Henry Franks

by Peter Adam Salomon

  They ran with the wind now, blowing them down with each gust. Their clothing was torn, soaked with rain and blood. A branch came out of nowhere and clipped Henry across his right arm; he didn’t feel it though it knocked him off balance, sending him crashing to the street. Justine’s fingers slipped out of his hand as he fell.

  “Henry!” she screamed, running back for him. She pulled him up, fighting the wind. When he put weight on his legs, he collapsed back to the ground.

  Lightning lit up the world. It illuminated a figure at the end of the street, standing in the water, long hair whipping around in the wind. Then the light disappeared, taking the person with it. The after-image, a shadow standing there against the wind, stayed with them every time they blinked.

  “Was that your mom?” she yelled in his ear.

  He shrugged and scrambled to his feet, limping as they continued running. Another shutter tore free from his house, slamming into the wall like a gunshot before flying through the air to land behind them.

  Wind stung their eyes and the rain beat on their unprotected heads as they ran up Justine’s steps. Henry slammed his shoulder into the door but it wouldn’t budge, and he caught his forehead on the brass doorknocker.

  Justine looked around the porch, then picked up a small planter; the petals had been stripped from the flower and the bare green stalk stood defiantly against the wind. Turning around, she threw it into the boards that her father had nailed up over the living room window. Again, she pounded against the same spot until the wood finally splintered.

  Together, they clawed at the board with their fingers, prying the hole wider until they could see the glass behind it.

  The heavy rain came down sideways and wind pushed the matching pair of rocking chairs crashing to the railing of the porch.

  “Faster!” Justine screamed. They reached through the small hole and pulled despite the splinters, forcing the nails slowly out of the siding.

  The plywood came loose with a snap, falling on top of them, and the storm flipped it end over end toward the street. Justine picked the planter back up and threw it against the window. Glass shattered into the house, caught on the wind.

  “Hurry!” Justine said as she jumped, breaking through the remaining glass. A shard stabbed into her leg and she screamed, tumbling to the floor as the piece of glass stuck out of her thigh. Henry jumped after her and spikes of glass at the bottom of the sill cut through his pants. The screaming of the storm lessened once they were inside, even though the wind and rain followed them through the broken window.

  Justine crawled across the floor holding her thigh, glass cutting into her palms.

  Henry slid to the floor next to her, slicing open his knees, and wrapped his arms around her.

  She looked at him, teeth gritted against the pain. “Pull it out.”

  “Ready?” Henry asked, his fingers slipping against the sides of the glass.

  “Do it.”

  Wind whistled through the broken window and rain pooled on the floor around them. Henry pulled off his belt and tied it around her leg.

  “Now,” he said and she squeezed her fingers down on his foot as he pulled the glass out.

  Blood soaked through her clothes. Henry tightened the belt and pressed his hands into her thigh until the bleeding stopped. When he looked up, her face was pale, eyes wide open in a sea of tears.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  Justine smiled, then a harsh little laugh escaped. “No,” she said, and then laughed again.

  Lightning flashed and the thunder followed immediately behind. A shadow fell across the window, but it was difficult to see once the lightning went away.

  “Get up!” Henry screamed, reaching for Justine’s hand.

  He wrapped his arm around her and she leaned against him as they scrambled to the kitchen, both limping.

  “On the counter,” she said, pointing to the knife block next to the sink.

  Henry and Justine backed up until they had no place else to run. Knives in each hand, they waited in the kitchen.

  thirty three

  Lightning struck a tree outside, sparks shooting off as the top half broke free, crashing into the roof. Plaster fell from the ceiling, sticking to their skin, wet with rain and blood. A figure appeared in the doorway, long hair dripping water to the floor.

  “Mom?” Henry said, his voice raw. He lowered the knives.

  Another lightning strike, and the shadows disappeared.

  Long hair flying in the wind, a sick grin missing a tooth, and unmistakably male.

  William took a shallow breath, then fought his eyes open. Lightning lit the room, the wind whistling through the broken window. Chrissy sat with him, his head in her lap as her fingers played through his hair. Her every breath came out as a hiss, forced through what remained of her throat.

  “Henry?” she whispered.

  William blinked, but she was still there, the faint trace of a smile somewhere in her damaged face. “Chrissy.” He coughed, trying to clear his lungs. A bubble of blood popped as his lips opened. “What happened?”

  “Henry?” she asked again.

  “Storm,” he said, pointing toward the window. “Thought you were chasing them.”

  Her eyes widened and she shook her head. She moved him to the floor and ran to where the broken glass was letting the hurricane in.

  “You attacked me.” He stretched out toward her but she was too far away. His arms fell to the ground.

  At the window, she shook her head again.

  “Chrissy,” he said, then louder to be heard over the wind. “Chrissy!”

  She turned around and looked at him. “Henry?”

  “You didn’t?” he asked, pointing to his head, where the blood still ran in thick rivers down his skin.

  Once more, she shook her head.

  His eyes closed as another cough sent dizzy waves of nausea through him.

  “Henry?”

  William sighed. “I don’t know,” he closed his eyes. “I thought it was you.”

  Lightning broke the sky open, slicing through the tree outside.

  “I’m sorry,” he tried to say, but by the time she reached her husband’s side, he was beyond speaking.

  “Frank,” she said, the word barely more than a sigh, impossible to understand, and then she kissed him one final time as he died.

  The stranger hissed, raising a pipe over his head, swinging it at random in the darkness as he walked toward them.

  “Justine, run!” Henry screamed, standing between her and the stranger, knives held high in front of him once again as the footsteps came closer.

  Glass shattered to the floor from the kitchen door, and another body crashed into the man with the pipe. Rain poured into the room, the wind screaming across them. Justine grabbed Henry’s hand as the two people rolled over each other on the floor.

  The man landed on top, raising the pipe high as he prepared to strike. As one, Henry and Justine lunged forward, each driving a knife into his side. The pipe fell out of his hand as he toppled to the ground.

  Lightning struck again, lighting the room. Beneath the dying man, a woman struggled to free herself.

  Henry pulled the body off and the woman scrambled back against the wall. Long brown hair lay flat against her scalp, and even in the dim light he could see the necklace of scars she wore.

  “Henry,” she hissed, almost a moan, the word barely recognizable.

  “Mom?”

  Hope and Tragedy in the Aftermath of Erika

  Saint Simons Island, GA—August 31, 2009: Over three thousand Glynn County homes are still without electricity two days after Hurricane Erika made landfall to the south, in St. Marys, before turning north inland to Atlanta. It will be the end of the week before full power is restored, utilities management has said. The U.S. Department of Energy, concentrating most resources in Camden County, which suffered a direct hit, says that power has already been restored to 38 percent of those residences in Georgia that lost power
in the storm.

  Mayor Jim Monroe of Brunswick, helping local businesses clean up the island, praised the efforts of law enforcement and the citizens of Glynn County. “The Golden Isles should be incredibly proud of the men and women who serve here.”

  Damage estimates range into the tens of millions, but thanks to the efficient evacuation of the islands, the human toll was remarkably low. “A couple of fender benders and minor accidents,” said police spokesperson Carmella Rawls. “The tragic death of local resident William Franks, who died during the storm, has led to the successful resolution of the vicious murders which have plagued Glynn County this summer.”

  “Blunt force trauma,” said Major Daniel Johnson at a hastily called press conference in the aftermath of the storm. “Mr. Franks is the final victim of Richard Adims.”

  Adims, 41, a former resident of Waycross, had been institutionalized at Georgia Regional Psychiatric Hospital after being found unable to stand trial for a series of beatings due to mental incompetence. In May, Adims was transferred to Turning Point Hospital after biting off a part of his tongue in an apparent suicide attempt. After attacking a guard on the transport, Adims escaped and had been on the loose ever since.

  Dr. Jason Rapp, Chief of Staff at the GRPH, released a brief statement to the press: “Due to a computer error, Richard Adims was mistakenly classified as an N-VO, Non-Violent Offender. In the confusion after the unfortunate situation earlier this year concerning the supervision of patients, this misclassification went unrectified. Funds have been requested from the State discretionary account to assure this does not happen again.”

  Repeated calls to the Georgia Regional Psychiatric Hospital for additional information went unreturned.

  The body of Richard Adims was found in the debris after the storm in a subdivision on St. Simons Island. The alleged cause of death is puncture wounds that police spokesperson Carmella Rawls says Franks was able to inflict upon his assailant.

  “It appears that the suspect, Richard Adims, intended to seek shelter with relatives, who, unfortunately for William Franks, live next door to the Franks’ residence on St. Simons. But Mr. Adims went to the Franks residence instead, where he once lived with his first wife, Margaret Saville, a local psychologist. In the struggle,” Ms. Rawls said, “Mr. Franks suffered a severe blow to the head from the pipe that allegedly was used by the suspect in previous attacks. In self defense, the victim was able to fatally wound his assailant.”

  “The people of Glynn County and the Golden Isles are eternally grateful for all of the hard work and dedication of FLETC, the various police departments, and the many people who gave of their time to aid us this summer,” said Mayor Monroe.

  William Franks is survived by one son, Henry, 16.

  thirty four

  The funeral was larger than he’d expected. Police officers coming to pay their respects, a sizable contingent of journalists following behind local politicians, and numerous strangers coming together as a community after the storm. Relatives of other victims attended; most left without saying a word but some approached, resting a hand on the casket or offering Henry a tentative hug.

  He stood with Justine and her parents as William Franks was laid to rest. Bandages still covered Justine’s arms, but her fingers were soft and warm and never far away.

  As the casket sank into the welcoming earth, Henry looked around, shading his eyes from the sun. September’s heat burned down, erasing the memories of the storm despite the broken trees and the blue tarps covering homes that had lost roofs. In the distance, a lone woman leaned against a grave until long after the other mourners had left.

  They found her sitting in the freshly turned dirt, facing the space where a tombstone would be someday. The sun was low in the west and his elongated shadow fell across her as Justine’s fingers slipped out of his hand.

  A twig or two was caught in her hair, the dirty brown strands hanging limply against her shoulders as she rocked back and forth on the ground.

  “Mom?” he said, the word soft and quiet in the stillness of the empty cemetery.

  Her rocking stopped and her head jerked up. The scar around her neck caught the fading sunlight as she turned to look at him. A smile spread across her face and her eyes, almost a match of his own, glistened, but try as he might, he couldn’t remember anything more than what the photos in his scrapbook told him.

  “Henry,” she said, the word broken and harsh.

  Next to him, Justine wrapped her fingers around his arm and gently pushed him forward. He stumbled with the first step, then ran to close the distance. Christine’s arms, wrapped protectively around him, held him in a fierce hug as she whispered his name into his hair.

  His mother lifted her head to look at him as the sun set behind them. She rested dirty fingers on either side of his face and smiled. Releasing him, she reached an arm out to Justine and pulled her closer, placing Henry’s hand into Justine’s with another smile.

  “Henry,” his mother said.

  Through his tears, he watched as the moon lit her face. She touched the dirt and looked back at Henry. “I’m sorry,” she said, mouthing the words since few sounds would come through her damaged vocal cords.

  From behind the fall of his hair, he studied her face, the pale skin and its necklace of scars.

  “Remember me,” his mother whispered before dropping to the ground.

  “Mom!” Henry said, but she was beyond hearing him. He pulled her up to rest against his shoulder and brushed his hands through her tangled hair. Blood dripped from his nose to land in the dirt of the grave as his mother died in his arms.

  In his bedroom, he flipped through the scrapbook without speaking; one picture of his mother, smiling as she looked at him, kept his attention.

  “I’m sorry,” Justine said.

  “Not your fault.”

  “You always say that.” She took his hand. A single photograph, of Henry caught between his parents. On the monitor, another picture, of Henry gaunt and losing his battle with cancer.

  “When will you leave?” she asked.

  “For Birmingham?”

  She nodded but didn’t speak.

  “Someone from Children’s Services stopped by. Not really sure what’s going to happen. Besides, what would I say? What would I do? I don’t remember anyone.”

  “You have friends there,” Justine said.

  “I have you, here.” He looked at her and ran his finger down her cheek. A tiny scar was all the evidence remaining on her face of the storm. “I’d rather stay.”

  “Henry.”

  “Justine,” he said before kissing her, wrapping his arms around her and holding tight. He broke the kiss and looked down at her, so close he could feel her breath warm on his skin. “I’m dying.”

  She tried to push him away but he wouldn’t let her go.

  “Again,” he said, soft and gentle.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “The pills. Look.” He pointed his chin at the desk. A plastic tray rested next to his laptop; over half the compartments were empty.

  “Get more,” she said.

  “I can’t. My father made them. He mixed them himself.”

  “Henry.”

  “I tore his room apart, trying to find notes, but there was nothing. He must have gotten rid of everything with those old photographs. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop saying that.” She squeezed her eyes shut, clutching her fists into his shirt, burying her head into his shoulder.

  He could feel her tears soaking through the fabric. She sobbed against him and he rubbed her back, pulling her still closer.

  “When?” she said.

  He shrugged against her. “Soon? I don’t know. Eventually, my body will reject the transplants. I think that’s what happened to my mother.”

  “You’re still you, Henry,” Justine said.

  “Am I?” he asked, running a hand through his hair so that it was no longer covering his
eyes. “Which part of me is me?”

  She kissed him, once, short and fierce. “Did you feel that?”

  Henry nodded.

  Justine ran her fingers across his face. “Feel that?” she said, so quietly the words were little more than a breath in his ear.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t give up,” she said. “Don’t you dare. There are doctors; they’ll help you.”

  “What can I tell them?” he asked. “‘My father put my head on someone else’s body’? Even I don’t believe that and it happened to me.”

  “Tell them anything,” she said. “Tell them nothing or everything or something in between. Just try. Please, for me, try.”

  He nodded.

  “You could give them the pills—can’t they analyze them or something?”

  “You talk too much, you know that?” he said, brushing a kiss across her forehead.

  “I’m sorry.” Justine smiled, then lifted her lips to his.

  epilogue

  Justine Franks, MD, FACS

  St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA

  Tuesday, December 21, 2027

  Patient X

  Patient presents with systemic organ failure due to general transplant rejection. Past history suggests patient has developed immunity to all but toxic levels of immunosuppressants and nanotech-based anti-rejection medications. Research continues in conjunction with the Emory University Transplant Center into the effects of the Franks laser weld on the regeneration of spinal stem cells, but the prognosis for Patient X remains constant: complete failure of all transplanted systems imminent.

  Prescription at this time is to continue IV Interferon therapy in overdose quantities as well as gluccocorticoids; opioids, as needed, for pain management. Patient has been entered into rotation for current drug testing trials for bio-engineered nanotech and gene therapy that has shown promise in early stage animal experimentation, but the prognosis is unchanged.

  Justine pushed herself back from the desk and put her tablet to sleep. The screen flickered once and went dark. She rubbed her eyes, took a deep breath, and dropped her head back, staring at the ceiling.