The Fledge Effect Read online

  R.J. Henry

  Lemon Lake Publishing Press/ LLPP

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely

  coincidental.

  THE FLEDGE EFFECT

  A LLPP Book/ published by arrangement with author

  PRINTING HISTORY LLPP first edition/ March 2016 All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2016 by RJ Henry

  Cover art by Byron James

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without written permission.

  For information address: Destiny Coleman, 406 Wesleyan Tr., Cameron, Missouri 64429

  The author World Wide Web site address is

  https://novelistrjhenry.wordpress.com

  ISBN 10: 1523249056 ISBN 13: 978-1523249053

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on.

  —John F. Kennedy

  Prologue ............................................... 1 Chapter 1 .............................................. 9 Chapter 2 ............................................ 18 Chapter 3 ............................................ 34 Chapter 4 ............................................ 50 Chapter 5 ............................................ 66 Chapter 6 ............................................ 82 Chapter 7 ............................................ 99 Chapter 8 .......................................... 108 Chapter 9 .......................................... 118 Chapter 10 ........................................ 130 Chapter 11 ........................................ 142 Chapter 12 ........................................ 152 Chapter 13 ........................................ 167 Chapter 14 ........................................ 178 Chapter 15 ........................................ 195 Chapter 16 ........................................ 209 Chapter 17 ........................................ 231 Chapter 18 ........................................ 251 Chapter 19 ........................................ 272 Chapter 20 ........................................ 285 Chapter 21 ........................................ 295 Chapter 22 ........................................ 305 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ............. 311 ABOUT THE AUTHOR ................ 312

  Prologue

  Doctor Marcel Johnston paced the dimensions of his lab. A vial, filled with green liquid, shook with vigor in his hand. Two excruciating years have passed, and he finally did it. He stretched his lips across the folds of his skin. “I’ve done it! Yes!”

  A repetitive tap sounded on his door. “Dad? Are you okay?” Calista’s voice carried through the wood, echoing throughout the hallway of the institution.

  “Yes, yes! Come in, hurry!” She poked her head around the corner of the agape door. “What are you yelling about?”

  “This,” he exclaimed, revealing the vial to her.

  She grimaced at his exasperation. “You made green goop. Congrats… I guess.”

  “What? No. I mean, kind of. It is more than just green goop. It is the perfect human gene. Genetically advanced beyond its given potential,” he said as his excitement quickly caught the attention of Calista.

  “Perfect? How does that work?”

  “Oh, speaking of work how is your experiment with the pill that replaces sleep going?”

  She tapped her mug of cold coffee. “Not so well. There is no way to replicate sleep efficiently. Ironically, I need more than coffee to keep me awake long enough to continue my experiment. That is why this coffee is more energy drink than coffee. Anyways, tell me more about this so-called perfect gene.”

  He smiled with a menace. “Ah! Yes, of course. Imagine if you never had to obtain sustenance, stop to use the bathroom, or sleep ever again.”

  “That would be nice,” she smirked, crossing her arms tight across her chest. She continued, “But only if it were possible.”

  “It is! That’s the beauty of science!” he grasped her shoulders, “The science committee will be thrilled. History will tell stories about this day.”

  “Well, are you going to test it out first?” Calista said as she gazed over at the rat habitat he displays upon his desk.

  “Right. But it won’t work with their genetic code. I need a human test subject.”

  She lifted then dropped her shoulders. “I can do it. We can be the Father-Daughter duo who solves the world’s biggest problem; death.”

  “No,” he shook his head, “No, I can’t. There is no way telling what it might do to you.”

  “Dad, you are a genius. I trust you.”

  He glared at her with his steel-blue eyes. They seemed to say ‘no’ but she shook her head returning the same gaze. She raised an eyebrow, “Well?”

  He sighed. “You have your Mothers’ stubbornness.”

  “Correction; I have her determination.”

  “Fine,” he said, and then nodded. He pointed at the long metal raised platform at the other end of the room. “Sit on that table.”

  The steel raised the hairs on her arms as she reclined on the metal slab. “Will it hurt?” she gulped, staring at the enlarged needle he steadily brought towards her. “Can’t I just drink it?”

  “Possibly, and no.”

  She filled her lungs with the sterile air, and sighed in anticipation, “Nobel Prize, here we come.”

  As the needle penetrated her upper arm, she bit her bottom lip wincing. She bellowed, slamming her fist against the table. “That burns like Hell! Jesus Christ, fuck!”

  Within minutes, the pain ceased, sending a chill throughout her veins. “Oh.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Good, I guess. Just really parched,” she said, rubbing her throat.

  “Right, wait one moment.”

  He turned his back to her as he proceeded towards the side of the room where his mini fridge was.

  Calista swung her legs off the table, noticing a scent she has never known to be sweet before; blood. She followed the aroma, leading her to the cage on his desk. The mice squeaked as she approached them. She lifted the latch and dipped her hand inside, scooping up the one that failed to get away. Her eyes glinted as she bared her new teeth.

  Her hands trembled towards her mouth, grazing her fingertip across the smooth and enlarged canines that protruded from her upper lip. She shrieked, seeing her upside down reflection in the fearful look the tiny rodent gave her. She reopened the latch, ready to place him back. Then, she heard it; the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat. It echoed inside her ears, quickening as she put his face in front of hers.

  Eyeing the choices, he retrieved, Marcel asked, “Okay, I have a soda, juice, or water. What are you craving? I need to know to keep track in my experiments journal. Whatever you crave can be linked to any problem we may have.”

  He inched closer to her. “Good to see you at least walking. Are you dizzy? Nauseous?” She didn’t respond.

  “Can you hear still?”

  “Yes, dad. I can hear. No, those drinks will not satisfy my craving.”

  “Do you know what it is that you want?”

  She swung around with blood dripping from the corners of her mouth. “Yes. I crave blood.”

  Her fingers released the dead carcass, and Marcel began to tremble throughout his body sending chills up his spine. “I need to fix this.”

  “Where is the cure? You did make one, right?”r />
  “No. I couldn’t. I need the blood sample of a test subject it was used on in order to extract and create a viable cure.”

  “What?” Calista shrieked. “No cure?”

  An uncontrollable burst of anger fired inside her. She growled, flipping his desk over. Everything broke off and scattered into many piles on the surrounding floor. Papers flew in many directions.

  “Calm down!” he ushered.

  Her hand swung behind her, knocking Marcel to the ground. His head slammed against the tile, causing him to lose consciousness. “Don’t you ever tell me to calm down! Ahhh!”

  She grabbed her poncho and ran out of the lab, headed for the moonlit streets. She screamed through her tears as she begged. “Help me! Someone!”

  A woman stepped out of her house. She held a cigarette between her lips. Just as she was about to light it, Calista stopped her. “Help!”

  Misses Sawyer turned her back at Calista. Calista clenched her fists, grabbing her by the shoulder. “Why are you not helping me?”

  Her cigarette dropped to the ground in fear as she looked down at Calista’s mouth. Calista saw her reflection in the front door. She couldn’t believe what she was doing to this poor woman. Someone, help. The plea in her eyes evaded her overwhelming sense to feed whatever beast resided inside her now.

  Calista ran away in fear, shrieking from the top of her lungs.

  Her shrieks heard, a few blocks down, at the Mayor’s house. Inside were himself and Grant Daly, his son.

  Grant perked up at the noise. He peered out the dining room window. “What was that?”

  Jeremiah patted his mouth with his napkin. He sighed, with a rested gaze on his half-eaten, rare, tenderloin. The shrieks were heard once more. “Sounds to me like feral cats, son,” he said with a grin.

  Grant nodded, keeping his gaze out on the streets. “Okay.”

  “I hope you like this interview I have had set up for you. I had to pull a lot of strings, now don’t blow it.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t. But, I must ask, why this job? Isn’t there something else I could be doing? Or, what I would like to be doing?”

  “What is that? Waiting tables? Or, worse, construction?”

  “There are jobs between those, you know?”

  “No son of mine is doing dead-end jobs.”

  “But, why this one? Answer me that.”

  “Look,” Jeremiah said, rubbing his bald scalp. “There are just some things you have to trust me on. Besides, your knowledge—intelligence—is best served in this field.”

  Grant could see in his fathers’ eyes that he held a particular plan for his future. He cleared his throat. “Fine,” he said, rising from the table. “Just peachy.”

  He felt he better served a purpose as an author. He wanted to help people, not hurt them. And scientists are well known to harm living things in order to gain insight on a, rather, unethical level.

  “Son, you will know in time what it is that I need you to do,” Jeremiah’s voice croaked. “For now, just do this. I let this whole hippie generation get the best of you, but your future is more important than your organic-wearing, vegetarian-eating lifestyle.”

  Grant eyed the left over ranch on his plate. A few leaves of salad poked through the white liquid. He sighed before walking away.

  Problem is, however, Grant could sense a tightening in his gut. My future. Nevertheless, he vowed to use science only to help people, not help destroy The People.

  Before he could ascend the steps his father bellowed out, “And eat some damn meat every once in a while. You look sickly.” You smoking makes me sick, he thought.

  Chapter 1

  Nine o’clock was her Wine O’clock. Merlot was her preference. It never failed to ease her mind. In front of Emily, rested a stack of divorce papers. Country music blared behind her, making the shrieks just faint wails she passed off as screaming winds. The weather didn’t call for any storms that night, but she always figured that is the only job someone can get paid to lie and not be called out on it.

  Her coffee table, filled with numerous non-working pens, shrouded in unframed pictures of her and Hank. “Hmmm. Not the best marriage I have had. But, still, not the worst,” she cheered, tipping the wine glass to her lips. She tried to call Nick, knowing the sound of his voice would cheer her up. But he didn’t answer.

  She attempted to refill her glass, but her second bottle rang empty. Frowning, she left to the kitchen to grab her last bottle. This time, whiskey. It was Hank’s favorite type. She remembered when he would mimic the little guy on the label. She giggled, and then began quietly sobbing. “Why am I so upset?” She honestly had no idea. In her gut, she felt he was unfaithful. But, in actuality, she knew that couldn’t be true.

  Her phone rang insistently. She looked at the screen. It read MADDIE. She ended the noise with a huff. “Not a good time, sis. Not. A. Good. Time.”

  The couch called to her. She felt sleepy, but her hands shook with destructive curiosity. She took three deep breaths, hoping it would pass. However, those lousy breathing techniques, her therapist had taught her, did not work. “That’s two-hundred dollars down the freaking drain.”

  She raised the bottle. “Now this, this right here, is a cheaper version of therapy.” She laughed at herself; sure, she should stop talking to herself. Her neighbors may think she is crazy.

  She could see the inside of her neighbors’ window. Mayor Jeremiah Daly, she thought. What a schmuck. She never understood why she despised him so much. Just something about him did not settle well with her. As she likes to say what it feels like, after being around him, “It feels like I just ate ten pounds of rancid meat.”

  The chemistry is off , is what she chalked it up to. As a scientist, it best fit her preference of sayings. However, as a former detective, she felt it was better to say, “He is of suspect material.” He tried to lie, and failed, at making people believe he was dying of cancer. She knew it to not be true, but everyone in town re-elected him out of pity. The People, however, soon learned the truth.

  “Shit,” she scoffed. “Cancer my ass. I see you over there. All healthy and shit.” She shot back a sip of the whiskey.

  She placed the empty shot glass back on the counter. “Okay, no more of that,” she said, dumping the rest down her kitchen sink. Only ten more dollars down the drain, she chuckled at herself.

  Her phone rang again. This time, it read: WORK. She rolled her eyes. Must be another monkey loose. Emily wished she were joking, but it has happened on more than one occasion.

  She set her alarm to go off in a few hours. She wanted to at least present herself as well rested, even if it were not true. She was paid only by each successful experiment conducted. So, missing a few hours of work didn’t bother her any. Nor did it bother Dean of the University, Schmick, either.

  •••

  After getting home from a long at work, then Group Therapy, Nick found comfort in his bed. He tossed his phone on the bed, heading towards his shower. It rang. It wasn’t anyone he wanted to deal with at the moment. She became annoying, and he was starting to become fed up with Lucy. He met her in one of his Drug Addicts Anonymous Groups. She refused to get the help she needed, and kept sinking him even closer to rock bottom.

  Screw the crazy bitch.

  He watched as it faded to black. The screen lit up, signaling he had a voicemail. He picked it back up, unlocking it. His background picture was that of Emily. He sighed, deleting the voicemail. But his gaze continued to linger over her picture. A sadness burdened his heart. Then anger swept over him. “Why do I even care? She left me for that Hank fellow.” He tossed it back down on his bed.

  His mirror sweated condensation. When he looked in it, he could see circles form under his eyes. He dried off his face, kicking back onto his bed. His phone buzzed. It was Emily. But, before he could swipe the answer button, it hung up.

  He tossed his head back, rubbing his eyes. He contemplated what good it would do if he were to call her back. “
None,” is what he concurred with his memories when he did call her back. It was always something about Hank she wanted to complain about. Never did she ever have the balls to leave him. He told her to on several occasions. “If you’re unhappy, leave him. Don’t drag him along.” But that conversation only ended in fights. She feared being alone. Nick could fully relate to how she felt there.

  He ran away from home at seventeen, and been alone ever since then. His parents, nor him, ever bothered with one another ever again. Every once in a while he almost calls them. Then he remembers what his father had told him: “You leave here now; you never show your face around here again! And don’t call!”

  Nick, never disobeying his ex-military father, followed through with what he was told. Inside, he cried. But he never showed how he truly felt. He kept a hardened gaze upon his face when around people. Some have even thought of him as ‘disembodied’ or ‘scary’. His favorite, however, was when people would assume that he looked a bit insane. That one always made him chuckle.

  It reminded him of his Funny Uncle Larry. Nick thought he was funny, only because when Nick was younger, right before Larry was locked up, he would have serious arguments with himself. Nick, at that time, thought Larry did it as a joke. It wasn’t until later that Nick learned his uncle suffered from a serious mental illness. Still, however, Nick chuckled. His twisted sense of humor tends to throw people off. Emily, however, claimed to love that about him. At least, that is what she told him while they were married.

  He checked the clock, realizing he had to be up in less than six hours. He rolled over, shutting his bedside lamp off. He threw his towel on the floor. Sleeping naked made him feel less constricted, and surprisingly underexposed, at night. The cool breeze from his open bedroom window, felt nice against his bare cheeks.

  He found himself dazing off to the fond memories of when Emily slept the same way as him. He couldn’t help, but become aroused by the sensation of his own imagination. He had once held her face close enough to kiss, yet far enough to not bump noses. He enjoyed remembering what her breasts once felt inside the palm of his hand.