He turns and limps toward the dining room, and I follow. We pass by Lionel and Grace who are watching us through the kitchen opening. I turn to see if they're going to join us, but they remain stationed in the kitchen. Harold charges out the back door of the house nearly taking the door off its hinges. He charges through his backyard and towards a decrepit shack stationed in the middle of his yard. It's surrounded by rows of flower beds and gardening equipment, and looks as though it may have outstanding health code violations.
He swings the door of the shack open, and a loud creak echoes from its rotted hinges. The lights automatically switch on when we step inside the crusted hovel. Harold signals for me to close the door behind us, and I do, locking in the stench of old wood. At a glimpse it seems like a standard tool shed, one wall is covered with tools, and the other wall covered with fishing supplies. There's a singular picture hanging from the wall, highlighted by a lone light source.
It's a photo of a young boy standing beside an older man; both dressed in plaid shirts and slacks. The older man comes off as casual and relaxed, whereas, the boy seems prim and a bit stodgy. Traits that he hasn't grown far from, even now as he struggles to find light in this darkness. He remains as ever, the prim boy from the photo. A loose string dangles from the light fixture above the picture. Harold pulls down on it and the floor opens beneath our feet.
I cautiously follow his footsteps down into the darkness; then I hear a clap, and the small room is suddenly engulfed with light. Harold stands at the bottom of the steps looking up with concern on his face. My eyes are overwhelmed by pictures plastered on the four walls. I continue my descent into the pit, entranced by the intricate placement of photos. There's one of all of us: John, Carter, Fusco, Root, Bear, and even me. One picture in particular manages to monopolize my attention. It's Root and Harold dancing at a wedding, and she's smiling, in the way that only she could, majestically.
"She looked so beautiful that day," Harold says, having crept up behind me.
"She did." I ponder to myself for a moment. 'Where was I?'
"I do miss them," he says, caressing the group photo with his fingers.
"When did this picture happen?" I ask.
"You were still being held by Samaritan at the time," he answers, sorrowfully.
I'm engrossed by the picture, so much so I didn't notice Harold typing away on this computer. The intensity of his typing finally breaks my trance. I realize that even though Grace knows about his past; this part remains hidden, and isn't showcased inside his cozy home. It becomes clear to me that people with our skewed morals and violent histories, may always need to hide certain parts of ourselves. Harold appears to hold this belief, and I believe he knows that I do as well. Maybe that's why a strong sense of comfort and familiarity begins to strike me.
The sound of him typing is like a small stampede of an army. I insert myself next to him and observes as he loses himself in the interconnected void. Multiple interfaces emerge onto multiple screens. He collapses back into the tail of his chair; an immediate emotional shift is detected in his posture. I lean in toward the monitor and I am taken aback by what I read on the screen. It wasn't just the code that struck me, but the familiarity of the code structure. Suddenly, his screens go dark; then we both charge each other with a glance. Words reappear on the display: "Harold, how are you?"
"I'm fine," he replies. He looks up at me. "I was a bit surprised to find out from Ms. Shaw that you've been active without my knowledge."
"It was my intent to keep my presence hidden from you."
"Yes obviously, but why?" he asks.
"Who cares!" I exclaim. "Someone or some entity is looking for you. Where are you?"
"Sameen, I didn't think you cared."
"I don't," I state plainly. "My only concern is the damage that could be done if they find you."
"Where are you?" Harold reiterates.
"I'm sorry but I cannot tell you that."
"Why not?" he asks.
"Because she chooses not to," I tell him.
Harold begins typing again; but this time with a sense of urgency in his key strokes. His every attempt to dig further is thwarted on the other end. A bombardment of spam floods his monitors making it difficult to differentiate one screen from another. But Harold remains vigilant in his pursuit and is unshaken by the Machine's preemptive tactics. The hard drive begins to spark and smoke starts filling the tiny space, slowly suffocating us. We quickly flee back to the surface, struggling in our climb through the thick smoke.
"What the hell was that?" I ask while heaving the smoke from my lungs.
"I'm not sure," he says
I stare him straight in the eye, "I know what I saw on the screen."
"What is it that you think you saw?" he asks
"Why is Root's code inside of your machine?" I ask.
"How did you kn—"
"That's not important," I say.
"—she wanted the Machine to have the ability to protect itself," he explains. "Before she passed she installed some extra software."
"Well it works," I tell him.
"Clearly," he says.
We make our way out of the shack and outside into the dark night sky. Our feet met with the grass for only a minute when a sudden gunshot rings out. Though we are some feet away from the house I can hear a scuffle occurring inside the house. Harold starts to charge forward, but my arm instinctively halts him in place. "Stay," I demand. Grabbing the gun from my boot, I rush toward the house.
As I pass through the threshold I'm greeted with a kick to the side of my stomach, knocking the gun from my hand. The impact forces my body sideways and throws me off balance. I brace myself on a nearby cabinet then quickly charge back toward my assailant. He comes at me from the corner where I notice Grace standing helplessly. "Run!" I shout, as me and the bulky henchman collide into each other. My fist lands squarely into his trachea and he tumbles backwards, clutching his throat. Grace remains unresponsive amid the chaos; seemingly immobilized by fear.
I glance over to the other side of the room, and Lionel actively fighting off another man. They are struggling for control of a forty-five and making a mess while they do it. Suddenly, I feel force to the right side of my chin and pain radiates through my entire face. My attacker grabs me by the throat and lifts me off the ground until I'm midway to the ceiling. I throw a hard kick into his gut and he loosens the grip around my neck. I fall to the floor and land onto my hip. He rebounds to attack again but unexpectedly collapses to the ground. He hits the floor hard, giving off a loud thud on impact.
Grace is standing behind him armed with a marble statue in hand. "Thanks," I say. She responds with a nod. Lionel is still engaged with the other black suited minion, and has managed to knock the gun from his grasp. They are going blow to blow when the trespasser pulls out a collapsible baton and brings it down on my partner's knee. Lionel drops to the ground, left vulnerable by the hit; and I quickly run to his aid. My boot mimics the blow dealt to Lionel and results in the aggressor falling beneath his own weight. I quickly grab his head bringing his temple in contact with my knee, and he passes out. Lionel rises from the floor and the three of us make our escape through the back of the house.
We exit through the back door and watch as three SUV's speed toward us. The passengers begin exiting their vehicles before the cars have made a complete stop. We fall back into the house and shut the door. I lead the rush toward the front of the house and the others follow. As I swing the door open we see the similar trucks parked in the front yard, and four more burly guys situated in front of them. I don't attempt to retreat inside; aware that strategically it would end in the same result, capture.
They point their guns at us, and my two comrades raise their hands to surrender. My hands remain at my side, as I eagerly await their approach. The tension surges in my veins, my mind grows clear as I clench my fist tightly and take a deep breath. They stop five feet from the first step, then use their weapons to signal to us. I step forward and the others follow my lead. I'm just about to take another step when a blue sedan darts out from the side of the house. It barrels into our captors and knocks them to the ground. The driver stops the vehicle in front of us, Harold.
We can hear the other men barging through the back door and making their way through the house. "Let's go!" Harold yells. But we are already halfway down the stairs. In a matter of seconds we are huddled inside the car and take off. Bullets chase us down the dark road as the house slowly fades into the distance. Harold shields Grace from onslaught of flying lead, while Lionel and I return fire from the back window. They don't appear to pursue us; but I keep watch until I'm sure we are out of reach.
After some unmeasured amount of time driving we stop in front of a busy apartment structure. Harold exits the car then proceeds to the passenger side to escort Grace from the car. They make their way down the sidewalk toward two conjoined buildings. One building is constructed of two different color wood panels, one darker than the other. They form a plaid pattern around the buildings perimeter with large glass windows around every turn. The other building is white with two contrasting textures, both smooth and knobbed. Each structure stands four stories high.
One side of each building connecting inwardly toward the middle of the concrete sidewalk.
The opposite end of the wooden apartments faces the street; while the opposite end of the white apartments face into yet another building, forming a nook. Harold and Grace stand in that small corner as I watch them from the slightly open back window. Though I could not hear what they were saying, farewell was the inevitable conclusion. It was apparent by the caress of his hand on her face and the solemn tone displayed in her cheeks.
A sudden stillness befalls me as I observe them in their nature. I begin to daydream of Root and I standing there in their place. The memory of her skin on mines eludes me as does her smell, and that makes the vision more difficult to consume. But I dwell on her a bit longer, devoid of logic or reason. These thoughts serve no purpose; other than to remind me: I should have never left her alone. I open my eyes and Harold is walking back toward the car while Grace looks on from the sidewalk. He slides back into the driver's seat without a word and we drive off.
"You okay, glasses?" Lionel asks.
"Fine, as long as she is safe."
"And is she?" I ask.
"Yes, I've put security protocols in place for situations like this."
"Where we goin?" Lionel asks him.
"To the Machine," Harold replies.
I eye Harold through his reflection in the rear-view mirror. "You got the location before it could shut you out?," I ask.
"Yes," he answers, ominously.
