The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  “He gets every bid, every deal at a better price than I do. And I’m just. . .” Barrett’s face turned a meaty shade of red again, though not in a manner that was cheery and bright. His impressive grip clenched over his drink. If his temper were to escalate, the glass could shatter.

  He was a notorious killer. Herald didn’t need reminding.

  Then again, so am I.

  “Sick of it?” Herald filled in.

  Barrett simply stared at him. The blankness of it seemed to moderate his mood. Then, without looking away, he smiled and brought the glass to his lips. It was a strange mix of congenial and unnerving. He actually seemed to like him, and that could be its own problem.

  “Now . . . I’m not suggesting that anyone should get hurt,” Herald continued.

  Rather than take a swig, Barrett resettled into his casual position against the wall. And he had a specific hand gesture for just about anything he said. This particular flip went along with his “Of course.”

  “But there is one thing. . .” Herald went on, too late to back out of anything now. “And it may surprise you. It’s his mother. His father never would have amounted to much, not without her insistence. She sent him to an early grave as a result. She’s the demanding, feisty, impossible to please matriarch. My father is obsessed with being on top and in the very best of her graces. It’s an extremely competitive family, though, so it’s a tough title to maintain. Taint that relationship somehow and he’d be very off kilter. He’d lose his sense of purpose.”

  “I appreciate that insight.” Barrett finally took that drink. His glass was half empty when he set it down. “I’ll consider it the first part of a favor.”

  Herald indulged in only a sip of his own whiskey. His temperance earned him a smirk. So he took a full gulp . . . and regretted it. He wasn’t exactly a non-drinker, but it was outrageously strong and tasted like poison. “And that means there’s a second part,” he spilled out through the burn.

  “Sorry, it’s your turn. No bullshit. Put your cards on the table.”

  “All right. . .” He straightened his posture. There was no sense cowering in a slump. “I was hoping you could get me to and from Orchard Island. Next week would be ideal.”

  “Cliff Haven. The Wersal Estate. I can’t say I care for the man.”

  “We have that in common.”

  “Unfortunately for you, those waters have a strong Authority presence. Smuggling has been a real problem for them.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “I’m not saying it’s impossible. It’ll cost you, though.” Barrett lazily bobbed his head toward his one shrugging shoulder. “I won’t turn away banknotes, but there’s a bigger prize I’m after. You’re more powerful than you might think.” He swung his legs back underneath the table. He leaned forward and set his elbows down. He laced his fingers. “When the time is right, I want you to back me.”

  Barrett’s eyes flared. And he continued to focus on him with an intensity that Herald couldn’t match. He could blame some of that on fear. But it had more to do with the muffled screams coming from the back. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  The twins had greater strength and longevity. And a twisted, meaner streak. Twisted because they were sharing. Meaner because . . . inflicting pain was one thing. The way the whimpers escalated and then ended abruptly, however, could pass as something else.

  Torture.

  “I want everything,” Barrett declared, reobtaining Herald’s attention. “Portsmith. The Braintrees will answer to me.”

  The noise in the back finally died down. Was that just a phrase or something more along the lines of truth?

  The turn the conversation was about to take slowly began to register. “So, you want to be the Magistrate?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?”

  No, but there’s a tiny problem.

  Barrett’s combative change in tone wasn’t wise to ignore. Herald sipped his whiskey again to buy himself time. After a swallow that he almost choked on, he was about to mention Law. But then he thought better of it. Less, in this case, was more.

  “Those who have the guns make the rules and win elections. That’s where your friend, Gospel, can help me out.” Barrett bobbed his head toward the entryway. “He saved ten necks and got you into the Braintree Compound.”

  “That was just as much due to his new partner in crime.”

  Herald turned his head for his own view of what he hoped would soon be an escape . . . or help.

  They aren’t coming back. . . .

  “I’ve also gotten word that he’s broken into the Armory before.”

  “I can’t speak for Gospel.” Herald was on his own, and he rotated back toward Barrett to face that fact. “And from what I’ve seen, he won’t work well with your people.”

  “Is that a no, then?”

  Herald drank his whiskey. One gulp, two gulps, three. He winced and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “And what about your support? Can you guarantee it?”

  The liquor was dulling his senses, but it did little to ease what felt like blades spiraling through his gut.

  When Hell freezes over probably wasn’t the right thing to say. If their no was inevitable, should he at least postpone it?

  He’d have to pull Law’s thesis for the time being. And it was his best article to date. He won’t be pleased.

  “How about this?” Herald took a deep breath. He had his pitch memorized to make it appear as if he was better than average at wheeling and dealing. And now it was a life or death matter. He had to deliver. “We’re new to you. You’re new to us. Why don’t we start with money and see from there?”

  “I want sixty percent.”

  “Forever? I’m sorry. It can’t happen.” Herald knew they’d be gouged. He was talking to Barrett after all. “For the most part, we’re either unemployed or Fallow. We’re not greedy, but we need to eat and cover the cost of production.”

  Barrett checked his garishly large watch. “Do you have a counteroffer?”

  “Sixty percent of our next edition’s first day of sales. It should be our biggest single-day payout ever. Thirty will be offered for passage to the island. Thirty once we dock safely back in Portsmith. And ten percent of our future earnings will be delivered monthly. You pick the time and place. If we get to that point—no double-crossing, no bloodshed—we can discuss your political aspirations and what we can do to help.”

  “Twenty percent, and we have a deal.”

  Barrett finished off the liquor in his glass. Time was up. He stood and offered his hand to shake.

  That was a lot of money for one boat trip. And they’d be indebted to him for the rest of their professional careers with that extra twenty percent.

  But Herald shook his hand anyway. That’s why he said no double-crossing, no bloodshed. If Barrett could honor those terms and both parties could accomplish that on the task, he’d be very surprised. It could be worth holding on to the relationship if that were the case. More than likely, though, it’d be a sixty percent, one-shot deal and then they’d part ways, not amicably, but. . .

  They were in hiding, regardless. They’d just have to be more careful.

  That way, they’d get to keep the money they earned in the future and they’d have free rein to support the candidate of their choosing. And it wasn’t going to be Jud Barrett. They weren’t that stupid, desperate, or crazy.

  They finalized the details—next Wednesday, 4:00am, have all the money with you—and then Barrett walked out with him. The twins were there waiting for him on the dock and they didn’t linger.

  The first man they encountered was holding Blasphemy and a very disgruntled Gospel at gunpoint. Once Herald appeared and the others were out of sight, he lowered his pistol and unlocked the safe box. He let them take their weapons. No theft, no hassles, no questions asked.

  On the way out, Gospel didn’t speak a word. He stayed a number of paces in front of them. He wouldn’t
even look back. Not even at Blasphemy. Herald didn’t know the exact reason, but he was almost certain Gospel wouldn’t be embarking on the Orchard Island voyage with him.

  And what would Gospel say to Barrett if he asked for his help?

  Probably something along the lines of fuck off.

  “What’s his deal?” Herald asked Blasphemy as soon as he had a somewhat private opportunity.

  “I don’t know,” she muttered. She sounded afraid. Of whom, he wasn’t sure. “All he said was ‘next time, I won’t miss.’”

  “Ah,” Herald said as he put it all together.

  The twins had an ugly mug. Gospel had made it uglier when he was just a “kid.” Herald felt it was fairly safe to assume they deserved it.

  More and more, it looked like that extra twenty percent was going to be theirs to keep.

  If he believed there’d be enough money to go around, he’d keep Barrett’s greedy palms greased with banknotes rather than blood. But that was the thing. He couldn’t be certain.

  Honestly, he didn’t know if he’d live to see tomorrow. Get to the island. Or survive his vendetta.

  And if he did?

  Poverty and a long winter, or the wrath of “The Slaughterhouse?”

  When. When, goddammit?

  Would there ever be any better options?

  ***

  “Ow!” Herald’s eye was still a sore spot and Parody had to whack him there . . . again. “Not you too!”

  Herald paced off, wiped his brow. Hunched over. Spit blood.

  There wasn’t much to see beyond the lantern on the ground. It was pitch black in the clearing behind the cabin. The night sky was overcast. The only stars he saw were in his head.

  Parody’s sigh was explosive. “You’re not focusing.”

  He asked her to teach him a few things about hand-to-hand combat. They had been at it every night for over a week. Meeting their publication deadline was no small task. His work-out routine had been grueling as well.

  He could sleep when he was dead.

  Herald roamed back into their imaginary arena. “You’re not making it easy.”

  He drifted in for another attack.

  Swing. Block. Swing. Block.

  His strength was allegedly something that might actually “save his ass” . . . if and when he ever had a chance to use it. It was his speed and technique that barely allowed him to make contact. As a moving target, Parody was narrow, impossibly fast, and she didn’t tire. Even with one arm out of commission, she had been hitting him more times than seemed fair.

  “Do you think Barrett or the Captain will take it easy on you?”

  It had been six days since his meeting with Jud Barrett. The Rising Tide had an impressive first day, which was the day prior. In fact, they had sold out of copies and scrambled to print more . . . twice as many. The second day of sales was better than the first. Exceeding expectations, it sold out as well. And the bulk of that payout was theirs to keep.

  And in about six hours, he’d be on a boat to Orchard Island. There, he’d be handing over a big chunk of money to people who didn’t intellectually or technologically contribute.

  Needless to say, he was having a terrible night. And, no, he couldn’t find much in the way of focus.

  Parody had little sympathy. It went something like this more often than not. . .

  Swing. Hit. Fuck!

  He was growing accustomed to her underlying hostility. As the hour of his departure loomed near, she was upping her game, likely for that reason. Although she claimed she was doing it for his own good.

  Almost everyone in his sphere loathed his very existence in recent days, someone else every time he turned around. It was about Barrett and the blood money they had to cough up without their approval. With Law, that resentment went deeper and hurt the most on both sides.

  Herald didn’t end up printing Law’s article. But he wasn’t the only one excluded. Gospel contributed to the captions for Blasphemy’s photographs. Otherwise, his run-down of all the instances the Braintrees broke their own rules could wait, especially since that would be crystal clear all throughout. They could sum that up and quote the Au Courant Word of God at a later date.

  Herald held off on his own piece as well. That was partially because it was in support of Law’s bid for Magistrate.

  There was no denying the Fallow had more than enough to say this round, regardless. It was the first personal narrative Virtue had ever written. Alongside the photo evidence, she did an outstanding job relaying every detail she remembered, tastefully but poignantly. Doxy had done some of her best work discussing the Fallow exploits that helped save their necks and hides. And Parody did know how to throw a punch. Her full-page illustration of Captain was both funny and revealing. He hoped it would be pinned to every icebox.

  Thanks to the Fallow, no one in Portsmith would ever have to wonder how small Morton Aamon Wersal really was.

  It was their voice and it was about time they were heard exclusively. Why not pace themselves and delve into the religion and politics in the next issue?

  The injustices would demand change. The good people of Portsmith—and he truly believed they were in the majority—would get a chance to digest that. And then maybe they’d be willing to entertain a solution.

  At a time when Herald could have really used Law’s support, he wasn’t securing any. Law argued for a bit, reminding Herald of how much of a puppet and a fool he was being. She’s not empowering you. She’s blinding you.

  Despite that affront, Herald remained calm. Law had every right to be upset, but he didn’t even let Herald finish voicing his rationale. Law abandoned the fight days ago in a stormy silence that hadn’t abated since.

  And that wasn’t like him.

  Law had only come to the cabin a few times since the night “the deal” with Barrett had been struck. It was only to sleep, and probably because he had no place else to go. But Law disappeared without fail before Herald could peel himself out of bed for a conversation he didn’t want to have either.

  Evidence would suggest that Gospel was even less of a fan. His appearances were never predictable or reliable, but his complete absence was even more unsettling than his infuriated presence was. Blasphemy wasn’t even capable of reeling him in. She had been around the most, occupying the second bedroom, but she had nothing to say to Herald unless it was business related.

  And Virtue? He had been so busy. She probably felt neglected. But rather than complain or demand more from him, she was simply coping . . . quietly.

  Maybe that was his fault too. Maybe he was avoiding her. She still didn’t know what was going on with him and he was afraid she would ask.

  Had he ever felt more alone?

  No. Whack.

  The blood rushed to his head. The only exit for the flux was the new hole in his lip.

  “Herald,” Parody scolded for probably the fortieth time that night. She walked over to see if he was all right. “I thought you would see that one coming.”

  He collapsed into a seat on the ground and buried his head in his hands. “Guess again.”

  She nudged him with her foot as she walked by. “You should get some sleep. You’re gonna need it.”

  At that, she was ready to abandon him. No I’m sorry. No good luck. No you’ve made great progress. Even though she hadn’t openly criticized the course he was on, it was obvious where she stood—behind everyone else.

  “Do you think there’s a chance I’ll come back alive?” he asked before she stepped beyond the ring of light. “Does anyone even care anymore?”

  She turned back around, slowly. “Of course we care. How dare you say that? Why the fuck do you think I’m here?”

  His eyes dropped to the dirt when he shrugged.

  “Do we get why you’re doing this? Yes. We’re angry too. But that doesn’t mean we think he’s worth the risk or the sacrifice. He’ll get what he has coming to him. You just need to give it more time.”

  Herald hauled himself off th
e ground.

  “It’s not too late,” she said as he joined her side, the lantern dangling in his hand. He handed it over to her. And they began walking toward the front of the cabin. “You don’t have to follow through. We’ll figure it out if you bail. I can’t say the same if we lose you.”

  “I’ll sleep on it,” he supplied with a forced grin. He was having second thoughts, but the sleep part was what made his statement a lie.

  “All right, then. I’ll cling to the hope that this isn’t goodbye.”

  From the porch, he thanked her and waved.

  Inside, there wasn’t even a hint of light. Blasphemy was a morning person and Virtue was most likely asleep as well.

  He went to the bathroom and washed up. His lower lip wouldn’t stop bleeding. They hadn’t yet replaced the mirror, but he was pretty sure it looked as if he’d gotten into a street fight or bar brawl.

  To avoid Law, if and when he arrived, he hurried upstairs. To avoid Virtue, as much as it pained him, he treaded lightly to the chair and small table he’d been using as a desk. He fumbled to light a match. He kept the flame shielded as he touched it to the wick of the candle.

  Same as he did the night prior, he stared down at a blank sheet of paper. He had to tell Virtue something. But how would he find the words?

  His eyes blurred. He went without blinking for so long, he couldn’t single out any one source for the tears. And he didn’t hear Virtue wake, rise, or shuffle over. He didn’t know she was there behind him until her touch met his shoulder. She was too gentle to startle him in the classic sense. Instead, it was the dread that left him gasping.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after a shallow gulp. “Did I wake you?”

  She shook her head and stroked a hand down his arm. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  She was wearing one of his button-up shirts as a nightgown. It was unlatched at the neck and she was bare from the mid-thigh down.

  Was it enough to divert him away from the doom and gloom?

  Uh. . .

  After slipping onto his lap, she adjusted herself for comfort. Her head found a place to nuzzle beneath his chin. Her hair had grown in quite a bit already. It was now a light brown with a golden hue, and long enough to flatten and flip in different directions. It had a clean scent and felt soft against his stubble.