TotenFolio

The phone clicked twice during Fenton’s conversation. He ended the phone call and pried the phone handset open. Embedded between the speaker and the phone, a small black device tied into the wires.

It was a tap.

Fenton pulled the small black tap out of the phone and crushed it beneath his heel. His heart pounded hard against his ribcage. Beads of salty sweat rolled down his forehead and his tiny black eyes searched the corners of the room his phone sat in. In one of the corners, Fenton spotted a small black dot.

He rushed to his kitchen and grabbed a stool away from the bar. He dragged it across the floor and stood it in the corner. Carefully, he climbed onto the stool and plucked the small black dot from the corner, near the ceiling. It was another black device.

He dropped it onto the floor and stomped it beneath his foot.

He kept his mouth closed and tried to calm his racing heart. His chest heaved and sweat stung his eyes.

Why did they tap me? Fenton wondered.

He moved slowly, from room to room, and searched his entire home for more taps. He found nothing. His phone rang, but with the handset disassembled he had no way to answer it. He pulled his coat on and stepped through his front door, out to his front stoop.

He glanced over at his mailbox, affixed to the wall next to his front door. Atop the mailbox’s door, a small black dot stuck out just enough to catch Fenton’s eye. He gripped it and jerked it off of his mailbox. He stepped down the one step to the ground, away from his stoop, and looked around.

He saw a black sedan, then another. Both were occupied with men in dark suits and crimson ties. He swallowed hard and looked at his car.

Too risky, he thought.

He walked away from his house at a brisk pace, moving toward the bus stop. As he neared the stop, he saw a man in a black suit and crimson tie sitting on the bus stop bench. The man read a newspaper and had a suitcase sitting next to him.

Cautiously, Fenton approached the bus stop and sat down next to the man in the crimson tie. He eyed the man with his peripheral vision.

The man in the crimson tie turned the briefcase slightly toward Fenton. Fenton’s breath caught in his throat and he turned to look at the suitcase.

On the latch closest to Fenton, a black dot sat. Another tap.

Fenton stayed quiet and waited for the bus to pull up. He rushed onto the bus and sunk into the closest seat. The man in the crimson tie did not get on the bus.

Fenton breathed a sigh of relief.

Across the aisle, a woman chatted on her mobile phone. From his seat, Fenton could see the small black dot on the back of her silver phone. He chewed his bottom lip.

He turned and surveyed the bus. Everyone around him spoke on cellphones or tapped away at laptops. Everywhere he looked, there were black dots.

Taps.

Everywhere.

They’re spying on us all, he thought.

The bus reached its next stop, and Fenton disembarked in a rising panic. He walked down the sidewalk, keeping a sharp eye open. There were people everywhere, all tapped. Each person he saw was followed closely by a man in a black suit and crimson tie.

He spun around on the sidewalk and searched for the man following him. He saw it clearly now. Everyone had one. Where was his?

He searched. No more than ten feet away, a man in a black suit and crimson tie met his searching eyes. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the man with the crimson tie.

“You’re following me,” Fenton accused.

The moment he spoke, his temples exploded with pain. He crumpled, dead weight, upon the sidewalk.

—-

The throbbing darkness gave way to a bright, silver light. He tried to lift his hands, but could not. He tried to move his legs. They would not respond. He blinked. The silver light burned his eyes, but he could not turn his head.

In the corners of his sight, he saw movement. Shadowy silhouettes, and flashes of crimson. The men in crimson ties.

Soft words echoed through the room, jumbled until Fenton could make sense of them.

“Experiment 92, codename Fenton, is compromised. Once they know they’re being watched, they change how they react. 92 has no scientific value,” someone said.

“What do we do with it?”

“End the experiment.”

Fenton struggled to turn his head and look at the shapes engaged in conversation.

“They’re getting smarter,” one voice said. “This is the fifth one we’ve had to end today.”

“Only the unique ones realize they’re being observed.”

“It’s unfortunate,” someone said.

“That we terminate the unique ones?”

“Yes.”

Fenton blinked. The silver light burned into his brain. He tried to move and get a better view than what his peripheral vision could make out.

“92 is aware. We’d better terminate.”

Fenton blinked again. His body grew warm and the silver light turned black.

“These experiments learn quicker each time,” a voice said.

“But so do we,” someone said.

Fenton struggled to turn his head, even as his body temperature peaked and he felt his eyes flutter to close.

“92 is good as gone. Let’s put him on ice and get back into the field.”

“We can’t go yet. Just got word that another experiment has become aware she’s being watched.”

Fenton felt his body move, then a flash of cold, and his eyes closed for the last time.

Tagged #saturdaystory, paranoia, short story, tap