Project Utopia

By Ryan Strohman

Set in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Project Utopia begins when a patient suffering from severe amnesia shows up at a psychiatric hospital--the only clue to his identity being a foreboding message scrawled on a piece of paper in his pocket. He begins seeing a shadowy presence form around certain select individuals, i.e. staff and patients alike, and while the sight is unnerving and scary, he discovers that he also has abilities that control both technology and the neural circuits in the people he touches. He is both awed and frightened by these newfound abilities, and he learns to utilize them as he tries to determine what has happened to him and who or what is behind it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan Strohman
• Release date: Mar 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458144911

Ryan Strohman

I live in central Pennsylvania, work in the IT field, and enjoy exercising and hanging out with my wife, Lisa, and my two boys, Adam and Ben. I've been writing for about fifteen years with three books self-published here on Smashwords, another currently being submitted to agents, and yet another in the works. Some of my favorite authors are Michael Crichton, Jeffery Deaver, Jeff Long, Dean Koontz, Chuck Palahniuk, and Jeff Lindsay, and my writing-style and stories are similar to those authors with elements of action, science fiction, horror, and numerous plot twists. Check out my work and let me know what you think!

Book preview

Chapter 1

He perched on the side of the single bed in the corner of the white, windowless room staring off into space as if he had no worries in the world. With no sense of urgency about him, his demeanor was that of a newborn infant. Naïve and innocent. The pale bleakness of the room and his situation had no visible effect on him.

Every so often an aide or nurse would stop in to see him. The routine was always the same: first a knock, then a buzzing noise emanating from somewhere above the door, and then the white padded door would slowly open.

He could tell he scared them. That much was clearly obvious.

Even the one they called Big Bob was a little apprehensive to approach him and check his blood pressure and other vital information. He knew why, but he hoped they’d learn to trust him. He never really moved much except when they told him to. He did not lash out. He was not violent.

The nurses and aides called him Harry, but at first it really didn’t mean any more to him than being called Fred or Roger. He didn’t know who he was or what he was even doing here. He would just sit in the corner of the room and wait for the knock and the buzz and the door to open.

The doctor came in to see him on a regular basis. He couldn’t quite remember how regular his visits were, but they seemed less often now than before. Of course, time was the greatest mystery to him. He had no idea how long he’d been here. It could have been weeks or months or years.

During the first few visits that he could actually remember, the doctor asked him questions that he didn’t know the answers to. The questions didn’t make sense to him, and he couldn’t even remember now what they were. After a while the questions began to change—the doctor began asking him questions like What color is my pen? He knew the answers to those questions, and so he responded to them. After every question, the doctor would smile and write something in his tablet. He seemed very happy when Harry knew the answers to his questions.

Harry wasn’t dumb, and he knew that the doctor was trying to gauge his mental functions with the simple questions. He could remember how to read and write, and he knew what simple objects were. He also could understand what was being asked of or told to him, and he could follow directions.

He just couldn’t remember much of anything. His past was a hazy cloud where wisps of memories would appear and then suddenly vanish.

Other people asked him questions as well, but he didn’t respond to them. He would only speak to the doctor. The nurses and aides commented openly about him not liking them, but that was not the reason he only communicated with the doctor. The real reason was that the doctor was the first one he noticed that was—different.

The doctor had told Harry that he’d been admitted to the hospital immediately after the accident, although he didn’t arrive on a gurney with a massive head wound as one might think of a patient with his severity of memory loss. In fact, it was such a minor incident that the police were only called because Harry wouldn’t answer the other driver’s request for insurance information.

The two cars, one a red Chevy Malibu and the other a black GMC Yukon, were driving in stop and go traffic down 5th Avenue when the traffic light turned yellow. The Malibu slowed and stopped, but the Yukon—driven by Harry—did not stop completely and bumped into the rear of the Malibu. They weren’t going fast, and so the only damages were a few small scratches on the back bumper of the Malibu—not even enough to report to an insurance company.

The lady piloting the Malibu parked, got out, surveyed the damage, and then approached the Yukon. She could see the man inside, staring straight ahead, not moving. At first she thought he was a police officer, but he wasn’t dressed like one. Then she thought he was just startled at having hit her, and so she slowed and waved her hand emphatically as if to get his attention. He didn’t respond. She became agitated then, and she knocked loudly on his window, but again he didn’t respond. Then she thought he might be having a seizure or other medical issue, and so she tentatively opened his door. He turned his head and looked at her, but he said nothing and made no movements. As she reported to the police, there was nothing strange about him except for the fact that he just stared at her. She tried talking to him, but he didn’t answer. He seemed to be in a catatonic trance.

Sitting on the bed now, he heard the knock and the buzz again, and then the door opened, and the petite brunette with the pony-tail and forced smile came over to him and gave him his tray of food. She told him her name was Anne like she always did.

He looked down at the tray of food, and then he looked back at her. She explained to him what was on the tray, but he already knew. He could clearly see that it contained some type of pasta in a cream sauce, mixed vegetables, fruit cocktail, a bread stick, a pint-sized carton of 2% milk, and a small can of generic soda. The tray also contained a plastic straw, a plastic spork, a plastic butter knife, a small container of margarine, and some napkins.

He vaguely remembered when they first brought him here that they wouldn’t give him utensils. He had to eat with his hands. Someone had told him he wasn’t allowed utensils because they feared he would hurt himself or others with them. After a while, though, they began giving him the plastic ones. He guessed they decided he was no longer a threat, although they still approached him like he was.

After Anne finished explaining what was on his tray, she left the room, and after allowing him enough time to eat, came back with a small hand-held mirror. She held it up for him and asked him to look into it. She did this often, and each time he would obediently look into the mirror for her.

Each and every time she did this, she would say, Harry, do you recognize yourself in the mirror?

He would say nothing.

She would repeat the question two or three times, and when he would not respond, she would then hold the mirror in front of his face a few seconds longer, force a smile onto her own face, and then leave. She was good at presenting herself as nice and caring, and it was difficult for Harry to know if those were her true feelings.

Harry did recognize his face, or at least he recognized it now. He knew that he was younger and, in his opinion, more handsome than many of the other men—the doctor and male nurses and occasional maintenance people—he’d seen in the hospital. He knew he had sandy brown hair, brown eyes, and a heavy brow-line.

He could remember the older nurse, Michelle, shaving his face often in times past, and then he could remember her giving him a plastic disposable razor and asking him if he could do it himself. He would, and then she would take it from him. This would occur once every couple of days or so, although it was difficult for him to know without a window or clock to tell the time. He also realized that they trusted him with the plastic silverware, but they had no intention of letting him keep a disposable razor.

Harry ate all of his food, and he did so every time they brought it to him. He could remember a few times that he did not—and remembered feeling very hungry later. It didn’t take long for him to recognize that they gave him just enough food to not be hungry. It seemed to him that the basic care was present, but the hospitality was not.

After he finished eating, the aide named Paul came in to take his tray. Paul was another one that was different like the doctor, although he only just noticed the oddity in the man recently. It was a gradual observation. He remembered Paul appearing normal like the others, and then one day he came to take Harry for a walk, and as they were halfway down the hall, Harry looked over and saw it. He recalled being startled at first, but then the perception vanished, and he wasn’t even sure he saw it in the first place.

A few days after that particular incident, Paul came in to give him a tray of food, and he sensed it again. This time he knew it was there, and it didn’t go away. There was no doubt in his mind that Paul was strange like the doctor. The others were not.

Big Bob, Anne, Maggie, Didi, Michelle, and the ones he saw very infrequently and wasn’t even sure of their names—none of them were like the doctor and Paul.

This difference that Harry perceived could not be described as a physical attribute. Physically they were all different. Big Bob was a big white man with a bald head and goatee and big belly. The doctor was a tall, slim, caramel-skinned man with thick black hair and glasses with rectangular lenses, and he spoke with a slight accent. Both Big Bob and the doctor appeared to be fifteen or twenty years older than Harry. Maggie and Didi were both younger than Harry—barely older than teenagers, but Maggie was a heavier white girl who frequently talked to him about her young son and family, while Didi was a feisty thin black girl with braces who didn’t say much at all to him. Paul seemed to be about the same age and height and weight as Harry, and he was white and very fit and had short black hair and green darting eyes. Michelle was much older than all of them with gray hair and glasses that she wore mostly around her neck on a plastic string. Michelle also wore silly, colorful smocks whereas the others wore the traditional blue or green ones.

Harry didn’t understand what he saw about Paul and the doctor that made them stand out from the others, but he knew right away that it was there. It was as obvious and predictable as the knock on the door and buzz that preceded every visitor. As soon as he saw the doctor, and as soon as he saw Paul, he saw that they were peculiar and not like the other nurses and aides.

But there was also a noticeable discrepancy between the two of them as well. He couldn’t explain it—he couldn’t explain a lot of things—but he knew that Paul’s oddity was…well…growing.

Every time the doctor came to see him, Harry would see the same thing. The doctor never seemed to change. He’d see the strange shadow or dusk, sense the slight metallic and tangy smell, hear the faintest pinging whenever the doctor came to see him. It never changed.

What he had sensed in Paul, though, was changing. If asked to explain the sensations using a pen and paper, Harry would have struggled. But he knew that Paul’s aberration was getting more intense as each day passed.

At first the difference that he noticed in the two men was somewhat comforting. Perhaps it was their personalities or something else entirely, but he felt more at ease around them. The odd characteristic seemed completely natural to him.

Then again, Harry couldn’t really remember anything prior to being here, and he only really remembered the things that the doctor and nurses and aides told him. He had no idea why the doctor and Paul were different, and he didn’t even know whether the others saw it too.

Harry vaguely recalled when he first came here that the doctor—as well as several police officers—were constantly asking him who he was and where he lived. They seemed agitated. They also repeatedly asked him why he was driving a stolen police SUV.

Harry simply could not remember.

Those questions—and the visits from the police officers—seemed to become less and less frequent, and now he even had difficulty remembering how long ago he had heard them. He knew he’d been here for a while, but even so, he knew that he still put people on edge.

Despite not being able to remember anything prior to the past few weeks or months, Harry did comprehend why people were nervous about him. He had never lashed out in violence, made any sudden erratic moves, refused to do what he was asked or anything of that nature, and he hoped that that would make his caregivers a little more comfortable around him. He knew, though, that he had a mountain to climb to convince them, and it all had to do with the note.

Even Harry acknowledged to himself that it was disturbing. Everyone—including Harry—wanted to know the meaning behind the note they’d found in his pocket—a crumpled up sheet of notebook paper with a very disturbing message.

A message that read, My name is Harry, and unless you stop him, millions of people are going to die.

Chapter 2

Sitting in the airport waiting to board the plane, Jason Werner was trying not to appear as nervous as he felt. He didn’t have a fear of flying, and he wasn’t a terrorist—or at least not in the sense of the post-9/11 world. He definitely wasn’t planning on bringing down any planes with bombs in his shoes or underwear. He really didn’t mean any harm to anyone. Really.

He knew what he’d done—or what he’d potentially done—wasn’t going to be good, though, and he knew now there wasn’t much he could do to stop it. He just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. Like the old myth of an ostrich burying its head in the sand when it sensed danger, he thought that if he just got away from it all, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Hawaii seemed like a good place to go for now, but he figured he’d probably end up in perhaps Japan or Vietnam.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, either. He had talent. He had promise. He was an up and comer, according to Dr. Worthington.

Jarring him from his thoughts, a woman’s voice over the loudspeaker announced that his plane was now boarding, so Jason picked up his carry-on bag and gave the ticket to the girl at the counter. She was cute in an Ellen Page sort of way, and ordinarily he would have said something charming or witty to her, but not today. Even flirting with a woman wouldn’t soothe the sour mood he was in.

If only he had listened to Dr. Worthington.

Then again, Dr. Worthington was a stupid ass at times. They were on the verge of making a huge scientific break-through, and yet Dr. Worthington was moving at a pain-stakingly slow pace. He knew there were others working on the same path—others in France and Japan and India. Rashesh even hinted as much a few weeks ago when he said his 2nd cousin was getting far by working with grippers and assemblers in Bangalore. They had to move fast, or else their breakthrough would just appear to be a copy of someone else’s work.

So Jason took some initiative. He knew he was being careless, but he also knew that sacrifices needed to be made to achieve greatness. The ramifications of their work would undoubtedly change everything, and so breaking a few eggs didn’t bother him at all.

He wished he could say the same now.

He found his seat in coach, and luckily he was in the aisle seat beside a small, pedestrian, middle-aged lady who was already taking an over-the-counter pain reliever/sleep inducer when he sat down. At least a peaceful flight would comfort him.

The passengers finished boarding, and the flight crew began their pre-flight instructions and processes. The American Airlines flight would be taking off from Pittsburgh International, landing in Phoenix, and then he’d take a connecting flight to Honolulu from there.

Jason looked at his watch, and he saw that it was 9:10 PM. He knew that Dr. Worthington was probably reading his email right now—he was entirely too predictable like that. The man would go home, take his terriers out for a walk, eat dinner—usually a frozen diet entree, read the various journals and publications he subscribed to, and then check his email before going to bed. No aberrations. Nothing risky. Blah.

Jason knew Dr. Worthington would be disappointed at his sudden departure, because they’d worked very closely together for over three years now, and the man had become a father figure to him. He couldn’t help it, though. He had to go.

He’d considered telling the old man what he’d done, but he still held onto a slim chance of hope that it was all just one big fluke—a mistake—what happens when you get involved with a crazy idiot and psychopath.

He’d also considered just warning Dr. Worthington of the potential health risk or even that the department may come under heavy fire if any of this got out to the press, but again he didn’t want to jeopardize his career.

Instead, he just gave him a high school excuse—his grandmother was sick and he had to go away and be with her for a couple of months. Again, he still thought that perhaps this might all blow over by then and he could return to his work and nobody would know anything at all had happened.

The plane began to take off, and Jason closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep. He had flown many times before, but he always hated the take-off. A therapist once told him that it was most likely due to control issues—leaving his fate in the hands of someone else. Whether that was true or not, he did not know, but he only ever travelled via plane if he absolutely had to—and this was one of those times.

After about ten minutes, he opened his eyes and asked the lady next to him if he could have a couple of her pills. She smiled and patted his knee and gave them to him.

A flight attendant was making her way down the aisle, and he waited patiently for her to arrive so that he could ask for something to drink. As he did so, he noticed a man a few rows ahead of him turn back and look directly at him. He didn’t think anything of it at first, but then the man did it again and then a third time a minute or two later.

Jason looked behind him to see if perhaps the man was looking at someone else, but the person immediately behind him—an elderly Hispanic woman—was completely engrossed in a paperback novel. He couldn’t see the person two rows back without straining his neck.

He turned back around, and the man was looking at him again. Jason frowned and pointed to his own chest—as if asking the man if he was looking at him for a reason—but the man did not acknowledge him and just turned back to face forward.

Jason did not recognize the guy at all. He appeared to be in his forties with balding grayish hair and glasses. He looked like an accountant or IRS agent or some other nerdy professional—although Jason supposed he shouldn’t really judge considering his own line of work.

But did the man know him? Or more importantly, did this guy know what Jason had done? He couldn’t have known. It was impossible. If the man was from Carnegie University, he would have notified the police or security and Jason would have been arrested already. He knew that there were security cameras present throughout most of the labs and buildings, and perhaps this man was security and reviewed the tapes. But again why wouldn’t he just go to the police? Why would he buy a ticket for the same flight to Phoenix—and especially now, two months after the incident? It just didn’t make sense.

Jason realized he was being paranoid, but it bothered him nonetheless. Why was this guy so interested in him?

The flight attendant finally stopped by Jason and asked him if he needed anything, and he made his request—a can of soda—and she moved on down the aisle. He looked at the man one more time and hastily decided he needed to find out about the man’s bizarre behavior.

He undid his seat belt and walked a few steps to the man, who must have sensed he was coming, because he turned before Jason got to him. An up-close look at the man confirmed to Jason that he did not know him or recognize him at all.

Jason nervously said, Excuse me. I noticed you were looking back at me. Do I know you?

The man looked up at him, a strange expression plastered on his face, and oddly proclaimed, I guess not.

Utterly confused, Jason stammered, Oh…uhh, do you know me then?

The man then smiled—a very odd smile that seemed neither welcoming nor friendly—and said, No. I—uh—Oh! I just thought you were a fan because of your hat. Yeah, there aren’t many Bruins fans in Pittsburgh.

Jason had to think for a minute before he realized he had on a Boston Bruins hat. He wasn’t much of a hockey fan. It was a gift from a female friend he’d met in Boston a few months ago.

He also couldn’t help notice that the man was stammering a little. He seemed nervous as well, although perhaps that was just Jason’s imagination. He was not a very social person and didn’t read people well at all.

Trying to be polite, Jason inquired, Oh, are you a Boston fan?

The man looked away for a moment, and then excitedly said, Oh, you don’t recognize me? I…uh…guess you could say that I’m a fan. I’m a…uh…commentator for Bruins hockey on the New England Sports Network.

Jason nodded and sheepishly said, Oh, OK. So what, I guess you are heading to Phoenix for a game? He’d never have known the guy was a commentator without him saying as much, and Jason couldn’t help but feel a little silly now wearing a hat for a team and sport that he knew very little about.

The man smiled and said, Yeah. That’s right. We’re playing Phoenix tomorrow. We’re…uh…hoping to recover from the beating Crosby and Malkin put on us today.

He quickly added, I usually travel with the team, but I…uhh…had some unfinished business to take care of.

Jason nodded again and, trying to wrap up the conversation, said, Oh, I see. Well, enjoy your flight and good luck against the Phoenix…team. He wasn’t even sure what the name of the Phoenix hockey team was. The Kings? Maybe the Predators?

Jason then walked the few steps back to his seat and buckled himself back in. He’d considered just taking his hat off, but then decided against it and used it to shield his eyes from the lighting.

A few minutes later he received his soda from the flight attendant. He put the two pills in his mouth, swallowed them down with a gulp of the carbonated beverage, and then slowly drifted off to sleep.

The sound of the pilot’s booming voice woke him up. He looked at his watch to see it was already 2:38 AM. He couldn’t believe he’d slept so long. Those pills certainly did the trick.

After the plane landed and the flight attendants instructed the passengers on the deboarding procedures, Jason retrieved his bag from the overhead storage compartment and followed the other passengers off the plane—the shuffling single-file line reminding him of the cafeterias at Pennsylvania University and Carnegie University.

He walked through the airport trying to locate the gate for his connecting flight. After walking for a few minutes, he saw a McDonalds and headed towards it. His next flight wasn’t scheduled to board for nearly two hours, and so he had plenty of time. There weren’t as many people milling around the airport at this