The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  “He is a merciful human being,” Dr. Wayward went on, perhaps hypnotically to one who didn’t know him. He approached Herald with a consoling hand reaching out for him. Herald was the terrified child and he was his protection. Meanwhile, Dr. Wayward was rolling something around in his jacket pocket with his other hand. “He will forgive this intrusion and the incivility. But please. Do us all a favor and remove yourself from the premises. And never return.”

  Dr. Wayward was almost upon him. But Herald closed his other hand around the knife and pointed it at him. He took a step back.

  “Drop the knife,” Captain ordered, giving Amber one, last, deadly crush.

  Dr. Wayward eased his way closer, his hand ready to accept the knife if Herald chose to surrender.

  But he didn’t.

  And Amber was dying.

  “Drop it if you have to,” Dr. Wayward suggested. “Kick it away if you must. Then run. This is your final chance. Don’t let her death be on your conscience.”

  He reached for Herald’s shoulder as the knife shook out of his hand. It clattered to the floor and tumbled out of range of his foot.

  Looking for it was another fatal error. The moment his eyes were down, Dr. Wayward used his expertise and decades of practice to jab a needle into Herald’s carotid artery with startling speed and precision.

  Herald immediately swatted and flailed at the onslaught. The syringe flew across the room. His eyes followed it. Then he turned his head and blinked up at them. The damage was done. He was doomed and he knew it. He could feel it. And the dread flooded into his expression.

  Then his balance faltered.

  Captain pushed Amber aside and rushed over. He had Herald on his back with little resistance.

  Herald raised his hands to defend himself—slowly—but all he could manage was the spastic curling of his fingers.

  Captain had the overwhelming desire to kill him right then and there. But he’d have to be patient . . . and diligent.

  Where is she?

  I would never tell you!

  Are you sure about that. . . ?

  Herald was still conscious, though just barely. His out-of-focus eyes were lolling all over the place. Other than the occasional twitch, he was immobile.

  Captain cast his glare on the handsome young face that captured Virtue’s whole body of devotion.

  With his eyes unmoving, Captain let up on the grip of his shirt to bring his hands into fists.

  “It’s just a sedative, sir,” Dr. Wayward informed him, peeking over his shoulder. “It’s strong, but it won’t last long.”

  “Can he still feel pain?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.” Captain clutched Herald by the jaw. “What’s she to you, huh? You should have let me kill her.”

  Then he punched his face until Herald was knocked out cold.

  ***

  It took willpower to stop hitting the little piece of shit. Captain’s temper demanded immediate death. But his lust for finer things had him pulling back before his knuckles split open.

  Rising to his feet was a cue for Dr. Wayward. He shuffled with pure exuberance toward the desk to retrieve the keys. “I think this is a problem that requires Room 1.”

  It didn’t happen often, but in this case, Captain wholeheartedly agreed. He accepted and pocketed the keys without comment.

  There were four rooms downstairs. The second through fourth were holding cells. They had chains and various harnesses and contraptions to enhance the experience, but they were generally for the Fallow he wanted to keep alive. The room at the end of the hall—the infamous Room 1—was reserved for a particular mood or for special occasions.

  Herald was both. He’d be his first male and his first enemy. Maybe he’d be the start of a trend. A new era! Trifling with me has consequences.

  For the particularly unruly, infirmed beyond hope, or for the smart, sly, or just the unlucky, there was only one way out of Room 1. How much time and pain it took, and the methods used? That was up to the inflictor. Eventually, though, the folly ended at a hatch in the ground.

  “Is that where you take them?” Amber asked, rallying her faculties to bud in through the sobs. “The Fallow?” Her questions were too inconsequential to warrant answering, so they simply ignored her. “Answer me, you son of a bitch!” she burst out, not accepting her own insignificance.

  “Hey!” Captain railed back. He was in the process of securing Herald’s wrists in his grasp. First things first, though. Amber was perfectly conscious and could be a pain in the ass if he didn’t quiet her down and keep her contained. “Watch your mouth or you’ll be spitting out teeth!”

  “I’ve got him, sir.” Dr. Wayward ushered Captain aside and took Herald’s wrists out of his hands. “You can deal with your wife,” he intoned. Clearly, he had no love for her either.

  Dr. Wayward must have done this sort of thing regularly. He apparently had a decent amount of muscle underneath his blubber as well. Herald had the leanness apt for a rebel, but he was tall and sturdy nonetheless. He’d be a task to drag, but Dr. Wayward had him at the door, ready to move into the hall in no time.

  “What are you going to do to him?” Amber hissed on Captain’s march over to her. He had no doubt it was said just to infuriate him further.

  He gave her a forceful blow to the side of the head. She wasn’t quite so antagonistic after that.

  Not that he was particularly concerned about who saw what, but he did, at least, check the hall to see if it was clear.

  He didn’t see a soul or hear a sound.

  Afternoons were usually quiet. Lunch was being cleared and dinner was being prepped. The babies were sleeping. His school-age children were still completing their lessons. As long as his older children lived under his roof, they would strive to better themselves in some facet.

  Anyone who found themselves without something to do would likely avoid the parlor as a result of his rampage. Captain was in his personal wing of the house as well. And for the most part, everyone, including Martha, his overzealous first wife, was obeying his do not disturb instructions.

  With his unconscious wife dangling over his shoulder, Captain led the way into the hall. Dr. Wayward was keeping pace, even with Herald dragging along at the rear.

  After a glance back, the coast still clear, he pulled out his keys to open the glass doors at the end of the hall. For some reason, though, he couldn’t get the key in the lock.

  The key was distinctive. He could have picked it out by the way it felt in his pocket, all without looking. And just as he thought, he had chosen the correct one.

  There was a window a few paces behind them, but the sunlight was on the other side of the house at that time of day. It wasn’t enough to get a handle on the situation. He had to flip on the light overhead.

  Tilting it into the glow, the key wasn’t bent or chipped. It seemed in workable shape overall.

  “Are you sure you have the right one?” Dr. Wayward inquired, dropping Herald’s wrists for a few breaths of rest.

  “Of course I’m sure!” Captain fired back.

  Dr. Wayward nodded under his glower and Captain tried again. And when he failed again, he let Amber collapse to the floor. He hunched down for a closer look.

  The lock had clearly been tampered with. It could have been Herald, but he had found the set of keys. Why would he bother?

  His older boys were going to get a good, long thrashing. Were they really desperate enough to cross him like this?

  Life was so much better when what was supposed to be his best kept secret was actually still a secret. Herald would pay in blood for a number of things. And Captain’s new lack of privacy certainly factored in.

  He wasn’t sure what to expect when he tried the handle. It wasn’t exactly good news that the door opened. It was jammed in an unlocked state. And that was true in both directions. At that moment, it was fortunate they could get Herald and Amber on the other side without any further delay.

  No one was
allowed beyond those doors, not without his permission. A working lock was usually there to enforce that rule, but he’d have to worry about that later. For the most part, no one would bother trying, assuming they knew what was best for them.

  He took a deep breath, and then drew Amber over his shoulder once again. He paused a few steps later to look back. Dr. Wayward had the more arduous task, but he was making fair progress.

  Captain resumed walking. Soon, he was passing by a narrow rectangular window positioned just above the ground. It usually evaded his notice. It provided a northern view of the island, but not a particularly breathtaking one. He’d seen that view thousands of times out of much higher and grander windows. There was something unusual going on out there, though. It demanded a moment of contemplation.

  Is that smoke?

  Something very gray was tarnishing what should have been a blue sky. And it was hovering directly over the orchard.

  The window was too low to provide any additional answers.

  “What’s wrong, sir?” Dr. Wayward had the irritating need to sidle up and see for himself. He squinted into the haze at the same time Captain decided to stop. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Captain merely sighed and moved on. At the end of the hall, he was fuming too. And that was before he checked the next door, one that was, without a doubt, always locked.

  He turned the knob, and it was no shock that it opened without even a quarter of a rotation.

  He didn’t have time to dwell. He had seen Herald’s nose twitch. Amber was moaning.

  They went down the stairs.

  “Bring her to four,” he instructed Dr. Wayward as he tossed Amber to the concrete. “They’re not particularly friendly in there. That’ll humble her.”

  Herald would be his appetizer and entrée, and Amber would be a very sweet dessert. That was assuming she survived Feral and Fiend, the names he had given the Fallow beasts who resided there. He preferred Plucky and Sloth, Room 3, but there was a certain appeal of a challenge. The end result was the same. It merely required more tools and their effective usage.

  Captain checked the door of Room 3. It was right in front of him and he was curious. It was still locked.

  “What if their locks are compromised?” Dr. Wayward glanced warily over his shoulder.

  “They shouldn’t be,” was Captain’s reply and he was fairly confident about that now. “And besides, why would anyone in their right mind want to unlock them.”

  “But what if—?”

  Captain removed Room 4’s key from the ring and handed it to Dr. Wayward. He pocketed the rest. “You’re a smart man. Figure something out. And then barricade the entry doors while you’re at it. Thanks,” he tagged on as an afterthought.

  Dr. Wayward lived for these moments. He was one of the most violent and twisted people in all of Captain’s acquaintance, and that was saying something. He was still doing Captain a favor, though.

  There was a time and a place for lashing out, and Captain would be there momentarily. Room 1 was just a few body lengths away.

  The door was locked. Good.

  He slipped in the key. It worked. And he used his back to keep the door open as he dragged Herald inside. The room had plenty of inanimate objects cluttered about, but it was typically kept free of anything alive. So, when he heard a muffled scream, Herald’s arms shook out of his hands.

  Captain whirled around. He caught sight of the terrified eyes of . . . Maynard?

  He was perched on a rickety stool. The ceiling wasn’t high, so the back of his head and his neck were pressed against it. His hands were bound behind his back.

  Captain felt a chilly breeze and his scrutiny flicked to the wall. “Get down from there!” he said, passing him by. There was nothing that appeared to be keeping him up there other than fear.

  He spotted a hole in the wall by his workbench. It wasn’t large, but it was big enough for a body to crawl through. Is that how Herald got in?

  It didn’t explain how he got into the rest of the house.

  In his haste to get a better look, he tripped and fell on all fours. The pain was searing and immediate. Was Maynard trying to warn him?

  He flipped over and tangled himself even more in razor wire?

  He gave his legs a sharp tug to free them. And what he was wrestling with was also connected to . . . the stool Maynard was standing on.

  It fell out from beneath him. But his son didn’t hit the ground. Instead, he hung there, writhing, in a noose that Captain had failed to see or envision.

  Before he could piece together the who, why, or how, a gunshot rattled through his awareness.

  Captain jerked into the fetal position. The wire tore through his pants and into his legs. Where is the gun? Who is the shooter? Herald was still unconscious by the door.

  Then, something fell. Something unmistakably heavy. Collapse provided a sound, but it was the vibration that truly rattled him into another escape attempt. Dr. Wayward was his only hope.

  Captain was expecting deliberate footsteps. In his direction. But he heard nothing, nothing, nothing until. . .

  “We meet again, Captain.”

  The voice was snide, calm and clear, and coldly unemotional.

  A young man in a black trench coat squatted beside him. He held the gun casually, not too concerned about being “ready” after stealing a glance of Captain’s condition. “Am I supposed to know you?”

  His black eyes sparked with amusement. “You called me the quiet one. Mysterious, you added with a malicious excuse for a smile.”

  “Gospel,” Captain stated. The name struck him like a hit from a bludgeon. “You’re the reason they’re alive!”

  “Ding, ding, ding! That’s right! And you were right, old man. I was quiet. Do you want to know why?” He didn’t give Captain a chance to answer. “Because I hated you then. I didn’t even have a good reason. And now I do.”

  As the thought crossed Captain’s mind—it’s about Virtue—Gospel snickered as if he had read his mind. “Virtue’s a nice girl and you did some not-nice things to her. But the world surprisingly doesn’t revolve around her.”

  “Then why are you here? You’re all alive. You’re getting by. You’ve done all kinds of damage. You killed my son! Isn’t that enough?”

  Maynard’s body still had a slight swing to it.

  Captain used his outburst as a distraction. He lurched for the gun. But Gospel was quick and well-prepared for that possibility. He bounded to his feet and had the gun aimed between his eyes before Captain had a chance to come to terms with the pain. He was still tangled and regretted the abrupt movement. At this point, the razor wire had snagged through his sleeves. It was now digging into his arms as well.

  “No. You killed your son,” Gospel informed him. “You had your chance. But you were more concerned with the hole in your fortress, am I right?” He glided closer. “So, why am I here? Because . . . you deserve to die.” He squatted down again, the trigger ready at his fingertip. “Herald’s no killer. He’d get justice but no pleasure out of playing with your toys.” He made a gesture in the air to allude to Room 1 and all that it entailed. “But guess what?” His eyes flared. Then he leaned over to whisper in his ear. “I will.”

  From there, Captain didn’t know what hit him. With a single decisive pop, the lights went out.

  ***

  The burn. . .

  Captain came to with a jerk and a wince. Smelling salts.

  “There you go,” said the young man who called himself “Gospel.” He gave Captain a few slaps to the face to further arouse his senses.

  It worked. He thrashed against heavy-duty tape and coils of thick, unbreakable wire. His arms and legs were bound to a rolling chair with armrests. It didn’t matter what he did. The chair was tethered in place by rope in three directions. Even rocking it side to side was more jarring to his body than the chair. Every jerk had consequences. He was chafing skin. Tearing flesh.

  He looked down. He was naked, except for the
tape that circled around his chest and lap. The wires were wrapped around every limb. His neck. And—merciful Redeemer in heaven—his genitals.

  He stopped, out of breath. “Help!” he cried out. “I’m down here!”

  He had his mouth free. It was pretty much the only thing. And he would sure as Hell use it! But the door was soundproofed. And it was closed. Last he knew, the lock was in working condition and it required a key to open in either direction.

  His captor—the phantom of a man that he was—would surely know that.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The voice struck him first. It was the opposite of loud. It was an eerie, quiet calm. Then came his eyes—black as flint. They had a fiery glint to them. Their flare cut right through an opaque dimness. They let on as if they could see right through him. “I gave you your mouth for a reason. But that wasn’t it.” His pale face emerged from the haze. The rest of his darkly clad body eased into view as well. He was holding something. A transformer? It was hard to decipher through what had to be. . .

  Captain’s nose was dripping incessantly. His sinuses still burned. But through the affliction and scent of his own fear, he had no trouble detecting the smoke. The glow from a fire flickered dimly on the walls. The wire around his neck made it practically impossible to turn his head, but with the slight glance he could toss over his shoulder, he could make out its approximate location.

  The fire was somewhere close to the hole in the wall. He could feel the heat and also the draft at the back of his neck. It was also making Maynard’s body sway. He was still in plain view. And without a doubt, that wasn’t by accident.

  Closing his eyes, the crackling and sizzling ebbed to the forefront of his consciousness. It came with a specific odor. Was something cooking? It almost smelled edible, but it came with a hint of burning hair or fabric.

  Maybe both.

  His eyes shot open. “He’s going to torture me! Kill me! Help! Please! Someone!”

  “Well, you’re right about that,” Gospel said, pleasantly matter-of-fact. “And you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”