Tales of Tinfoil: Stories of Paranoia and Conspiracy

by David Gatewood (ed)

  It’s a cruel world when you can’t trust anything.

  I turn the car down a dirt road flanked by pine trees on both sides. I’m not far now.

  Patrice said the madman was in charge of managing dissidents. I don’t want my daughter “managed.” But I keep the fears at the edges of my mind, push away the worst-case possibility. I know from firsthand experience that when someone disappears, they’re really gone forever.

  There’s so much we don’t know—that we’re not told.

  The precious snow flurries mock me the moment I get out of my car. I dart toward the multitude already gathering in Enders Park. Snow. Of course it’s snowing. I hate how acquainted I feel with this moment.

  My nose stings from the bite in the air. There look to be at least a thousand gatherers. How am I to pick Kiran out of the crowd? Or—my heart drops at the thought—will she make herself known? Why hasn’t she answered any of my voicemails or called me back? Because she knows I’ll stop her. Or I’ll try. That’s why.

  Conversation swirls about me, pleasant, unattached, not as invested in the moment as I am. The tips of my fingers turn numb from the cold. I brush my hair from my face.

  I’m contemplating the best way to go about finding Kiran and corralling her back to the safety of our home when a jagged line of preschoolers make their way to the risers. Under the soft lighting from the makeshift stage, the little ones begin to sing a sentimental off-tune rendition of “Do You Hear What I Hear.”

  It’s the same song. I’m watching my nightmare play out.

  My heart pounds against my rib cage. My arms drop to my sides, the fight stolen from my appendages as though a ghost has swooped through the crowd, capturing the last thing I could control.

  I must find Kiran. But the crowd is too thick; there are too many people.

  My dream is breaking from its cocoon—it’s coming alive with every detail.

  As I search for Kiran, I also keep a close eye on the boxwood maze to my right. That’s where he’ll take her. The labyrinth. The boxwoods are said to be one of the only places in the Zone that government workers haven’t lined with cameras. The trees form an elaborate maze, and the paths are too twisty and narrow for a good shot. So they’ve only hung cameras at the entrance.

  Is that why he takes her in there? But why would the government need to hide its actions from its own cameras?

  The children sing about goodness and light.

  I’m running out of time. Kiran, where are you?

  The gathering awaits the annual tree lighting with anticipation. Pinpricks radiate from my core, springing gooseflesh all over my skin. Do something! Find her!

  At the close of the song, Dr. Legnem steps to the podium. The rabbit fur on his coat swishes elegantly with a gust of wind. His eyes are haunting pools of blue. He taps the microphone, ready to speak. He offers a placating smile to the crowd. Buttery. Convincing.

  The scene is a joint out of its socket. Everyone is hopped up on hot cocoa and the misguided belief that the illuminating lights will signify that everything is okay—that people aren’t actually being disappeared every other week. It’s all an illusion. A magic trick for the masses.

  Maybe Kiran isn’t just a teenager rebelling against the system. Maybe she really is doing what needs to be done.

  A scent of harm hangs in the air. I scan the crowd feverishly for my daughter. It’s her gloves I see first. Her fingerless gloves, leaving her skin vulnerable to the chill. But my mood shifts rapidly from pity to anger. Why is she dressed like that—with hundreds of tiny makeup mirrors attached to her jacket and black leggings? Please tell me this reflective garb is the extent of her protest—that she intends to make her point merely by how she dressed. There are at least a dozen people hovering directly behind her, also loosely adorned with mirrors.

  I press ahead, about to yell her name, but pinch my lips together. I don’t want to draw attention to her if this is all she had on the agenda.

  Who am I kidding? I know the wild stallion look in Kiran’s eyes too well. For over a year I’ve witnessed her growing hostility toward governing mandates. I’ve listened to how she mocks the leaders with her friends, I’ve read the rebellious scribbles in her notepad, and I’ve noticed how she balls her fists when the nightly newscasters urge people to donate more blood than the required six visits—for the good of the community. I protect Kiran from having to “be generous” and give blood, but I can’t protect her forever. This fight has been rearing up in her for months now.

  Still, I can’t stop thinking of Kiran as my baby. She used to lie awake in her crib, blinking up at me. Then she’d extend her nubby little hands. There were days when I wanted her to stay still just a moment longer so I could watch her cheeks redden as she attempted to roll over to her stomach or stretch her foot up to her mouth to nibble on her own toes. I never hesitated though. As soon as her arms shot up, I bent down to her.

  Back then, I could do something about Kiran’s needs. When she cried, my response was automatic. It’s only now, staring up at the snow flurries, that I realize how entwined my own needs are with my daughter’s. I want to be able to rescue her—for her, and for me. By rescuing her I end my own nightmare.

  Dr. Legnem finishes his speech and signals for the lights to be ignited. A sparkly glow twinkles all around, and the crowd oohs and aahs dutifully. My nerve endings twinge as though set on fire.

  I’ve already been here hundreds of times in my dreams.

  * * *

  Commotion spins around me like a dizzying merry-go-round. My head throbs. It’s all happening just as my nightmare foretold, and I’m frozen in place, watching, helpless. There’s Patrice, up ahead of me, forcing her way through the crowd toward the protestors. Now on the verge of panic, I scan for the madman. I know just where to look: the boxwoods. He’s not there, but then… yes. He steps out from the darkness between the trees and begins his slow saunter toward Kiran.

  Toward my daughter.

  My nerves jolt as though electrocuted. I promised to run from him—but not without Kiran.

  My legs kick up, but I’m unable to sprint, blocked by the backs and legs of those in front of me. Move, people! My daughter needs me.

  The mirrors affixed to Kiran’s black clothing reflect the glimmering lights and clank against each other. She pumps her fist and holds up one small mirror as she yells out to the masses, “Look at yourselves! See yourselves as they do! They watch you, control you, disappear you! And they will continue to do so as long as you let them. Well, we won’t let them.” She brandishes the mirror. “We’re turning the scrutiny back on them. And we refuse to disappear!”

  Clever. And foolish. “Kiran!” I shout over the chanting. The crowd has thickened around the uproar of the protest. It’s impossible to tell who’s with the government and who’s against them.

  But I know that my child is marked. She’s made it abundantly clear where she stands and who she’s standing up for. The ropey knot in my throat keeps me from being able to swallow, to holler at Kiran again. People are bouncing off one another, like I’m in the middle of a bar brawl. Gatherers and fellow protesters have filtered between me and Kiran. It’s maddening how close I get, then how I’m shoved away. Like ocean debris pushed to the shore. Leaning over shoulders and standing on my tiptoes, I see that the multitude has nudged Kiran toward the boxwood maze.

  No.

  In the wake of the crowd, I spot Patrice again, and I’m momentarily comforted. Patrice will take him down. She knows the truth. She’ll step in and rescue Kiran. At least until I’m able to claw my way through the crowd.

  I worm toward the maze of boxwoods. I’m close. Close enough that I have a keen view of Kiran and the madman. No, not madman—government agent. Why the elaborate disguise? I can only watch as he claps a dirt-streaked hand on my daughter’s shoulder. Whispers something in her ear. The look on her face is pure terror.

  My desperation pushes me forward. Patrice is now only a step ahead of me, clearing a path. I’m almo
st free of the crowd when I’m thrust back by a snaggletoothed officer. “Halt,” he orders. He slaps his hand in the center of my chest. I feel branded by his touch.

  The madman tugs Kiran toward the boxwoods. She resists, shouts something at him.

  “Let me go to her,” I plead.

  The officer contorts his features into a confused expression. Then, to my surprise, he reaches through the crowd and grabs Patrice’s arm. She turns, and the officer cocks his head toward me as if to say, What about her?

  Patrice responds with only a glare, then shakes him off and continues to plow forward.

  Wait—what just happened?

  Like sparklers shooting off inside my brain, images flicker, and I struggle to shape them into some semblance of understanding. Why would the officer look to Patrice for direction? She’s one of the dissidents. She’s the one I’m counting on to rescue Kiran from the madman. I reason, letting one slippery belief bleed into the next, all of them staining what I thought I knew of this entire scene.

  The lies my dream told me.

  A hiccup of fear is smothered in my chest.

  Kiran and the madman have turned. They’re now fleeing toward the boxwoods, stumbling toward what is possibly the only safe place in the entire Zone. Patrice steps free of the crowd and raises her weapon, as I knew she would. Her shout cuts through the crowd that surrounds us.

  “Stop!”

  Through the cloudiness of the tears brimming in my eyes, it all snaps to clarity.

  Patrice had started bulling her way toward Kiran before the madman had even stepped out from the trees. She can’t have known he was even there. Her interest was in Kiran, not him.

  And I knew: Patrice wasn’t trying to protect Kiran from the madman; the madman was protecting my daughter from Patrice.

  And now Patrice has a gun pointed not only at the madman, but at my child.

  Kiran hollers that earsplitting wail I recognize from my dreams. “Run! Mom, run!” She and the madman are at the edge of the boxwoods, their backs to the trees. Patrice steps over to them, the gun in her hand never wavering. The madman sinks to his knees and raises his arms in surrender.

  The officer next to me grips my shoulders with his large hands, preparing to lock me there in his hold. But I wrestle free and race toward Kiran, knocking down a wiry boy in my path.

  People buzz around me, but I tussle through the crowd, following Kiran’s shouts. With a bitterness on my tongue, immune to the cold, I rush toward my daughter.

  Patrice’s eyes drop to menacing slits. “We can take you. You will disappear. Gone always,” she sing-songs, taunting Kiran with a twisted version of her protest chant. Her red pea coat appears brighter, radiant beneath the tree lights. She snatches one of the circular makeup mirrors from Kiran’s chest. “Look in the mirror.” With a quick swipe, she slashes it across Kiran’s cheek.

  At the sight of blood bubbling from the wound on Kiran’s face, I charge. My mind pricked only with the urgency to save my daughter, I leap on Patrice, tackling her to the ground. She’s strong. She bats me away like an errant toddler, then strikes the butt of her gun against the base of my skull. It sends a torrent of pain fireworking across my head. But it’s nothing compared to the sound of Kiran yelling out to me—for me.

  “Go.” I demand. “Go!” I scream again at my daughter. The madman is warding off an officer who’s trying to detain him.

  Kiran shakes her head, wiping the smear of blood across her cheek with the back of her fingerless glove. Her entire body trembles, resisting. She doesn’t want to leave me. She won’t go.

  So I muster the courage to say the only thing that will force her to reconsider.

  My cheek is smashed against the cold earth. Patrice pins my arms down and I’m trapped under her weight. I’m not afraid anymore.

  Kiran takes one step inside the maze, hesitating.

  I conjure a proud smile at my daughter. Tears stream from my eyes. My voice cracks as I yell, “Disappear.”

  Kiran breaks into a beautiful run.

  About the Conspiracy Theory:

  The Surveillance State

  The modern-day ubiquity of cameras and other recording devices is not a conspiracy theory—it’s just a fact of life. There’s a videocamera in every pocket, a security camera in every store, and, increasingly, a dash cam in every police car. When you factor in the extent to which our lives are lived online, our increasing willingness to share our every 140-character thought with the entire world, and the now-regular news reports about thefts of our financial data, our medical records, and more… well, it’s not surprising that there’s an increase in anxiety about the loss of privacy.

  And it’s clear that technology will only help to make cameras and other surveillance technology even more ever-present. It wouldn’t be terribly surprising if a decade from now we look back on citizen concerns about the intrusiveness of traffic cameras and think, “How quaint.”

  But although the increase in surveillance technology is observable fact, the idea of a surveillance state—well, that’s where our fears go wild. We sometimes can’t help but wonder: Is there someone behind all those cameras, watching our every move? Is someone—Big Government, Big Business, Big Data—gathering together all our movements, our photos, our social media interactions, our multitude of bits and bytes, and assembling them into a bigger picture?

  And if so, are they using—or might they use—that information to suppress their enemies, to further their political or financial goals, or to increase their hold on power?

  Some feel that the revelations brought to light by Edward Snowden’s document leak in 2013—that the NSA, in cooperation with similar agencies in other governments, had been running a global surveillance apparatus that secretly pried into individuals’ phone records, emails, and online activity—provided ironclad proof that fears of a surveillance state were 100% warranted. Others felt that Snowden’s leak itself, the strength of the resulting backlash, and the eventual, if partial, dismantling of the surveillance activity proved that a surveillance state can’t survive for long in a free society.

  Still others merely wonder: Is any of this going on my permanent record?

  Wendy Paine Miller is a native New Englander who feels most alive when she’s laughing, reading, writing, or taking risks. She’s authored eleven novels, including The Flower Girls, The Disappearing Key, and The Delicate Nature of Love. Her books have prompted thought-provoking conversations at book clubs all across the country. Wendy lives with her husband and their three girls in a home bursting with imagination and hilarity.

  To learn more about Wendy’s other works, connect with her on Facebook or Twitter.

  One Arm of the Octopus

  by Michael Bunker

  Chapter One

  The cephalopod mollusc is one of the most fantastically designed killers in the ocean. We know it as “the octopus.”

  The prey of the octopus usually stumbles into danger completely unaware. That’s because the octopus can make itself look like just about anything in the sea. Coral? Yep. Sand? Yes, that too. The octopus blends in perfectly with its backdrop; even when in plain sight, it disappears. Flexible and dangerous, the octopus is one of the most intelligent creatures in existence, and unless you are hunting one (or watching TV or hanging around at SeaWorld), you’ve probably never seen one.

  Other than a small hard beak that the octopus uses to break through the hard shells of its prey in order to consume them, the creature has no internal or external skeleton. Think about that. This beast, however large it gets, can crawl through any hole that is larger than its tiny beak.

  In addition to its ability to change colors to match its hiding place, it can use its muscles to mimic things like seaweed and rocks.

  It uses tools. Just like a man does.

  When the octopus feels threatened, it ejects a cloud of blackish “ink” that confuses and blinds its enemy while the creature disappears. And get this: if you were to get hold of one arm—and if you coul
d hold it tight—the animal could sever that arm and swim away. You might get part of it, but you probably wouldn’t get the whole thing.

  While all of this may seem like science, in your case (and in mine) it is all just opinion and hearsay. Conjecture. For all we know, the octopus made all this up in order to confuse us.

  * * *

  I left Odessa, Texas, three days after high school graduation in late May of 1985 and never looked back. I was shy and moderately popular in high school, but I never had any real, permanent connections in that town, so at the age of eighteen I wanted nothing more than to just get out.

  At that age, no place felt like home to me.

  My dad was in the military when I was a child, and we’d been in Texas for less than five years following his retirement, so in 1985 I felt like a rolling stone.

  As far as I was concerned, anywhere was better than Odessa.

  I broke up with my girlfriend on graduation night. She was a sweet and pretty girl who really liked me; she wanted to get married. But I had no intention of sticking around. And I didn’t want to lie to her either. Why go through the motions of a long-distance relationship (we had no cell phones or Internet back then) when I knew it could never work?

  So I did my best to sever all ties with my small high school town so I could start anew in college. I was heading to a bigger city and had bigger dreams. New friends, new parties, new opportunities.

  What I really wanted was a new me, and I felt the overwhelming baptism of that new birth as I drove north to start my college life on that last day of May in 1985. I was driving my dark blue ’82 Ford Granada, a graduation gift from my parents, and it was a beautiful spring day. Howard Jones was cranked up loud on my cassette deck.