Saving Harold by John Timm

Editor’s Note: This is a follow-up to a previous science fiction story published by us, that can be read by clicking the link: “A Meeting of the Minds by John Timm”

Saving Harold by John Timm

I didn’t count on the accident, much less the invasion, nor the events that followed. In whatever little time I have left, I’ll try to explain it all, if only to make sense of it myself, starting with the accident. One thing I do know for certain: no good deed ever goes unpunished.

& & &

It was 2:12 a.m. on a Saturday as I headed through the suburbs from the airport after an exhausting week on the road and an equally miserable seven-hour delay at O’Hare. The other driver and I were two objects attempting to occupy the same space at the same time, a violation of the most elementary of physical principles. It occurred directly in front of the Institute for Advanced Medicine. With no one else about at that hour, a pair of interns coming off duty witnessed my plight, rescued me from my crushed vehicle and carried me inside to their trauma center before even the police or EMTs showed up. I learned later they never informed the authorities, no doubt violating scores of regulations and ethical codes, but I was grateful for their actions, nonetheless.

While they were stabilizing me, someone contacted Sara. She was by my side in less than an hour. Barely conscious, I heard her asking all kinds of questions. Then, she left with one of the doctors. When they returned, they brought with them a stack of forms and documents. The doctor remarked that considering the external damage to my skull, he’d never seen anyone as lucid as I. He added a caveat, “We’re concerned because your husband’s brain has suffered so much trauma, and the situation could deteriorate rapidly.” That was medical speak for, He’s lucky to be this conscious, let alone alive, and we can’t guarantee how long he’ll last. He’s got one chance in a million. I recommend he take it.

I scarcely understood what had happened and certainly didn’t know what I was signing, other than I was agreeing to participate in some sort of experimental medical procedure. I learned later the institute would pay all costs incurred. But there were conditions. Neither I nor any family member could reveal the procedure had taken place, the nature of the procedure, or who had performed it. I was to remain at the institute for the duration, and only immediate family members would be allowed to visit. Visits were limited to once a week. Any other communication with the outside world was forbidden. I could move about the facility without restriction, but had to wear a lanyard with photo identification at all times and agree to a microchip implant.

I’d driven past the institute countless times over the years, paying scant attention as I dashed to appointments during the day, or headed home in heavy traffic at night. I knew little about it, other than vague rumors I tended to slough off. Now I was its virtual prisoner. If I ever left the building without permission, I’d be on my own. I had a lot of questions, but given my circumstances, I was clearly in no position to object. The last I remember of that day was watching the ceiling tiles flash by above as they rolled me towards the operating theatre.

& & &

I awoke in great pain, otherwise barely alert, my head swathed in bandages, and totally unaware of who or where I was. An attractive woman was holding my hand. Later, I would realize it was my Sara. She smiled and told me the first of my downloads was about to begin. I had no idea what she meant, except I could sense a forest of wires protruding from various openings in the bandages.

A few minutes before the procedure began, the director of the institute himself, Dr. Javier Pimentel, entered the room. “All the autonomic brain functions such as his heart rate, breathing, digestion—any functions over which we don’t have direct control—are already embedded in the new brain and programmed to his age and physique. Now, it’s his memory, personality and emotional makeup that we need to download. We believe we’ve successfully recovered that information from the old brain in our transfer lab through a process we call micro-digital data transference, MDDT for short.”

Like much of what went on those first few days, I didn’t fully comprehend what was happening. Old brain, new brain, autonomic brain functions were just terms I couldn’t connect to anything. It would all begin to make sense, piece by piece, as I went through a sequence of downloads. Assuming no corrupted files, there were to be twelve download sessions, spread over a year. They would monitor my progress, perform a battery of tests, analyze the results, and then decide whether to move forward. Before the third download, Dr. Pimentel gave us an update. Looking first at Sara, then me, he added, “We’re giving you a couple of brain functions we aren’t born with: GPS and multi-function calculator apps. Smartphone technology, if you will. The application you select will appear on a virtual screen with a keyboard and readout in front of you if you focus on it for five seconds. The GPS is pretty straightforward. Good old Google Maps. Among the other functions, the calculator app contains an algorithm to help you determine and regulate brain power supply usage. You’ll get handy with both apps in a hurry. Just a word of caution, these apps take a lot of power by themselves, so use them sparingly and always stay charged. But you can forget your third grade math tables for good.” He chuckled at his own witticism, shook my hand, and disappeared.

& & &

The year passed minute by minute, day by day, month to month, months that came to be known as Download One, Download Two, Download Three .  .  .  Then again, my impatience was a small price to pay, considering the alternative that awaited had I not received the transplant. The brightest part of any week was the visit from Sara and my two daughters. Together, they were my connection to a world I was only slowly rejoining.

The doctors needed only to perform the usual tests the next morning, and I would be free to leave the institute in a few more days. They had long since since replaced those loose wires with a surgically implanted subminiature socket at the base of the skull that did double duty as a recharging port. The brain implant power supply was about the size of a cigarette pack. It recharged in 30 minutes from any household outlet. Under normal usage, the charge was supposed to last up to 14 days, three weeks at the outside. That’s what they assured me. But remembering Dr. Pimentel’s admonition, and just to be on the safe side, I never went more than a week without recharging.

& & &

My hair was growing back over the incisions, much grayer than I remembered it, but all told, I was beginning to feel like my old, whole self again. And by this time, I also had a roommate, Harold. Another victim of severe cranial trauma, Harold was the beta test subject for an upgraded version of the brain, incorporating new features developed as a result of my experience. He was only on his second download, a fact that made communication difficult at best. He kept repeating the same questions, asking my name every few minutes, asking where he was and why he was there. Or he’d retell the same stories, fragments of a life that made little sense out of context. It became tedious, but I found it better than being alone when my family wasn’t there.

Still bedridden as he recovered from whatever trauma he’d suffered and the implant operation itself, even in his present condition, physically, Harold was a bear of a man. Once he was able to get on his feet, he stood at least a foot taller and a good eight inches broader across the shoulders than I. Yet, despite his size and frame, he had to be the most docile, childlike being on the planet. Looking back, in some ways that was a good thing, in others, perhaps not.

& & &

The invasion, if you choose to call it that, began on a Thursday. First, a direct cyber attack on the nationwide power grid management system. Then the Internet went down. Together, it took the country to its knees without a single shot fired. Despite years of warnings that this day was inevitable, nothing significant had been accomplished by a government paralyzed by partisan gridlock.

The institute was put on full lockdown, and the guards at the front desk were now carrying sidearms. The only movement in the street was an occasional military vehicle. Some crawled along slowly, others rushed past in presumed urgency, often headed in opposite directions with equal haste. The TV screens in our room were blank. The only source of information was the occasional orderly bearing suppositions and rumors that changed from one hour to the next.

The rumors were as contradictory as they were plentiful. Or simply absurd. Some swore our attacker was a coalition of Middle Eastern countries, Others were equally certain it was the Chinese, North Koreans or the Russians. Someone else avowed “on good authority” that it was a group of international anarchists, while yet another said it was just a bunch of misguided, homegrown hackers who would eventually grow tired of their mischief, and all would soon return to normal. To this very moment, neither I nor anyone I’ve spoken with has provided a plausible answer. For me at this moment it probably doesn’t matter.

Dr. Pimentel appeared in person later that first day to reassure us everything was under control. “We have ample food, medical supplies, a dedicated water supply, and backup power to last us a month or more.”

On the morning of the second day, Dr. Pimentel made a similar announcement over the P.A. system. When I took my daily stroll through the institute on day three, Dr. Pimentel was nowhere to be seen. His office was dark, and his receptionist would only tell me that he was “gone for the day.” The same was true for days four and five. When on the fifth day I insisted, she looked over at a nearby guard, then back to me. I got the clear message to move on and return to my room.

The air conditioning had not been working for a couple of days, although hand scrawled signs in the hallways advised that this was only a “temporary situation” and thanked us in advance for our “understanding and patience.” From time to time, our TV screens would light up, giving us all a short-lived glimmer of hope. There would be a brief recorded message from the Department of Homeland Security, with a voiceover asking for calm. The message would repeat several times in a loop, then disappear in mid-sentence.

After six days during which I did not see Dr. Pimentel again, or for that matter, any person of authority other than the guards, the orderlies stopped coming by, That evening, I had to forage in the deserted cafeteria for something for Harold and myself to eat. It was time to leave.

& & &

Harold and I would escape together. I’d learned over time that he had no family, at least none that he knew of. For now, I was to be his family, and he mine. We’d heard that travel to and from the city proper had been banned, “for the greater good and safety of the general public.” My next thought was to head to our family cabin up in the foothills. We kept it stocked with basic provisions, and it had an all-important backup generator Harold and I could use to recharge our power supplies. Sara, our girls, and I could reunite there to wait out whatever it was we were experiencing. I had heard nothing from her since her last visit, right before the blackout. Without working cellphones, no Internet, no mail delivery, I only hoped she had the same idea in mind as I.

& & &

I call it an escape, but I had no idea what we were escaping from, and even worse, what it was we were escaping into. The institute had always been doubly secure, except now even the security personnel had fled their stations. Not a good sign, but it reaffirmed my decision. As we made our exit, an alarm began to squawk. No one intervened. The giant steel front doors closed behind us, and I could hear the lock bolt slam shut. We were on our own.

We headed out into the street, No cars or trucks, just those passing military vehicles. As if a year’s isolation inside the institute were not enough, suddenly I was thrust into a world I once knew and that was now only vaguely familiar. What I had known was orderly and comfortable. I soon realized this new reality was but a shell of its former self, not just for the physical disruption but for the sheer lack of civility, replete with marauding hordes scavenging for their basic needs. Abandoned dogs roamed in packs. It was every man, woman, child and beast for themself.

The air was acrid with smoke and the smell of rotting garbage and feces, punctuated with unknown chemical odors spewing from sewer grates. In cruel contrast, giant billboards above the stores still promoted a materialism that had effectively disappeared in nanoseconds.

It took real effort to make any forward progress with Harold. One minute we’d be talking, but if I didn’t keep my eye on him, he’d suddenly disappear into a doorway or head down a side street on his own. Since he was still healing, he had data and charging wires sticking out of his bandages. He looked at once ridiculous and pathetic, a hulking Medusa in a hospital gown.

A crowd was gathered outside a Salvation Army thrift store. Inside, there was little left from the looting, mainly empty clothing racks and overturned display cabinets. The electronics section had long since been pillaged, as well. It made no sense without electricity, or any working form of mass communication. Then again, nothing else made much sense anymore, either.

Towards the back of the store was a pile of pants, shirts, and mismatched shoes and stockings. In near darkness I pawed and elbowed my way towards the center of the pile to retrieve a couple pairs of pants and a t-shirt for each of us. At one side of the pile was a battered straw hat. Once outside, I pulled it over Harold’s profusion of wires.

Having been confined to the hospital all this time, I’d totally forgotten about my new brain’s internal GPS capability. As promised, it came to life just thinking about it. We had walked 4.3 miles, as if that information really mattered at the moment. But importantly, the satellites were still functioning, and I was able to map out a route to the cabin. I calculated we could make it in three days.

I was glad I’d had the presence of mind to get a full recharge before we left the institute. Then I glanced over at Harold. I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to verify what I dreaded was all too likely. He knew something was wrong from the look on my face.

“Did you . . .?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you remember to recharge your power supply before we left the institute?”

The long pause was agonizing. “I’m not sure.” 

“When was your last recharge?”

Another long pause. “Yesterday . . . or last week, maybe.”

He stared at me obliquely, not understanding my visible irritation, not understanding, I’m sure, the gravity of the situation. At that point I began to question my judgement in bringing Harold with me. I know it was wrong to think that, but who could blame me?

& & &

We passed the airport late that first afternoon. Row upon row of parked aircraft, empty and without purpose. The nearby rail yard was likewise absent of movement, just the usual black, gray and brown strings of freight cars set against the waning light of day.

On the second day, the weather remained mild, and once beyond the city limits we managed to make decent time as we trudged towards what I hoped to be our sanctuary in the foothills. With the aid of Harold’s height and extraordinarily long arms, we were able to pluck whatever fruit remained on the roadside trees. Without success, we tried to hitchhike on the passing military vehicles. I’m certain they were pretending not to see us. There were no civilian vehicles in sight, and the few gas stations we encountered were closed, the pumps encircled with yellow tape. No electricity to run the pumps meant no gas, a simple equation that never dawns on most of us until a time like this.

& & &

We arrived, as calculated, late on the third day. Wary that someone else had already sought refuge there, I circled the cabin with caution. Convinced we were alone, we entered. Forest dampness mixed with a smell of stale wood smoke greeted me as it had so many times in the past, ever since childhood when I first came there with my parents. Except now, the emotions and memories it stirred were tinged with uncertainty and fear.

There was plenty of food. Cold pork and beans out of a can never tasted better. There were even some unopened cookies. Despite being way past their date code and stale, we devoured them. At daybreak, I went outside to check the generator. “Good news, Harold. There’s plenty of gasoline in the tank. We can recharge for weeks at a time, if we’re cautious about it.” I asked him if he could manage to recharge on his own and drew a characteristically blank look. At least he’d thought to bring his own charger.

We couldn’t afford to waste any more time. I made him sit at a kitchen chair and stood behind him for maybe an hour trying to figure out which wires were for the power supply, which were for data. They were neither labeled nor color coded. If I chose the wrong pair, I feared I’d wipe out his memory entirely, or kill him. I’d take that chance later. For now, I had no choice but to lie. “Okay, Harold, the recharge is done. You’re good to go.”

& & &

We were nearing the end of our second week of our refuge. A self-proclaimed survivalist somewhere nearby had set up a pirate radio station, warning to trust no one, not even your neighbors, to stay inside, to have firearms locked and loaded at all times. He spoke of gangs coming from elsewhere to hide, loot, or to raid local sources of illegal drugs. But in the back of my mind, my growing concern was Harold. I knew he had at best a week left in his power supply. I had to make some decisions. Our food was running low, as well, And then, that evening the generator stopped without warning. I went outside with the one working flash light I’d found in the kitchen. The circuit breaker hadn’t tripped, and nothing seemed out of place with the generator itself. There should have been plenty of gasoline left, or so I thought, until I looked over at the tank, The filler cap was dangling by its chain. I banged on the side of the tank with the flash light. The hollow sound told me something I didn’t want to know: it was empty. Someone had paid us a visit. Someone had siphoned away our lifeblood.

& & &

Without electricity, the well didn’t function, either. I had little time to act, let alone think the matter through. There was a small town about three miles away. A brisk walk would get me there and back in maybe four or five hours. I knew most of the locals. They had a reputation for being self-sufficient. There had to be at least a loaf of bread, some bottled water and a gallon of gasoline somewhere. Harold agreed to stay in the cabin. Taking him with me would have only slowed me down. I said, “Don’t leave for any reason, and don’t let anyone in except this woman.” I handed him a photo of Sara from my wallet, adding, “I promise to come back for you. I promise.” Harold nodded and gave me his usual trusting look. I turned away, pulling the door shut behind me.

& & &

The local convenience store was dark, but to my surprise the door was open. Inside, the shelves were devoid of anything edible or otherwise useful. I called out, “Hello?” My voice reverberated in the emptiness of the place. A moment later, the store manager appeared from the back room.

“I’m sorry, as you can see we are out of everything. I’m just here to protect the property.” Coming closer, the manager recognized me. “Hold on. I have something for you in my office.” He returned and handed me an envelope. “Someone dropped this off.” As I was opening it, he remarked, “We missed you this last season.” I acknowledged with at nod, anxious to read the contents. The note was in Sara’s handwriting. I read it and read it again: Guessing you are at the cabin. Can’t leave. both girls very ill. Come home when you can. We love you. S.

The manager said, “I keep hearing rumors that the power is coming back in some parts of the city. Letting some people back in, too. It may be a month or more before we get power back on up here.” I moved towards the door. “I have something else for you. Don’t go yet.” He emerged from the back room again a few moments later with a gallon jug of water and a sack of dried fruit. “I’ve kept an emergency stash back there. You’re lucky. This is the last of it. It’s the best I can do. Sorry, there’s no gasoline anywhere. I wish you well.”

I had to make a choice. Either start back down to the city to be with my wife and daughters in their time of need, or return to the cabin and hope to rescue Harold. On first impulse, the decision was easy. Who was Harold to me, anyway? Even Harold didn’t know who Harold was. He’d become nothing more than a low-functioning robot that fate had paired up with me. Besides, his power supply might already have been fully discharged. No, I owed him nothing, and certainly I couldn’t be expected to risk my own safety and survival—or that of my family—for him, could I?

As I started down the hill, I recalled my final words to Harold, and they began to haunt me with every step I took. I promise. I promise. I promise. I’ll come back for you. I’ll come back for you. I’ll come back for you. I promise. I promise. I promise. I made it as far as the junction with the main road to the city and turned around.

& & &

As I crested the last rise in the road, I could see a black space at the front of the cabin and feared the worst. The door stood wide open. Inside, the carnage was unbelievable. Harold’s size had clearly been to little advantage. Whoever broke into the cabin had taken his life, along with most of our possessions. Or perhaps they had not broken in at all, welcomed instead by Harold, trusting and innocent to the end.

A skeleton, ripped clothing, a straw hat tossed to the side. That’s all that was left. In just hours, the beasts of the forest had already entered and eaten away much of the flesh, and the vermin were settling in to forage the rest. Even his scalp was torn away, revealing the artificial brain. What I saw left me stunned. The brain was painted bright orange, like the black box on airliners, with specific directions for its return (a post office box) and stern warnings against tampering, along with a serial number (002) and an SKU. I realized it was just an object. A scientific curiosity. Like Harold himself. Like me.

& & &

Out of respect for Harold, I’ve locked the cabin door. Right now I’m sitting a few yards away in a small, shaded arbor where Sara and I would hold impromptu picnics with our girls, where we’d share a glass of wine late in the evening while they were sleeping. I’m about to check my GPS a final time before resuming my trek. I well recall those admonitions of Dr. Pimentel and have used the virtual screen GPS and calculator apps sparingly up to now to avoid draining precious power.

The GPS app tells me the shortest route to the city will take three days. That makes sense.

Now, let’s calculate remaining power, using the date of my last recharge. I’m inputting the numbers . . . And it tells me . . . 47:09:06. What? Barely two days power left? One day short. No, no. Something is wrong here. That can’t be. I need to try again . . . 47:08:50 . . . Still comes up short . . What’s this? A yellow light is beginning to flash in the corner of my vision. I’ve never seen that before. We’ll just ignore it. It doesn’t matter . . . Let me input my last charge date and time again. Must have done it wrong . . . Now a red light is beginning to flash. And my virtual screen is growing dim. The numbers have all disappeared. One more try. It’s all I need. One more try . . . No. It cannot be . . . The screen is growing dim . . . dimmer . . . dimmer still . . .  Dark.

* * * *THE END * * * *
Copyright John Timm 2024