The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  “Do you know what we need?” Law then asked her, though he didn’t look over. His eyes remained fixed on the cloudy window. They switched from hyper-focused to eerily detached. “Rain,” he said simply. “And Gospel.”

  Everyone handled crisis in a different way, but he was scaring her! That was no solution. It was nothing more than a prayer! And he was acting as if he was suddenly gazing upon the gates of heaven. Was this his surrender?

  It had to be.

  As the blaze intensified, the cloud cover continued to roar over.

  Then . . . the tap of the first raindrop had her stumbling backwards. It seemed to startle Law too . . . back to himself and to the present. “What?” he replied to her gape. “I got lucky.”

  Are you sure about that?

  Joined by abrupt thunder and lightning, the rain became an instant deluge. The fire in the gusting wind behaved like an avalanche, only it moved outward, engulfing some of the Authorities who were nearby. They were desperately attempting to ready their weapons while their eyes darted in circles that spiraled upward, perhaps to question God’s Will.

  Then the pane of glass in front of her rattled from an explosion in the distance. Gunshots joined in, not only a call but an answer.

  You’ll know when it’s time. . . .

  Blasphemy kicked and broke free of the glass. She practically flew down the fire escape. Dodging bullets, she covered her mouth and nose with her shirt as the smoke wrapped itself around her.

  The angry flames sizzled out their dissent as the rain announced its victory.

  Blasphemy stomped out the fires that lingered in her mother’s vicinity. She was amid the worst of it. That was always their intention.

  Blasphemy unraveled her mother from the ropes. She was unconscious and badly burnt. Dragging her aside, Blasphemy draped her down on the wet pavement. She tapped her face, looking for signs of breath . . . of life. “Mom?”

  There were others now breaking free of their confines. Law was in her peripheral vision, doing what he could to help, though with his actual hands this time.

  “Rita. Is she all right?”

  “I don’t know!” she answered to whoever it was that asked. She could feel a presence sneaking up on her. It intensified—there were others looming over—as her frustration set in.

  Her mother wasn’t breathing.

  The rain. The wind. They were now a nuisance.

  “You came for us. . .”

  She couldn’t see well. Or hear. Or feel. Her hands were shaking too much!

  “The baby. . .”

  Did she have a pulse?

  “Still in the van. . .”

  The answer was no. Or was it just weak?

  “You saved us.”

  “It wasn’t me!” she blurted to get them off her back! “It was him!” She pointed out Law. “He brought the rain! He’s the true heir of the Redeemer.”

  Law paused, turning toward her. He appeared dumbfounded, in denial, and for the first time, afraid. And then they swarmed him, with questions and awe. He put his hands up to impose some space. “You’ve got me all wrong. I-I don’t even believe in God. I stopped. A long time ago. . .”

  “Well, he believes in you!”

  Blasphemy wasn’t stupid. These people needed a hero. And for now, she’d prefer it was someone else.

  Personally, she didn’t know what to believe.

  She pounded on her mother’s chest.

  It could have been a coincidence.

  She gave her a breath. And kept trying.

  When she stopped to catch her own breath. . . “Law. Please. Help me!”

  She glanced over her shoulder. He began edging his way over.

  And once again, a few things happened in rapid succession that could only be described as holy.

  The rain and wind, the tumult overhead . . . abated. The smoke began to lift. And through it, she could make out a figure coming forth, with a rifle and a limp. And yet the phantom savior moved toward her with steady determination.

  The final wisps of smoke dissipated. Gospel. He had a bundle in his arms.

  And a mother always knew the sound of her own child, whimpering from the trauma, but otherwise, all right.

  “I don’t know what I can do!” Law said, squatting beside her. “We’ll have to get her to the clinic.”

  “Please. Just try.”

  Before he even laid a finger upon her mother’s body, she suddenly wheezed in a labored breath, lucid enough for Blasphemy to detect the recognition and full awareness flicker into her eyes. “They took her. I’m sorry,” she said through a feeble cough.

  She reached for Blasphemy’s cheek. “It’s not your fault. And it’s okay. She’s here.” Gospel eased baby Hannah into Blasphemy’s arms. And he nearly collapsed from the exertion. He was in no condition to be saving lives. It was a miracle he was able to lash back as well as he had.

  A few of her neighbors were suffering. Some would most likely never get up, or survive the burns, or breathe normally again. But most of them would recover from their bodily wounds. The Authorities weren’t nearly as fortunate. As far as she could tell, they were dead. All of them.

  “And she’s fine.” Her mother nodded, some peace washing over her as she reached for Hannah’s little grief-covered hand. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  Truer words had never been spoken. Blasphemy’s father had abandoned them before she was old enough to remember him, because of her, she was certain. And her mother had endured decades of factory work. Her heart and lungs had suffered for it. But her little girl had food to eat, a safe place to go during the day, and a tutor once in a while, someone who eventually tamed her spitfire nature into something useful—intelligence and work ethic.

  Her mother never came down on her too hard when she sabotaged her own bright future, either. She had made many mistakes in her quest to get ahead. The father of her child never could and never would marry her, although he supposedly had the connections. And Blasphemy wasn’t exactly heartbroken. Her mother didn’t have to accept her, or forgive her, or love her after that, but she did everything in her power to keep it quiet and make it work.

  She was a mother and grandmother Blasphemy could only hope she’d someday be. Love was not the issue. Neither was responsibility. She was a mere work horse, though. She’d never be as selfless or as nurturing.

  They were a team. And now Blasphemy was on her own. She just knew it.

  God meant well. Maybe she believed that now. But he was only giving her a chance to say goodbye.

  “I love you. I’ll make this right. I promise.”

  Blasphemy kissed her mother’s forehead.

  She closed her eyes. “I have no doubt.”

  It was said through a weak and final exhale.

  Then, time and motion became a blur. Someone eventually helped Blasphemy from the puddle she was sitting in. Holding Hannah was about all she could manage.

  “You’re soldiers now. . .” She heard Law’s words, but she could barely process why they were being said. “Every single one of you. Get your weapons ready, anything you can find. Barricade your doors. Trust me when I say this is a war we can win. But only if we seek God within ourselves and appreciate what’s good and righteous in each other. And have the audacity to, not only defy, but change what isn’t. The final challenge will be to forgive . . . each other and ourselves. Only then will we achieve a true and lasting peace.”

  Amen. . .

  A hand found a place on her shoulder. It was otherworldly, somehow, probably because of whom it belonged to.

  “Rita,” Gospel began. Her gaze darted to his. She startled him, and the abruptness caused a nightmarish surge of her own panic as well. It took her more than a second to figure out why that name came from his mouth. Her given name was now common knowledge, perhaps, and he was trying to reach her at some softer, deeper level. “There’s nothing more we can do. We have to go. They’ll be here soon.”

  “I. . .” She gazed back at her mothe
r. Her body. She couldn’t leave her there. “I can’t.”

  “We need you,” was his response—gentle, raw, and genuine. The new Gospel. “She . . . needs you.”

  He looked at Hannah with none of the contempt he harbored for Caleb.

  It wasn’t just about blood.

  “And you?” Blasphemy found the nerve to ask.

  His gaze struggled to return to hers. But it did. His shield was down and that terrified him. His eyes skittered away as he blushed.

  It wasn’t a yes, but it was likely as close to one as she’d ever get.

  Blasphemy shifted Hannah in her arms and stroked her head toward her chest. Her baby was finally calm. Though she resembled her mother, she had her father’s disposition—docile, crumbled to pieces at the first sign of conflict, and needed more love than most.

  Yes, Blasphemy’s arms already ached. But she would carry her child and protect her. Hannah would never be the little terror her mother was. And that was okay. Someday she could simply be who she was without worry or fear.

  And yes, Blasphemy’s feet were heavy and numb. Her whole body was. But some way, somehow, she found it in herself to walk again.

  If Gospel could, she could too.

  Chapter 24

  Virtue

  “I think that should do it.” After Bernie taped the last of the gauze, Virtue crossed her bandaged hands over her knees and lowered her forehead to her wrists. Three missing fingernails, lacerations on both hands, thankfully minor . . . or so they said. Minor may have been true, but it was the thankful part that had her wondering. “Are you sure you don’t want us to move you someplace more comfortable?”

  They tried . . . already. Against her will. And that didn’t end well for them. Despite Herald’s strength and Bernie’s determination, they set her back down exactly where she started. The bathroom floor. She made sure of it.

  Through the heaving, shallow breaths, Virtue somehow managed a head-shake. Maybe she would have attempted an apology or a thank you . . . if that was how she felt. Get out and leave me alone, weren’t exactly kind or appropriate. Either way, truth or more lies, she didn’t have the breath to speak.

  Bernie then rose from her knees, perhaps accepting the futility of their conversation and the situation in general. She had a full clinic of people who needed and wanted help.

  Everyone had places to be. Everyone else.

  On her way out, Bernie set two pills down on the bathroom counter. After a pause for a clinical assessment—Diagnosis? Certifiably insane!—she added two extra pills. They were blue. How fitting. “I hope you’ll reconsider.”

  With nothing more she could do without a syringe or a straightjacket, the flawless Dr. Breckenridge walked away. And she didn’t hide the fact that she was wedging the bathroom door open.

  Why did Virtue prefer the cold tile of the floor there? Because she had a respect for how sobering it was. They could take her someplace warm and soft, force feed her pills to dull her back to a happy oblivion, and tell her how lucky or special or how beautiful she was. The blood-streaked tile, however, was being honest with her. The pain was real. The wounds went deep. If she didn’t feel them, she’d always see the scars. They’d be there to remind her—as if she could ever forget—just like the damn code on her arm.

  Morton Aamon Wersal. The Captain.

  MAW, MAW, MAW. . .

  Someday, she would be back on that godforsaken island. It was only a matter of time. She could practically hear him call to her, like he was reading off one of his fucking itemized lists! He’d bullet point the many ways he intended to punish her for the inconvenience she was and the liability she’d become.

  He’d find a way to make her pay for her Sin.

  Thrashing, sensory deprivation, burning, choking, starvation. . .

  “Do you have any idea where Gospel would have gone?” Bernie mentioned to Herald in a whisper she probably thought only he could hear. “I’m amazed he got out of bed at all.”

  “He’s like that,” was how Herald answered, mildly amused. “He most likely caught up with Law and Blasphemy. There would have been no talking him out of it.”

  Gospel was a legend. He practically rose from the dead. He was just that awesome. And what was the lovely Virtue in comparison? She didn’t want to answer that question for herself. But her self-loathing did the job for her—pulverized flesh suited for only one purpose.

  “Well, I better get back.”

  “Of course.”

  Saying their farewells and offering their assurances—You’re doing fine. It’ll take time—Herald escorted Bernie to the door.

  Upon opening, a chilly breeze wafted in. The dim daylight from outside swept into the cabin as well, inundating the bathroom with a relative abundance of light. And in it, Virtue caught a reflective glint coming from behind the sink vanity. The broken glass that had been on the bathroom floor was swept away from her with care and caution. But it would have been impossible to remove it all. It had scattered to every corner, nook, crevice. . .

  She glanced down at her arm. MAW.

  Ropes, chains, blunt objects. . .

  This was not a war they could win.

  She scooted toward the stray piece of glass and fought with it until she had the sizable shard in her clumsy, bandaged grip.

  Rape, sodomy. . .

  She was balled against the opposite wall again just as Herald appeared in the doorway. She tried to conceal the glass in her hand, but she failed to accomplish even that!

  He came forward. “Give it to me.” He held out his hand.

  He was now treating her like a child. And what was worse, she deserved it.

  She gave him a pointed glare, meant to be as sharp as the glass. And when it collided with his firm, unyielding concern, she crumbled like a mudslide in a gush of new tears.

  As she handed over her weapon, she formed a fist with her other hand and shook the tattoo at him. “I want it off!”

  They were the first coherent words she had said to him in a great while.

  “I think we can find another way,” he murmured consolingly, pocketing the glass. “Maybe Parody can do something with it.”

  It didn’t matter how good of an artist she was. It would always be there.

  Virtue shrugged. She didn’t have it in her to state that certainty. MAW is an indelible part of me now. And she didn’t have the heart to hurt him anymore. He had experienced his share of trauma too. He was just better at functioning through what didn’t quite feel like a memory yet.

  But everyone had their limits.

  Herald walked about, in and out of the bathroom, pretending as if she wasn’t there. Though more than likely, he was watching her like a hawk, in case she tried something stupid again.

  “Would you like a hot bath?” He sat on the edge of the claw-footed tub and turned the faucet. The metal grinded against the calcification, squeaking out a few painful notes. Herald then paused before he was able to get the water running. “I’m asking, not telling. The last thing I need is to elicit more kicking and screaming.”

  Don’t push him away. He’s all you have.

  “I’m sorry,” she choked out, and she truly meant it.

  His downcast eyes lifted to meet hers. “It’s all right,” he said, softer, after taking a long moment to consider her. He hung his head low and gave her a pout, a little over the top. He was at least trying to hold her gaze and inspire her to smile. But it had the opposite effect—more tears and she had to look away. “I understand. Or at least I want to. I was hoping you’d explain.”

  He gave her a chance to reply. Hearing none, he nodded once to admit defeat, and then he rose from the edge of the tub. “I’ll let you be,” he said on his way out.

  “Wait,” she quivered out. He turned back in the doorway. “I would.”

  “Would what?”

  “Take a bath, but. . .”

  She held up her bandaged hands. Her foot would have to stay dry as well. She did, in fact, want it to heal and stay infec
tion free. And that meant she wasn’t giving up. Not entirely. She couldn’t see much beyond the bleak outlook she had been bludgeoned with. But there had to be some piece of her that believed she would walk again.

  “I can help. I don’t mind,” he offered.

  “It wouldn’t be quite the same chore . . . if you join me. If you want to, that is. I know you’re busy.”

  His eyes fluttered with exasperation at her mention of work. It could wait.

  “Only if that’s what you want.”

  She peered up at him. And like every other time she dared to look into his sad, devoted gaze, she was unable to disappoint him.

  She found her nod and used it to launch him into happy-to-please-her mode. It was much preferable over the visible pain and inconsolable frustration that was almost pouring out as anger.

  He would never blame her for that. It’s not you. It’s the situation. But she knew she did nothing to improve upon a predicament that was dire enough already.

  He opened the faucet full force and added the plug to the bath. The steam rose to cloud the window beside the tub and it began taking the chill out of the room.

  Handing her a glass of water, she took her pills. He watched her swallow them but didn’t make her suffer the indignity of a more thorough analysis. And then he found towels and soap in the cupboard.

  After placing her in the center of the tub, her leg propped on the rim, her arms up, he undressed as well. Setting down a foot, then two, and using his arms to support himself, he slipped his legs in beside her.

  Every tired and undoubtedly aching muscle slid into the luxuriously hot water around her with a near groan. As he leaned against the porcelain, she crossed her arms and eased back against his chest. With his hands around her waist, they were ready to cleanse themselves as best they could of the stains they had acquired and succumb to the relaxation.

  The medicine in Virtue’s system was already taking effect. Bernie is a godsend! Combined with the soothing heat, the medication was replacing the throbbing pain throughout her body with a dull ache. And the angry spikes of anxiety and despair soon receded into a drowsiness that wasn’t petrifying.