. He reached for Gospel’s trench coat. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Don’t fucking touch me!” Gospel flared and with such unprecedented emotion. It was both haunting . . . and telling.

  He’d rather die than accept charity from a Braintree . . . again. But if he did die, he’d never reap the spoils of his vendetta.

  Gospel tried to push Blasphemy away too. “Just go. Leave me!”

  But Blasphemy struck back on the rebound. She grabbed him by the coat lapels just as he teetered toward another collapse. “I’m going to say this only once. And get it through your fucking head. You’re going to fight harder. And you’re going to make it out of here with us. Is that clear?”

  Without any further delay, Herald turned and jogged, carrying Virtue toward the tree cover. He didn’t have to look back to know that Blasphemy had won that round. She’d soon be behind him with company times two. Even Gospel wasn’t damaged or stubborn enough to offer up another bout of resistance.

  But, his will to appease her, to be the better man, would only get him so far. What did the bullets hit, exactly? At any moment, his body could give out!

  And . . . what then?

  Chapter 18

  Law

  Why did I listen to them?

  After dark twists and tight turns. Narrow tunnels followed by even narrower tunnels. . .

  Where were they going exactly?

  Law had no idea. And his inquiries were met with, “We won’t be long.”

  But it was late. Or way too early. He’d lost track! They hadn’t slept well in over a week. And he had Blasphemy’s film to worry about! He wasn’t Herald, 5’11”, and made of muscle. Or Gospel, cunning and ferocious as a ninja assassin. One wallop and Law would be down for the count! The film would tumble out of his pocket. And that would be the end of all hope.

  But, of course, his pleading and persistence were chastised with, “Live a little.”

  This is what he did know; if he set his already soaked shoes in one more murky pool of water, slipped on or placed his hand upon one more sludgy, foul, indecipherable substance, he was going to lose it!

  Millhouse Road. That was their destination. Gospel’s directions had been clear enough. But Doxy claimed they had to make a stop first. “Oh, I know where that is,” she flippantly assured him when he adamantly insisted they go in the direction he was told.

  Rather than surface back to civilization, she and Parody continued to burrow their way through the distasteful underbelly of Portsmith. The tunnels were perhaps part of the underground network that ensured the survival of the Godly way back when. He couldn’t think of another reason there’d be a rat maze of corridors and inlets, some with doors, some without.

  The wall sketches were the only things worth looking at. Nothing profound. Smiley circles and rainbows. It was hard to believe the children from the Dark Times and transitional years knew enough about rainbows or smiles to depict them.

  Sometimes humanity was capable of surprising him.

  And as soon as that thought came to mind, it took a fast way out. He should have been watching where he was stepping!

  While his attention was consumed by what was caked on the bottom of his shoe, Doxy suddenly jabbed a pointed elbow into his ribs. “Would you stop sulking?”

  “I literally have shit on my shoe! What am I supposed to be doing?”

  “Oh, right. That’s why,” she replied, her skeptical, all-knowing eyes rolling up a storm.

  Parody gave his shoes a cursory glance. “It’s just mud. You’re overreacting.”

  The lantern was nearly six feet away from his feet. There was no way he would trust her assessment.

  At the first opportunity, he stepped in a puddle and tried to scrape off the stubborn substance.

  “Awww,” Doxy droned, leaning down with the lantern, taking a whiff. “I think Law is actually right. It is shit! I hope they’re not the calfskin leather ones Daddy had specially made for you.”

  “False!” he stated, trying his damnedest to maintain composure. “Those were holier than the Redeemer a long long time ago.”

  He gave up with a sigh. On his shoes. And also his effort to convince anyone he was different and special.

  “Once a Braintree. Always a Braintree.”

  Parody smiled sweetly at him once he caught up. Doxy stole her attention with the face she was pulling. And in their secret, man-hating language, they laughed at the joke that was all on him, until he was sure their sides would ache.

  “Can we keep that under wraps, please?” he said, once there was a chance they would hear him. “And do you mind telling me where we’re going?”

  “I need my arm set,” Parody said soberly after the last of the giggles subsided.

  Cheap medical treatment for the Fallow in the middle of the night? He was definitely out of his realm.

  And what irked him the most? He was supposed to be leading. And what was he doing instead? Following . . . blindly.

  He should have just left the Fallow to their own devices. They didn’t need him. No one did. Not in times like these. That’s because law was as good as dead and his skills were therefore obsolete.

  “We know a guy,” Doxy informed him through an expressive . . . and very telling exhale.

  “I bet you do.” It was now Law’s turn to do some digging. He had earned it. “Let me guess. Is his name Dr. Slash? Blade, MD? Nurse Vile?”

  He was now talking while walking backwards in front of Doxy.

  She crossed her arms . . . clearly unamused. “It’s just Lance.”

  He clapped his hands and spun back around. His grimy shoes helped him glide back into place beside them with panache. “I can’t believe how close I was!”

  “All right, Law. You’re very clever and extremely funny,” Doxy said in a tone that was bone dry. “But do you think you could keep it down now? We’re almost there.”

  They reached what appeared to be an underground “intersection,” a wider one at that. Lurking by the walls and in the darkest corners, the whites of a few eyes flashed open at the sight of them.

  Doxy was right. Best to keep the insults to a mum. Especially about a man named Lance.

  Dribs and drabs of people began to accumulate into a small crowd. Before long, they were waiting beside a rusty metal door that had two words chiseled into the top of it. Shaft City.

  Just what I need. . .

  The door swung open. A distant pulse became a grating drumbeat. Red and blue lighting scattered a pattern across the entryway and illuminated the sentry on duty.

  Parody lifted her ill-wrapped arm, the blood peeking through. With a three-fingered wave, he called her forward.

  Law trailed in after Doxy. He nodded cordially to the beast of a man he was attempting to pass. It was no surprise that he glowered down at him. He was taller than Law by far, even from his seated position.

  He, did, however, let Law live and that may have been attributable to Doxy’s very kind and timely, “He’s with us.”

  Law moved over the threshold and let out the breath he had been holding. He didn’t dare look back.

  Eyes low, mouth shut. It wasn’t easy for him, but he’d manage.

  Where were they exactly? He had never even heard of Shaft City. But he was more of
an above ground rebel. And that made him stand out like a beacon of privilege. It was an unfair assessment, but looking around the seedy establishment, he could understand why.

  He didn’t want to gawk, but it was hard to miss. The people—all ages, races, and genders—were covered in ink. The men had exposed muscles and chains hanging from their clothes and had more extremities pierced than even the most abused of the Fallow. And there were plenty of them meandering about as well—dancing, downing liquor, and in various stages of undress. It was eye-catching, to be sure, but not in any way that appealed to him.

  Didn’t anyone feed these girls?

  Most of the men in the room—those of the straight inclination—weren’t nearly so picky.

  Was it a whorehouse? It looked more like an anything goes club. And there was plenty of debauchery in progress, out in the open for all to see. Fallow to Fallow? Boy on boy? Solo? Group? It looked purely recreational, but who was he to make that determination?

  What it lacked, though? Women. The ones who’d be considered decent. Although there were a few tough calls. Orphans. Runaways. Teenage rebels. Those who hadn’t been caught by the Authorities . . . yet. They blended in, though. They looked the part. They had some hair—short and spiky, but slightly longer than the Fallow average—and body-piercings of their choosing.

  Law’s odds of finding a nightly tryst above ground weren’t generally half bad. But here? He was the shunned anomaly.

  When he realized he was lagging a few steps behind his Fallow companions, he scrambled to catch up. And they were in the middle of an exchange that had a sisterly whine to it.

  “Pleaaaase,” Parody squealed. She fell to her knees in front of Doxy, and yes, she was begging. “You’re so much better at it than I am!”

  “It’s your arm. And besides, practice makes perfect,” Doxy clipped back, sidestepping around her.

  “Uck,” Parody ground out in the back of her throat. Whether real or fake, it was followed by a gag.

  “He’s not that bad.”

  Parody hauled her body off the ground, her movements heavy with disappointment. “You actually like the guy!”

  “I do not!” Doxy countered.