The Restoration Project

2.05 - Father Frankie

Father Frankie raised one of his liver spotted hands and waved to a group of kids playing basketball on a net-less hoop across the street. They paused their game to wave back. They wore an assortment of clothing, some of it a little too big for them; some of it a little too small. But there were no holes or rips and that made Frankie smile. He liked to see the differences between members of his town and the scavengers, who wore layers to stay warm and looked like they just crawled out of a mound of dirt.

He shifted his gaze to the street ahead. He was sitting in his wheelchair, with Sanchez pushing him along what used to be Pacific Avenue. Frankie renamed it Main Street, not because it was the biggest street in the area, but because it was the closest one to the boardwalk and he liked to hear the crashing waves when he performed his daily survey of the town. Pierre scurried along behind them, trying to match Sanchez' long stride.

The kids resumed their game as Frankie passed. They played in an empty parking lot across from the Atlanta Wonder Park, although its green grasses were now covered with tents and lean-tos. These temporary homes belonged to the new arrivals, survivors experiencing that adjustment period from fending for themselves to having the safety of a community. Frankie tried to eliminate the tents completely once, housing new arrivals directly in the many abandoned hotels, but the occupants never felt comfortable and many left. It was like he had to reintroduce them to civilization one step at a time. He was glad when the tent city was out of sight. And even gladder when he realized they were just a block away from their destination.

The parking lot for the old Atlantic City School District was on his right, with a casino and hotel on his left. He opted to keep the school board building untouched. He wanted to maintain some semblance of order and memory from the past. A large part of that centered on restarting formal schooling.

"Okay. That's enough," Frankie said.

They were at the corner of Pacific and South Ohio Ave., looking at the medical clinic. It sat on the southernmost corner of his town, inhabiting an old hospital. The remaining stretch of Pacific Ave. was blocked by two shipping containers stacked on top of each other. A red beacon blinked on top—a Jammer—designed to deter any Searchers from approaching.

"You've cleared his appointments?" Frankie asked.

"Yup. He's got no one until this afternoon," Pierre said.

"Good. This shouldn't take long," Frankie replied. "Take me inside."

Sanchez pushed him across the street toward the clinic.

The hospital was five stories tall and took up half the block. It was a combination of three smaller buildings, each having a specific medical focus from the time of before: pediatrics, urgent care and intensive care/geriatrics. Now, only the middle building was in use, and only the first floor at that. Frankie didn't have the luxury of a medical staff. He had Harry.

Pierre lunged forward to open the door as Sanchez pushed Frankie through. The lingering scent of antiseptics assaulted his nose: alcohol at the forefront, a hint of formaldehyde, and a plethora of others he could not place in the background. The former lobby had been emptied of all furniture aside from a single row of chairs nestled against the back wall.

Harry sat on one of the chairs, his beaked nose poking out between a pair of over-sized glasses that magnified his eyes. He had a full moustache, which was tending toward grey, and thinning hair that he tied back in a ponytail. He was also pasty white, the result of staying inside the clinic most days.

Harry rose when he saw Frankie, and then shuffled forward to extend a pale hand. There was a wobble to his step, the result of an all too frequent night of drinking.