About Henry Fellows

Post 136:

On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows

Episode 35:

Chapter 12 Concluded

            I’m not done. I use my left hand to simulate a notepad and my right to signal for a pen to write down some more questions. He looks annoyed but leaves the room to look around. God knows what out-of-the-way dump we’re in. Too much pain to remember.

            Moments go by before he comes back in. I try to see through the gauze and shakily pen my queries.

            Where are we?

            “Montserrat. Caribbean. Like you said. There’s nobody around, no problems.”

            Volcano.

            “Yeah, we’re in the exclusion zone. Can’t say it’s the most comforting thought, but we’re definitely off-the-grid. Only you would pick an active disaster area for a safe house. We talked about this before, Deer.” Not sure what he’s braying about. Seems like a half-abandoned island is a perfect out of the way destination. Assuming lava doesn’t come seeping through the walls.

            Drugs.

            “Yeah, they got you on some serious stuff.”

            NO. DRUGS.

            “The doc’s coming. The poor guy needed a break. Billy has a bag over his head at all times so he can’t see any of us. Only takes it off so he can work on you. Most of the time he mutters in Swiss.”

            French. You guys are assholes.

            “Eh, it’s for the best. Billy would want to kill him otherwise.”

            Where exactly are the kids?

            “Little ranch outside of Fort Worth, southwest of the city.”

            How many acres? Approaches?

            “I don’t know all the details. I mean, it’s a frigging ranch or whatever. Probably approach it from damn near anywhere.”

            Is Hawker there?

            “Al says no. Zero signs of danger. Some other deputies are keeping an eye out, sounds like. Important thing is the kids are there, with your ex and that husband of hers.”

            I’m done laying around. Yanking out the needle from my left arm causes an eruption of noises from the little machine next to me. Floyd tries to hold me down but even his meaty hands and forearms aren’t enough to get it done. Shoving him off, I point to the door of the makeshift operating room. He gets the picture. It’s the picture of a mummy in a half-cinched hospital gown with his junk hanging out.

            We’re leaving. It doesn’t sound like Hawker knows what he’s doing; either that, or he just doesn’t care enough. If he did he would be onsite to nail the thing down. It’s possible he doesn’t believe it was me calling. That was the idea behind getting my face back. It was a precaution. Now it seems my fears were justified. I look in the mirror, expecting to see my old self. Nothing. Just puss and blood covered with layers and layers of gauze and bandages. Good lord. So much for recognizing me. Doctor!