The Deceiving Machine

I'm watching the night's footage from the camera I had to install, contributing to global surveillance, because someone's been stealing my packages, and I see the shady creep dressed in black who's been roaming in front of my block for days shoot some guy in the head, look up at the camera, haul the corpse in a black car and drive away.

This morning, there was no package on the balcony, but faint mud traces leading to my door. Can’t be me, I haven’t left my apartment in weeks, order everything online. Don’t even go to work anymore. My asshole co-worker’s been dirtying my mop and I’m the one who gets a forced paid leave for pointing it out.

           I wipe dust and look out my window. No sign that anything happened.

           Nothing else in the footage. A big hole between the murder and the morning. Like no one ever came to my door to note my address. The camera didn’t record it. Goddamn machines. Not only do they let the state know every time you sneeze, but they don’t even work properly.

           I pace my living room like I’m on a race track, puffing like an old engine, and it’s fogging up my glasses. As I squeeze a piece of clear quartz, a white light clears the mist in my head. 

           What do I know?

           I have proof of a murder and the murderer saw my camera.

What are my options?

Tell. Don’t tell.

How can I get screwed if I take those options?

           If I tell the cops, I’m officially a witness. And it seemed like a mob hit. Even if I’m not forced to testify in court, the video shows from what angle and distance it was filmed. I’ll get the payback. If not from the man, from his gang.

           If I don’t tell, I’m sitting on evidence. I’ll go to jail. If I delete it, it’s worse. The government’s dogs have ways to know who has cameras in the area, surely have access to the app’s server. Nothing’s ever really deleted, in case someone wants to sell it or use it against you.

And the man will come back.

           So what the fuck am I still doing here?

           I can be traced through my phone, so I smash it and flush the pieces. Can’t take my car either. License plate is linked to address is linked to name. Could have a bomb in it too. Where’s my gun? Can’t find it. Did someone take it?

           A knock on the door.

           I’m out the backdoor, down the steps, across the backyard, and I turn to see the man through the window, sniffing one of my shirts.

I leap into the dreadful outside world.

A couple of streets further, I stop running and start thinking. Where to go? And how am I supposed to know the way without Google maps?

           Let’s just go as far as I can. How? No one can be trusted. I’ll need money. Then a train ticket.

           As I approach the nearest ATM, there he is, the man, smoking a cigar. He looks at me, slips the cigar in his suit’s pocket, and walks toward me.

           I rush into the mall. I’ll be safer in a public place. Will I?

I’m assaulted by bright signs, noise from escalators, people yapping, crying babies in strollers. Some guy on his phone bumps into me and I fight the reflex to run.

           I sit at a table in front of the coffee shop and scan the crowd. Cold wetness bites my hand, and I see it landed in some brown puddle. With an army of napkins, I wipe the stuff off in horror.

           How did the man find me? I’m leaving traces. I rub the soles of my shoes with more napkins as I scrutinize everyone.

           A bag of chips rips open nearby and my knee smashes under the table.

           Calm down. Keep looking, keep your head low and… oh no.

           On a TV in the electronics shop is my big face with the word wanted under it. I knew it. They have all the data, know I watched the footage, at what time. Now I’m wanted for withholding evidence. And running away.

           I walk fast, but not too fast. Stare at the floor abused by dirty footprints, but glance around for the man and for an exit. There I am, surrounded by hundreds of people, and any of them can recognize me. Now I can’t buy a train ticket.

           I take out my wallet, pull out the forty dollars, dump the rest in a trashcan. Can’t be caught with IDs or use credits cards.

There he is again. His pale, fishlike face and dead eyes locked on me like a fighter jet’s missile.

           I dash into a clothing store and disappear—try to—between the rows. The man’s head and wide shoulders protrude above a windbreaker display. He moves so fast, yet so steady. Like he’s gliding.

           I rush to the fitting rooms, hide inside a stall. My survival now depends on that feeble metal latch you could break by looking at it. The only sound is the distant rumbling of customers. I’m alone.    

           Footsteps approach and two black leather shoes stop in front of my stall. I forget how to breathe.

           Through the crack of the door, a shadow moves up and down, sniffing like a hound.

           “Please open the door, Edward.” A soft, firm voice. Like a caring parent urging you to put the knife down without scaring you.

           I’m boiling. He knows my name. 

           “Money comes and goes,” he says. “Relationships fade out. Happiness fluctuates. But freedom… That’s the only thing truly worth fighting to keep. So you’ll understand the problem I have with your being alive, you and your head full of harmful knowledge.”

           What about life? Maybe I don’t want my survival rate to fluctuate? My breath to fade out?

           “I understand your hesitation, but your resistance will not affect the outcome, only the degree of force I’ll have to apply. I’m smarter, stronger, more skilled, more resourceful, and better armed than you are. I apologize if I come across as rude. I’m only concerned.”

           There’s nothing helpful in the stall. Not even a coat hanger I could stick in his eyes.

           The man sighs.

           “I’m gonna shoot at you now, be careful.”

           I drop to the floor. A gunshot sends splinters all around. My ears ring. Two more shots. The latch bounces next to my head.

           I drag myself on the dusty floor with the sides of my fists so I don’t soil my fingers. Once in the other stall, I push myself up and run out. A bullet shatters the mirror beside me.

           Through an emergency exit, I end up behind the mall. Trucks, containers, a few cars. I sprint across the asphalt. Two shots. I hide behind a dumpster. 

           The smell almost makes me throw up. The smell… The man is tracking me with my scent. With a quantum leap out of my comfort zone, I reach into the dumpster, scoop trash juice, and spread it on me. I’m shaking from the filthiness.

           Quick, wolf-like steps on the pavement.

Behind, a fence. Left, nothing. Right… If I can cross twenty meters without getting shot, I’ll have three parked trucks for cover.

           So I do. And I keep running, glancing back, on asphalt, then gravel, yellowish grass, a path of beaten dirt parallel to the road, a bike trail into a wooded area. I feel better amongst the trees, but I keep running until I exhale bird sounds and my whole body's a cramp.

           I walk. For hours. The world gets darker and colder. The roaring of cars dies down. I can’t see, so I leave the woods and walk along the road, head down, and cringe at every car passing by. The filth is driving me nuts. I need a shower, a hose, a furnace. 

           A greenish, beat-up car pulls up beside me. I freeze.

           “Edward?”

           It takes me a moment to recognize her. An old acquaintance from high school. Cindy. What is she doing here?

           “I won’t even ask you what you’re doing on the side of the road at night,” she says. “We’ve all been there. Get in.”

           I stay still. Headlights approach down the road. A black car. Is it him?

           I get in. Cindy hits the gas.

           The passenger’s side-view mirror is broken, so I have to twist my back to see if the black car is getting closer. There’s so much stuff on the backseat I can barely see the window. Bags overflowing with clothes, pillows, plush toys, a chair, a grill…

           “Why are you helping me?” I say.

           “It’s nice to be nice. Jesus, you smell.”

           “Can you go faster?”

           She does.

           “And clean the windshield?”

           “You want a foot massage with that?”

           “There’s a stain the size of Alaska in front of your face.”

           She sends the washer fluid, and it only spreads the stain.

           “See, now it’s worse,” she says. “If a deer crosses, we’ll hit it. Is that what you’ve been up to? Killing deer? I’m vegan now by the way. Can’t afford ground beef. But what’s new with you? Besides being on the run.”

           So she does know.

           “You’re gonna turn me in?”

           “Huh?”

           “Because I’m on the run.”

           “It’s a joke. You’re there walking on the road like you just came out of the woods. You could be wanted for killing the president and I wouldn’t know. Haven’t watched TV in months.”

           Is she bullshitting me?

           “Stinky and humorless,” she says. “That’s what you’ve become. And you used to wash your hands every two minutes. Oh, and have you talked to your mother or you still think she ruined your childhood on purpose?”

           I look at the black car. Closer now. Can’t see the driver’s face. My foot’s about to break through the car’s floor.

           “I hate people who don’t talk,” Cindy says. “Might as well be a squirrel. And don’t take it personally. It’s good to express feelings. It’s those who keep it inside that are problematic. That make the front page for all the bad reasons.”

           She goes for an exit.

           “What are you doing?” I say.

           “Flying a kite. What does it look like? I need fuel. For my car and myself. Chocolate’s been on my mind.”

           “Just keep going a little.”

           “Just wait in the car.”

           She pulls up to a gas station. The black car doesn’t follow, and I unclench my fists. Briefly. I spot the cameras, one pointing right at me. I slouch in my seat.

           Inside, Cindy makes a phone call.

           Who is she talking to? What call is she making she couldn’t make in the car?

           My hand’s on the handle.

           She points at the car and the clerk turns his head.

           I’m out and running. Last time I trust a human being. There’s surely a reward for my capture and she’s broke. I get into the woods. Should have taken one of her shirts, so I could change. Too late.

           I walk until I can’t feel my limbs, dirty, shivering, stomach growling, eyes closing by themselves. Could I survive in the woods? I’ve always wanted to learn survivalist skills, but never did.

           I get back on the road and stumble on a motel. Should I risk it? I have to get inside. Wash the filth. I’m not made for the outdoors. Not made for trouble.

           I take a room. Fake name. They don’t ask questions. Or IDs. Good.

           In the parking lot, there’s a guy who just checked in too.

           “Excuse me,” I say. “Do you mind switching rooms so I can be next to my brother? I’ll tell the front desk we switched.”

           He agrees and we exchange keys. An old man in a plastic chair stares at me as I walk to my room. The power line hums above. Cigarette butts cower against the curb. The red paint is peeling on the door. I turn the handle with my hand under my shirt and enter.

           I’m welcomed by a stained green carpet, sheets I wouldn’t dare touch with a flamethrower, and…

           An Alexa, the eyes and ears of the government, has replaced the customary bible. I throw it outside, shut the door, and…

           You gotta be kidding me. The lock’s broken. What can I do? Ask to change room, while I’m not in the one I’ve registered?

           I wash my hands in the rusty sink, dry them with toilet paper because the towel can’t be trusted, flush it all and jump from the roar of the toilet.

           Two options for the shower—boiling or freezing. I scrub until I bleed. Erase all traces.

            Sleep wants nothing to do with me. At every noise that pricks my ears, I picture the man coming. I check around the room, under the bed, and repeat. I’m alone. Completely alone.

           I open the door. The parking’s wrapped in fog. Big auras around the street lamps glow like cats’ eyes.

           I bring Alexa in. Just for five minutes.

           “Alexa, play soothing music.”

           Curled up on the floor, I allow my eyelids to close.

           I wake up to someone bursting through the door.     

           I rush toward the bathroom. An electric shock runs through me. Lights out.

***

           When I come back, I’m sitting at a table and a man across from me is slapping my cheek.

           “There you are,” he says. “I’m detective Solace and, congratulations, you’re under arrest for the murder of Charles Cromwell.”

           “Who?”

           “The guy you murdered.”

           He shows me a picture of the man who’s been chasing me, dead.

           “I had nothing to do with this,” I say. “My camera recorded everything.”

           “We know. That’s why you’re under arrest. You shot him, threw the gun in the sewer, dumped the body by the river, and abandoned your car.”

           I stare, mouth agape.

           “No. I saw the tape. He shot someone else.”

           “You saw this, you think that. The mind is the most unreliable machine. Your perception is to truth what ketchup chips are to nutrition. Sorry if we choose to go with evidence rather than take your word for it.”

           “It’s a setup. Someone must have tricked the footage. And take my gun.”

           The detective leans forward.

           “Listen, this is just procedural. We got enough evidence to convict you ten times. You’re too far gone to be convinced, but let me tell you this.” He taps the picture. “Whether this is the truth or we made it up, that’s the truth you’ll have to live with now.”

           He leaves the room. I reach in my pocket and pull out my quartz. It’s covered with dirt, almost brown.

           I won’t break. Won’t let them win. Still, those crooks are good at making me doubt my own senses. Now I’m sitting here, staring in the eye of the camera in the corner, wondering what it knows about me that I don’t know about myself.