Tales of Tinfoil: Stories of Paranoia and Conspiracy

by David Gatewood (ed)

  I pour myself a whiskey—fire it down and then another. I pace my Malibu living room. Back and forth. Calm down.

  Showtime. The broadcast goes live and I can hardly look. So I have another couple drinks. When I’m feeling the room start to tilt, I decide to settle in and watch. Pretend it’s someone else’s ass on the line if this doesn’t work. And then, as they say, the magic happens. There are the video images we shot, and now the whole thing is playing out. Beautifully. No, better than that. It’s perfect. I take it in, and I cry. I actually begin to weep along with the rest of the world. The sobs wrack my whole body. I drink some more to steady myself. I watch the entire broadcast and then turn off the television.

  It’s done.

  As I go to bed, hearing the not so distant lapping of waves on the sand at Zuma Beach in the background, I think about the real landing. What might be going on up there tonight? I think about what Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin might be discovering at the derelict spaceship Slim talked about. And I realize that I may never know. I’m out of the picture now. There won’t be any get-togethers or future projects. The world just saw my greatest work. And no one gives a shit. There will be no title cards, no end credit roll. My agent has already called about a new picture—a spy thriller of some kind. He’s sending me the script next week. So it’s back to business. On that note, I decide it’s time to go to sleep.

  Days pass. Then weeks. Months. Years. Decades. Not a peep from Slim. But over time, the cries of conspiracy rise. I read about them in the papers, then on the Internet. After so much time I don’t care anymore. I did my job. But some of these conspiracy fuckers did pick up on some continuity problems. Numbered prop rocks, the waving flag, a lattice framework for fake stars and a whole band of others. We never did the star thing because of the lighting issue. And of course the flag wasn’t in a breeze. We were in a sound stage. No air. It was stiffened for effect, but allowed some wiggle. But one of the biggies was the prop rock with a label on it. I swear the rocks weren’t labeled on the set. No one does that shit, not even in the studios. They label large set pieces and supporting structures, but not rocks.

  What I find most amusing are the letters some conspiracist claims he found in the moon photos of rocks. The letters H and M. Harry McNixon. I thought it was poetic. Perhaps it was the universe’s way of giving me credit after all. I’ll never know.

  FINALE

  All of that brings us to right now. We should have never landed on the moon. At least not at the derelict site. It was that damned ship. If we hadn’t found it, and brought back the device, you’d be reading this and deciding that I’m batshit crazy. Then you’d go back to your dinner, your wine, your TV, your sex. But you know I’m not crazy. Because now everyone knows. They can’t stop it—the overload, I mean. It’s gone critical, and now there’s nothing left but the panic. Nothing left but to hit our knees and make peace with God.

  The fucking arrogance of mankind. We just don’t know when to say when. We always go to the edge of the abyss and perform an insidious ballet at its very rim. Hanging our toes off the edge, seeing just how far we can go before it gives way and we plummet into that black eternity. Our arrogance drives us there, but the edge itself beckons—tugs at our fallen nature. Begs us to try and go one more inch. And damned if we don’t go that inch every time.

  They say the overload started two days ago. That they couldn’t shut it down and it was just a matter of time before it destroyed Earth. Well, at least we got fifty-some years of abundant energy and power from the thing. Whatever that “thing” really was. I never saw the device they brought back. Slim wouldn’t let me have a peek, even though I helped him fool the world into thinking we were all safe and that the moon landing was just a miraculous feat of human will and nothing more.

  For what it’s worth, I’m going to hit the publish button on this piece, and if there’s anyone left online who reads it, you can decide if what I’m saying is true or not. But decide quickly. There’s no more time left.

  FADE TO BLACK

  About the Conspiracy Theory:

  The Apollo 11 Moon Landing

  The idea that the moon landing was faked is one of the most infamous conspiracy theories of them all. And despite what I wrote in my story, “That’s a Wrap from the Sea of Tranquility,” I do not so much as one ounce subscribe to the claims of the conspiracy theorists on this subject. The moon landing was most certainly not faked. We did land on the moon. Six times, to be exact. If you have any doubt, just take a look at the moon itself; the evidence of that historic event is still there. The Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter mission, starting in July of 2009, surveyed and photographed all six Apollo landing sites. The flight hardware, flags, astronaut footprints, lunar rover tracks, all the evidence of human activity—it’s all implacably visible. Additionally, the detection here on Earth of reflections from laser ranging retroreflectors (LRRRs) placed by astronauts at the Apollo landing sites is unambiguous evidence that we did in fact land on the moon.

  Even if there were a lack of physical evidence, a hoax of this magnitude would be extraordinary, if not impossible, to pull off. According to Dr. James Longuski, Professor of Aeronautics and Astronautics at Purdue University, in order for the moon landing to have been faked, it would have required the knowing involvement of some four hundred thousand people in the Apollo program over the course of nearly ten years. I had to let that number sink in. The odds that so many people could knowingly (or even unknowingly) participate in such a hoax seems preposterous.

  I’ve personally watched the continuous two-and-a-half-hour original broadcast of the Apollo 11 landing, which includes all of the extravehicular activities. The footage—and the human achievement it memorializes—is as awe-inspiring as it is humbling. But even viewing the broadcast purely from a production standpoint, I can assure you that it would have been impossible, in 1969, to create realistic images for that length of time with a locked-down camera. At the time, the visual effects technology simply wasn’t there to create an effective illusion for so long a duration; a fake would have become patently obvious after just a few short minutes. (Of course, if the moon landing were happening today, that story would be very different. With CGI technology, anything is possible. Anything.)

  For those who are interested in learning more about both the lunar conspiracy claims and the scientific debunking of them, I’d recommend watching the Mythbusters episode that tackled this subject in depth. There are also a host of non-NASA resources online that debunk the lunar conspiracy.

  So given my skepticism, why did I write a story about a film director who shot the fake moon landing? Because it was unlike anything I’d written before. It stretched me as a writer. And since I have a background in video and film production, this particular conspiracy lent itself beautifully to my creative sensibilities. It was also fun to come up with my own twist on the tale: a reason for faking the moon landing that goes beyond fooling the entire world in order to win the Space Race.

  I’d like to offer my sincere thanks to editor David Gatewood for asking me to join Tales of Tinfoil along with so many gifted authors. I’d also like to thank my wife Nina for reading my story first and giving me her honest feedback.

  If you’d like to know more about me and my other works, please wander over to my Amazon author page. You can also find me at Thirdscribe.

  Disappear

  by Wendy Paine Miller

  In the thin blur of sleep, my nightmare chases me down. I bolt upright in bed, breath jagged, nerves shot. It’s the same dream—the same haunting dream—but with sharper images than before.

  My subconscious is cautioning me.

  Maybe if I stay up a little longer, it will pass. Should I wake Kiran?

  I place my hand over the cool sheet—Rick’s side of the bed. It’s been two years since he became one of hundreds who’ve been “disappeared.” Two years that feels like ten.

  I rest my head back on my pillow, working hard to ignore my heart, which is fluttering like a c
aged moth inside my chest. I keep my eyes open, willing myself to stay awake, latching on to the weak glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. But my eyelids are heavy; snapshots of my dream flick into my consciousness like a snake’s tongue, striking at my attempts to remain calm and still. And awake.

  The second I allow my eyes to close for longer than a blink, it’s all over. I’m under, as far gone as quicksand.

  The nightmare has begun again.

  I’m at the town’s annual tree lighting ceremony. Kiran is lost somewhere in the crowd. I can practically feel her studying the throng of excited, expectant gatherers. Trying to discern who’s on her side. From afar, I get a peek of her fishtail braid, her fingerless gloves. Her black coat, cinched tight around her slender frame, sparkles strangely, as if it’s reflective. Her smile is both defiant and beautiful. A soft swirl of goose-feather snow falls from the sky.

  My nose tingles from the cold. I hug my coat to my chest as my eyes brim with tears. A desperate energy surges within me, a rising panic. Part of me knows this is only a dream; part of me knows it’s something more.

  Kiran has broken through two layers of people. My feisty sixteen-year-old. She’s strong now, so sure of herself and her convictions. She’s the Pied Piper among these dissidents—the voice they heed.

  I stamp my feet to reinstate feeling while standing at the perimeter of the crowd, trying to keep an eye on my daughter. The ceremony is at Enders Park, at the edge of the Zone, as always. In the midst of an otherwise crowded woods, there’s a sizeable clearing—plenty of space to gather. A makeshift stage has been erected at one end, in front of a row of enormous firs, strung with lights that have not yet been lit. Most of the oaks and maples behind them have also been decorated with lights; when they all turn on at once, it’s an impressive sight, the night sparkling with a thousand pinpricks of fire.

  The only section they don’t light is the maze of boxwoods to my right. Too many twists and turns.

  The part of me that remembers this nightmare refuses to look at the boxwoods.

  To my left, a woman sniffs, then whispers something inaudible. I turn my head only slightly, and see a woman in a red pea coat standing uncomfortably close.

  Is she talking to me?

  “What?” I whisper back, still not facing her directly. I blow into my hands. “What?” I ask again, a little louder. Her eyes dart in my direction, reflecting caution.

  “I can help.”

  I dare to look over at her. The woman’s hair is parted severely in the middle, leaving a distinct divide in the center of her head. She has a full face with glossy red lipstick, and tracks of tears mark her rounded cheeks like eroded riverbeds.

  My chest constricts. Why is this woman talking to me? How could she possibly help?

  “You’re the mother, aren’t you?” The woman in the red pea coat rubs her nose with her gloved hand. The few lights set up in the clearing illuminate the spectators with an angelic aura. “You’re her mother?” she repeats, motioning to Kiran, who is gaining confidence at the front of the crowd.

  And then I see him.

  The madman.

  He comes from the left, just like I knew he would. Walking slowly at first, almost sauntering. Toward Kiran.

  I zone in on him, restless to make eye contact, to communicate my disdain. He doesn’t return my glare, doesn’t even know I exist. As he gets nearer to my daughter, a guttural groan gets trapped inside my windpipe. I sense the evil emanating off him like steam rising from a pavement after a hot summer storm.

  What I wouldn’t give to have Kiran pinned against me, to be gripping her with such intensity my forearm would cramp. But she’s out there, standing proud among the onlookers. Too far for me to intervene.

  The madman closes in on Kiran slowly, casually. No one seems to notice. In the cold air, puffs rise from within his wiry beard, and I imagine his breath is tinged with a sour vinegar odor. Even from a distance, it’s as though I can smell his skin under his layered clothing, as though it’s flaking off by the second. His corduroy jacket is splotched with stains, torn, with loose patches of material.

  I fling my arms out above the shoulders in front of me. A vain gesture, the actions of an excited concert fan, not a mother in anguish. But no matter how hard I push against the crowd, I’m rendered immobile.

  The madman’s hands leap from his pockets. One grabs Kiran’s shoulder; the other raises something small and silver. The karate-quick move doesn’t surprise me—I’ve seen all this before—but it sears me all the same. My heart crashes down into my stomach.

  That’s when I realize that the crowd has opened in front of me. It’s the woman in the red pea coat—she’s charging forward, and somehow, people are getting out of her way, like the Red Sea before Moses.

  I race after her, and in a slash of time, we’ve broken free of the crowd.

  The madman spins with Kiran—my daughter. Her shrill scream punctuates the night air. It pierces the serenity of the lights, twinkling. The woman in the red coat reaches them first. She lunges for the madman, a fiery determination driving her abrupt motions, but he escapes her. Unsteady, I clutch for his corduroy jacket, and I’m quickly shoved back.

  Everything is too fast. The madman drags Kiran toward the boxwood maze. I leap on him, causing all three of us to collapse to the ground. The woman in the red coat wrenches the madman’s arm to the dirt. With a feral combative surge, the madman flings off our efforts to detain him. He seizes my daughter by the armpits and yanks her toward the maze.

  Kiran locks eyes with me. Imploring. We share a silent scream. Officers rush toward me and the woman in the red coat, who is now reaching in her pocket. The armed guards encircle us like a pride of lions guarding their prey, blocking my view. I can’t see my daughter.

  But I hear her.

  Kiran releases a cry of despair, which echoes in my core.

  The woman’s back is to me, but even surrounded by the circle of officers, I see her arm rise up. See the gun in her hand, pointed at the madman in the moment before he steals my daughter from my sight.

  I thrash awake, a whimper caught in my throat. All that remains of the moonlight is a weak column. My sheets are clammy in my clenched hands, and sweat breaks from my every pore.

  Sleep is restorative for most people. It’s torture for me.

  * * *

  Kiran comes up behind me in the kitchen where I’m spilling granules of coffee into the machine.

  “I’m leading another protest in a few weeks,” she says.

  “I think you should reconsider.” Authority tightening my tone, I spin around to face her. Disappearings occur most often during public events. She knows this.

  “What, we’re just supposed to turn a blind eye to what’s going on? I can’t do that, Mom. Every day I hear about someone else who’s been disappeared. This can’t keep happening.”

  “But you don’t need to be the one to stop it.” You’re only sixteen. Too young for all of this. It’s too dangerous. These thoughts underscore my every waking thought.

  Kiran’s shoulders tense. “If not me, then who?” Her forehead creases two new wrinkles. “I’m going.”

  Her expression is a hairpin into my heart. I know she’s right. Maybe a rebellion is necessary. But not with her at the helm.

  Not after what I’ve seen.

  It would be one thing if last night was the first time I’d ever had that nightmare. I could convince myself I’m overreacting, simply being paranoid. But I’ve been having that same dream ever since Rick was disappeared. I’m lucky if an entire week goes by when I don’t have to wash the sheets in the morning because they’re so drenched in sweat. I’m haunted by the events at that tree lighting. The dream means something.

  And I sure as hell am not about to let my daughter riot her way into a public setting where she’s vulnerable to all of those watchful eyes—all of the cameras.

  Not if I can help it.

  Kiran is still lingering in the kitchen. I hear her scratching
on that notepad of hers. I’ve taken a peek at it. She’s writing plans. Brainstorming ways to rebel against the government. Her cell phone rings to the tune of “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Nice.

  “When will you show up?” Kiran speaks into the phone. She fiddles with the end of her braid. Sometimes I swear she came out of the womb knowing how to weave her hair in hundreds of styles.

  I replay her words, understanding at once that she’s firming up the details of her next protest.

  “Turn off your phone.” My words come out like BB gun pellets. I snatch my own phone and power it off.

  “Why?”

  “Turn it off, now. Is the TV off?”

  “I don’t know. Why?” She glares at me as though I’ve lost my last marble.

  “Go make sure that it, and every other electronic device in this house, is powered down. And power off your phone.”

  “But Mom, I’m talking with Jen.”

  “Kiran, please just do this one thing.”

  “Fine.” She huffs and rolls her eyes, but she obeys. She lifts the phone back to her ear. “Jen, I gotta go. My mom’s freaking out.”

  I watch her carefully as she presses the power button on her phone.

  “Let me check it,” I say. I strut over to her, test that it’s off. Then I double check mine.

  “Paranoid much? They’re not that invasive.”

  But she hasn’t seen what I’ve seen. The strange way the computer camera light flickers for just an instant when I sit down to pay bills. And the verification emails we’ve been getting, calculating how many times we’ve “donated”—blood and money. “Weren’t you the one just telling me that people go missing left and right?” I ask.