The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

  He flipped a switch on the transformer . . . and turned up a dial.

  Captain was wincing in anticipation of a shock. He felt nothing . . . at first. And then . . . hot, hot, HOT.

  His shin. The wire was searing into his skin! And muscle. It was cooking him to the bone. Burning him alive!

  Gospel flipped the switch. It had to be off. The relief was immediate. But the agony, of course, lingered.

  His bladder gave way. His bowels were sure to follow. “What the fuck was that?”

  “This is your torture chamber. You tell me. I pulled the supplies from your workbench!”

  “I have no clue,” he uttered breathlessly. He was shivering. In the breeze, the sweat and urine were causing his teeth to chatter.

  “Lucky for you, I’m in a giving mood. It’s nichrome wire. Long story short, it has high resistance and low conductivity. And that means?”

  He was waiting for an answer, like this was school. When Captain failed to take the bait, Gospel hovered his hand over the switch.

  “It gets hot!” Captain supplied quickly, and Gospel lowered his hand, smiling at the easy victory.

  “That’s right, old man. Almost as hot as Hell. It’s used to make heating elements. And you won’t get electrocuted because. . .” He glanced down at Captain’s feet. They were secured to the plastic component of the chair’s base. “Its composition is not ideal for that and you’re not grounded.” A groan interrupted the physics lesson. “Herald!” Gospel’s head turned, but he kept one eye on his prey. “You’re up. Just in time for the pig roast!” Gospel’s head drifted back. He lifted an eyebrow in response to Captain’s gasp. “Oh . . . you thought I meant you.”

  Gospel held Captain’s gaze, and then he set the transformer down and slipped behind him.

  There was a splash. It was joined by a sizzle. The room dimmed.

  Gospel had put out the fire. Then he was dragging something from the sound of it. “He’s a heavy bastard,” he complained, bringing a burnt human carcass into view.

  There was a crusty black apple in its mouth, undoubtedly from what was once his orchard. That was likely dust and ash by then as well.

  The human face was charred beyond recognition. It hardly mattered, though. There was only one person he knew with a body as portly as Dr. Wayward’s.

  Herald then staggered over, cradling his head in his hand. He used a sleeve to wipe the caked blood from his nose. “Gospel,” he stated reverently as if that one word solved all his problems.

  He glanced down at the corpse Gospel released, but he didn’t comment.

  “Surprise!” Gospel rummaged through his spacious coat pocket. He pulled out a handgun and a cumbersome wad of banknotes. “I believe these belong to you.”

  Now they were making money. Of course. All that time and aggravation and in the end, Captain was worth far more as their enemy.

  “You were there,” Herald said, warily accepting them. He pocketed the money and tucked the gun beneath his belt.

  Gospel gave his assent with a blink and a slow nod. “Where they are,” he flared, both his words and eyes. “They won’t need them. The boat’s ours. But I wouldn’t recommend keeping it for long.”

  Herald shook his head and emitted a dry chuckle. “Thank you,” was his reply.

  “Don’t thank me. Thank the Captain here. You see. . .” Gospel began explaining to Captain while bobbing his head at Herald. “He didn’t ask for help. And I respect that. And we didn’t exactly see eye to eye on the best way to get here. But the truth of the matter is, I was coming for you.” He picked up the transformer. His hand hovered over the switch. “I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.”

  Click. Turn.

  One, two, three. . .

  Captain began screaming. Four. Five. Six.

  Could a voice-box bleed?

  Yes! He didn’t just believe it. He was enduring it!

  His arm. His skin was actually on fire!

  “I think you owe Herald an apology,” Gospel said, loud enough for him to hear over his own screams.

  “I’m sorry!” he blurted. “Please! Anything you want, I’ll—”

  “You gave him your word,” Gospel cut in, louder now. Angrier too. “And he gave you his trust. And what did you do? You defiled everything he held dear. Everything he stood for.”

  Gospel let him suffer, longer than before. But eventually, he hit the switch and the glowing, roasting, raging heat subsided.

  Captain blew out the lingering flames.

  His right hand and arm were blistered and black. Only at the edges could he even feel it anymore.

  Herald was staring at him, right in the eyes, unmoved by his apology or anguish. Captain would have pled for mercy if he thought it’d do a shred of good. But there was no compassion left to appeal to. Too little, too late, Herald’s expression announced.

  It was a delayed reaction, but eventually, Herald’s hateful trance was broken by Gospel’s voice. “Herald, would you do me a favor?”

  “Anything,” he replied, the lapse in his glare only temporary. It returned, leveling on the object of his enmity—the Captain he once admired and respected—before he finished saying the word.

  “Would you go free the Fallow for me?”

  Gospel handed him the keys. “Gladly,” was his response.

  “I wouldn’t! It’s not. . .” Captain urged as Herald turned to leave.

  Herald paused in the doorway. He looked to Gospel for guidance. He nodded once, quelling all trace of Herald’s doubt.

  “Safe? Why? Are they vicious?” Gospel cocked his head to ask, like he was speaking to a fool. “Is that what happens when you cripple, starve, and violate them until they’re begging for death? I came in with food and told them they’d live to see the light of day. They were human . . . once. And they still understand what’s going on. Otherwise, they’re like dogs, really. They won’t bite the hand that feeds them. Or snarl at a man who, for once, wasn’t there to rape them.”

  The Fallow came bounding in on all fours, panting and wide eyed, eager to locate a source of all the fuss.

  “I could be wrong. . .” Gospel shrugged one blasé shoulder as the Fallow began prowling in, licking their chops at the scent of Dr. Wayward’s demise. “But I have a feeling, they’re going to eat you.”

  Sloth and Fiend dug right in to Dr. Wayward, teeth first. They liked their meat well done.

  Feral, meanwhile, was eying him.

  “Wait,” Gospel said, drawn out. His hand went up to temporarily curb her appetite. Amazingly enough, she sat down and protested with only a snort and a grunt.

  Then, even Spindly crept in on her stomach. He was surprised she was able to move about at all. She was from two, the place where he kept the wan and the weak, those easiest to subdue. The most breakable if that mood so happened to strike. And yesterday, he took out his anger on what remained of her flesh. Today, he suspected, he’d have to dispose of her body.

  Herald followed her in, guiding Amber along with his arm draped loosely around her shoulders. Her face was pink, swollen, and tear-streaked. Beyond that, she had no mark on her body to suggest Feral and Fiend did her any harm.

  His little Plucky bounded in at the rear.

  And Herald re-closed the door.

  Plucky was his favorite. He was good to her. She was sweet and obedient. He always thought she liked him. And yet she sat next to Feral, giggling like a loon.

  “I think we’re ready!” Gospel announced. “Now, who’s hungry?” Gospel looked to Amber. “Can I borrow you for a second?” Herald encouraged her to listen . . . don’t be afraid . . . with a nod. All would be well . . . for her.

  Gospel handed her the transformer. As it settled into her hands, the look she gave her husband was victorious, to say the least.

  Gospel’s finger flew up as if to announce he had a grand idea. “Oh, I almost forgot!” He glided off, his coat fluttering behind him like wings, and he escaped from view. He returned, moments later, with a wooden slab i
n hand. Two bloody, mangled mounds of flesh, roughly oval in shape, were placed on top. They were each the size of a hearty baked potato, though not in any way as appetizing. “I saved you some. Medium rare.”

  Gospel brought the slab underneath the Captain’s nose. “Open wide.”

  What were they? The “meat” smelled like the sewer. They were shriveled and hairy. They were oozing a viscous yellow fluid. They were. . .

  Dr. Wayward’s testicles . . . cooked “medium rare” . . . and that appeared to be a light graze over the periphery of the fire.

  Gospel handed the slab to Plucky. “Make sure he eats those.”

  Herald crossed his arms. He took an irritatingly smug, casual, but ever so watchful stance against the wall, a few steps in the background.

  While smiling ear to ear, Plucky took the massive balls in her comparatively tiny hands.

  Captain’s stomach became a projectile eruption at just the thought of eating that vile part of him. He just missed Gospel’s shoes. He didn’t jump back, however. He merely looked down, smirking, as if he knew the vomit would miss.

  “You’re a fucking psychopath!” Captain spat through the lingering taste of bile.

  “Wrong. I’m the Word of God. Now, it’s supper time.”

  He urged Plucky to follow through with a sweep of his hand. And she shoved Dr. Wayward’s manhood into his mouth. He immediately spat out every last essence until his mouth was parched. “Go fuck yourself!”

  “Amber?” Gospel intoned with a song-like lilt. “Go with the switch on the left. You’ll like that one.” She flipped it without pause or question. “Turn the dial,” Gospel continued to coax. She obeyed, hypnotized by his words and the prospect of her Captain’s pain. “Start slow. Stop when you feel he’s had enough.”

  “I’ll eat it, I’ll eat it, I’ll eat it!” he chanted, pleaded, begged . . . and that was before any scorching began.

  “Too late,” Gospel so lightly informed him while the wire was firing up, inciting its own special version of castration.

  He screamed . . . at first. But then his mind withdrew, though not completely. He could still see. He could detect the hate in the room. It was heavy in the air and plastered on each and every face. Everything else, though, was still and silent . . . except for a slowing heartbeat and a deep rattling breath at his ear.

  What the devil. . . ? He could feel the heat on his shoulder. And that was all he could feel.

  All right, Amber. I admire your diligence, but do save some for the rest of us. . . .

  The words were garbled. Distant. But they brought him back to the time and place he had escaped for a bit. Back to the stench of his own excretions. Back to the torture. And still, he was grateful.

  “God will punish you,” Captain muttered, little more than a whisper. He intended for that to emerge forcefully. But that wasn’t possible with his head lolling side to side. Like his future, and any chance of spreading the light, his vocal chords were fried too.

  “God is on my side,” Gospel stated as if it were the divine truth.

  There was a tug and a sharp pain on Captain’s leg. Feral had blood and juices running down her chin as she sat back on her haunches, a sampling of his leg muscle overflowing in her mouth. Plucky followed her lead and didn’t chew until he was watching.

  Her giggle was dark and evil. She had been pretending for the duration of her captivity. And she was happy to be through with that for good.

  Was it the cooked or the uncooked leg that they returned to for seconds? He couldn’t remember. And he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. The source of his misery was hard to pin down. It took many forms. In fact, he was sobbing without any control over it. Or even a care to try. “The Redeemer has chosen me. You’re fooling yourself.”

  His plea was weak and pitiful.

  Gospel, the high and mighty bastard, appeared to be moved by his own righteousness . . . and nothing else. “Am I? You see . . . here’s the thing.” In a room that was otherwise fading, dimming, distorting, the man named Gospel had a clear and ethereal glow. “I sometimes see him. Not the Redeemer, but God himself. I always feel him.” He hovered forward, his movement smooth and soundless. “I hear his voice, right now. Let us cleanse ourselves from all filthiness of the flesh and spirit, perfecting holiness in the fear of God. If He wasn’t there for me, if He wasn’t behind me, if He didn’t respect what I do, I would have died a hundred times by now.” Gospel stopped. He was in the Captain’s face. He may as well have been the sun. Gospel was all he could see. All he could hear. All that he knew anymore. “Can you honestly say He is here for you too?”

  Captain had no answer.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Gospel backed away and turned from him.

  Strange.

  For some reason, his close presence was missed.

  “Amber.” At just her name, he had her full attention. “It’s time. The doors upstairs were left open for you. I trust your judgement. Everything will be consumed by flames in exactly ten minutes. Grab what you need to survive. Warn those who deserve to live. Leave behind those who don’t. And do not come back down here under any circumstances. Do you understand?” In response to her nod he said, “Good.”

  Herald unlocked and opened the door for her. He said his farewell and good luck. And from the room no woman had ever walked away from, she dashed toward the hope of a better life. Perhaps she believed there was only one way to go . . . and that was up.

  “Herald. . .”

  He came forward.

  “Morton Aamon Wersal?” As if pulled by a taut wire, Captain’s head snapped toward the call of his name at birth. His name at death. “Look into his eyes,” Gospel said in regard to Herald. “His hatred for you is the last thing you’ll see. You may not be sorry now. But soon . . . I think you already know.”

  Yes. He was sorry. He would always be sorry.

  As the Fallow devoured the flesh of the truly unworthy—and yes, he believed that now—Gospel handed the transformer to Herald. He accepted it, no remorse, no hesitation.

  Herald the weak. Herald the perpetual failure.

  And yet he had friends in high places. I should have known.

  Herald pushed the button and turned the dial all the way.

  The heat came on, full force, no waiting.

  The wire scorched his throat this time. Herald was, indeed, the last living thing he saw. And he was unafraid. And unforgiving.

  Where, exactly, did life end and death begin? The burn wouldn’t tell him. It was pervasive. Absolute.

  And it would have no end.

  Two months later. . .

  “And he said to her. . .”

  Virtue tapped the notebook page with her pen. Freeing her legs from the sheets, she swung up her crossed feet.

  As far as the leg was concerned, she did have a freer range of motion and just in time for the Christmas Heritage holidays. The cast was finally off. The wound’s infection—the original and its fierce comeback—had cleared up as well. But not without a fight.

  The infection had spread. The fevers had been never-ending.

  But at last, they broke.

  Bernie had saved her life on multiple occasions, using resources she couldn’t realistically spare for the Fallow. She was a magician when it came down to the bookkeeping. Even so, nothing was an easy fix. Or a cheap one. And the remedies had been almost as harsh on her system as the infections had been. Even on the best of days, her stomach wasn’t exactly itself.

  Virtue tried to wiggle the toes of her bad foot. And still, she had no luck.

  It will come. . .

  She had to believe that.

  At least today is a good day.

  She took a whiff of the ham cooking downstairs. Herald was not the best in the kitchen, but he was trying very hard to make their first Christmas together a happy and memorable one. And he had Law downstairs to bicker with, not that he was much help.

  “Is it done?” Herald asked. It wasn’t meant for her ear
s, per se, but voices did have a way of carrying through the floors, vents, and narrow, uninsulated and sparsely decorated corridors.

  “How am I supposed to know?” was Law’s answer.

  Her giggle was accompanied by a gag. And that was uncalled for. She usually enjoyed a traditional Christmas Eve dinner. The scent of cloves and caramelized sugar should have been more appealing.

  Maybe good was the wrong word to describe her condition. Better than usual was still progress, though. She considered it a Christmas wish fulfilled.

  Virtue was too often bedridden for one reason or another, but she had found a way to pass the time and make the most of it. She was proud to say she was about halfway through her first full-length novel.

  Herald was all caught up with the editing as well, she realized, flipping back. Other than what she had written that day, of course. All morning and throughout the early afternoon, he had been busy preparing a feast. They had a little money to spare and it was a special occasion.

  The success of The Rising Tide remained steady and strong. Herald made sure of it and he wasn’t sleeping on any sort of regular schedule as a result. And yet he still made the time to help her become the best writer she could be. He even said he enjoyed it. And he promised she would see her work in print the moment she was happy with it.

  Oh, the tears! She was getting emotional . . . again. He had been so good to her. And there was so little she could give him in return.

  Her love was enough. He had said that. She believed it. And she vowed to do her best to show it, even through the lingering pain and regret for the mistakes she had made.

  And then she had it. Her next line.

  “I promise you. It will never happen again.”

  Plates were being set downstairs. The silverware and glassware clattered into their places as well. It was time to put her pen down and her smile on. But that was easier said than done.

  When she stepped from the bed, she experienced a head rush and a queasiness that had her estimating the distance to the bucket on the floor. It was unfortunately on the other side of the bed. It was now a double bed. Bernie had dug up an extra cot at the clinic and that meant Virtue and Herald could now comfortably sleep next to each other. A blessing, yes. But she didn’t want to risk scrambling across it or going around it.