PARTISANCHIP: EPISODE 5
Dystopian Psychological Thriller
PARTISANCHIP: EPISODE 5
©2022 Stephen Conway
This JUMP JUMP JUMP airbag seems a better option than the SWAT team’s BANG BANG BANG.
Peer over the window ledge. Hard to see who’s down there. No one I know is willing to catch me from six stories up. How’d they know I’d be needing an escape route? Marlena didn’t mention them. She forget? Someone forget to tell her and she forgot to tell me? How’d these people get this airbag in place without being detected? If Marlena’s going around sucking government chips out of skulls she can’t be doing it alone, can she? Too complicated. Maybe these are her people? Maybe that ten k of gold bought me a little more that just a chip abortion. But the Consortium has eyes everywhere. None of this makes sense. What if Marlena’s affiliated with the Consortium? If she is—maybe this is it—their way of exterminating those who get chips pulled.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
No time for this. Decision needs to be made. Gotta get outta here or just give-up. Peer over the window ledge again. The cool evening gloom makes it hard to see who these people are. The airbag seems safe enough. Is this what they mean by frying pan into the fire? Airbag people could be armed. Crane my neck up and around. It’s possible to climb to the roof but the SWAT team probably figured on that move—goons are waiting. The thwump-thwump-thwump of a distant chopper grows louder. Probably coming for me.
My front door goes BANG! BANG! BANG! Then goes quiet. Sounds as if they’re leaving now—or planning an entry. There are two separate staircases in the layout of this building. One west. One east. The east stairs are out in the hall—on the other side of my door. Blocked by the SWAT team. Six feet out from the threshold of my door is a hallway connecting the two staircases. Imagine the shape of a capital letter H if you were looking down on the building from above. The crossbar of the H is the connecting hallway. The Consortium decided fire-escapes aren’t required for this old building and layout. Leaves me no escape. Biting my lip. Think. Think. Think.
Outnumbered by the armed and tech-heavy SWAT team outside my door: not good odds. Setting the place on fire is a good distraction but could make things worse for me if it got out of control.
Grinding my teeth. Gotta calm down or I’m going out of here on their terms.
Okay.
Breathe.
Need to sort out my head. Need clarity right now.
Okay.
Okay.
These things are certain: number one; the chip is out of my head.
Number two...number two.
C’mon. Think. Think. Think.
What does that mean? What does that mean?
Why send emergency SWAT teams when a chip signals that it’s been pulled? People can’t be traced. The technology they use to track you no longer works. That’s why they send these goons immediately. People can get away. Disappear off their grid. If they need to find a person the Consortium needs to employ people who can use their eyes. Their senses. Critical thinking skills. They need to operate in the analog world. No digital mapping. No triangulation technology. No assistive technology. They need to rely on their own senses. Senses that have been compromised by the very technology they have become dependent upon.
Okay. This makes sense. This could give me an advantage. Tell myself to take a breath. Relax. Let go of the tension in my head. Tension in my jaw. Tension in my neck; my shoulders. An answer slides into my mind. Moving to my bedroom I turn my bed ninety degrees, push it against the wall. Fluff my pillows. Shock waves from the SWAT team’s battering ram radiate through my apartment. The door doesn’t stand a chance. Make myself appear comfortable in the bed. Roll-up extra sheets, blankets, extra pillows. The knitted winter cap on my head is a nice touch. Then some socks. Warm socked feet peeking out at the end of the bed. Tuck myself in. Move my body into position. Get comfortable for the inevitable.
Crunching cracks and splintering thraks echo through my apartment. That was my front door.
Quiet now.
No shouts.
No yelling.
Then the slight slick-clicking sound of trigger safety-latches releasing on their rifles. Steel-toed boots move cat-like across my apartment floor boards. Every creak and groan tells me the exact location of each SWAT member. Four of them. Taking deep breaths to calm myself. The buildings nearby absorb the THWUMP- THWUMP- THWUMP of the approaching chopper. Inhale what will likely be my final breath. Clearly they will deliver to me an important lesson on their mission. Give me what I deserve. They enter my bedroom with their M-16 rifle barrels sweeping the air. What they see is me lying in bed. Might be asleep. Might be dead. Maybe ready to ambush them. Two move to the head of my bed. Two at the foot.
The bruising tip of a rifle barrel jabs my rib cage. I don’t respond.
“Police. Don’t move,” one says.
One of them rips-off the top sheet as the other three have their guns cocked and loaded at my critical body parts.
They grab me. Rip me out of bed. It’s the thing they think is me. Bed clothes and sheets sculpted into a human figure with a stuffed hat and stuffed socks.
From my hiding place under the bed—pressing myself against the wall—their jack-boots shuffle. A whispering voice says ”Shit. Where the hell is he? Where the hell did he go?” Their frustration fills the room. Their reliance on technology has dulled their reasoning. Doesn't it cross their minds to look for me under the bed? How dumb can these people be? This is too easy.
Keeping still and watching their boots, they clamber out of the bedroom. Creak-squeaking floorboard sounds follow them out of the apartment.
Getting my palms into a push-up position, I shimmy myself out from under the bed feet first.
Something grabs my ankle.
“Gotcha!”