The phone rings. Do I dare answer it? Old sweat sticks to my skin as I remain still, as if pretending I’m not home will make the caller go away. The fan clatters every time one of the blades unseats from its fastening bolt.
Clippings of Time and Newsweek lay strewn over the second-hand coffee table, between the sofa cushions, sticking out of DVD cases. As they flutter in the breeze, the scent of my old friend nicotine drifts to my nostrils.

The ringing stops. I take a deep breath. The fan clatters.

The phone rings again. If I don’t answer now, they’ll come when I’m asleep. That’s how it works. They always come when you’re asleep.

Clenching my teeth, I walk to the counter and place one hand on the phone. The caller ID shows “Unknown Caller”. What good is caller ID if everyone blocks his number?
The ringing stops as I raise the phone to my ear. I can barely hear the man’s voice over my pounding heartbeat.

“Mr. Angstrom?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Angstrom. It’s Dr. Rosa.”

My jaw unclenches. “Oh, Dr. Rosa. Oh, thank God it’s you.”

“I’ve been concerned about you since you left my office the other day,” he says. “You missed your appointment today.”

“I know, Doctor. I couldn’t, I just – I couldn’t.”

“Did you take your pills?”

I glance at the unopened pill bottle on the coffee table. “Yes.”

“That medicine is very important for helping you deal with the complications from your accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident.”

“Yes, it was. There were witnesses. If they hadn’t called 911, you’d never have made it to surgery in time to save your life.”

“They were planted.” My left eye spasms, as it does whenever I get tense, ever since the accident. “They wanted to get me under the knife. Why won’t you believe me?”

He sighs. “Mr. Angstrom, I know you believe what you think is real, but I assure you, no one is –”

“I’m not crazy!” I shout. The arteries at my temples begin to throb.

“Mr. Angstrom, please calm down. I’m only trying to help you.”

“Then why won’t you listen? I had the proof in my hand and you ignored me. You say you’re trying to help but now it’s too late and –” The pounding in my head increases. He’s choosing his words too carefully. “You work for them, don’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve been toying with me, keeping me here. For what? So you can watch me? Collect data?”

For a moment he hesitates. “I think you should come back to my office. Clearly, you’re having another –”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Lock me up and do your experiments on me?” The walls are closing around me. “Better yet, convince me to take those pills so they can come get me in my sleep, right? That’s what they do. They come when you’re asleep.”

“Mr. Angstrom. Chris. I’m going to call an ambulance to get you. Please don’t do anything rash before they arrive.”

“Rash? If I was going to do something rash, I’d go to a dermatologist.” From the bedroom comes a short burst of high-pitched laughter, mocking me. My hand tightens around the phone. “Damn you. They’re here. I don’t know how you figured out the address I gave you was fake, but they’re not taking me.” I raise my voice. “I’ve got a gun!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He sounds worried. “Dammit, Chris. I’ve been your doctor for two years. I understand what you’re going through but you’ve got to trust me. You need help.”

“That’s right, I do need help. But if you’re not going to give it to me then leave me the hell alone. Goodbye.” I slam the phone down. Placing my hand against the fridge, I take slow breaths. With each breath my headache dulls.

Scuffling noises from the bedroom. A jolt surges through my body and every muscle fiber tenses. I check the front door – deadbolts thrown and chains latched. Scan to the windows – sealed shut, glass intact, bars in place. It was tricky, getting all that done in only three days, since it meant I had to venture outside to buy the materials and install everything myself. I couldn’t trust someone else to do it. But someone got in anyway.

Pressing myself against the doorframe, I peer into the bedroom. The window’s intact and sealed. The closet’s nailed shut. That leaves the bed.

Inch by inch, I slide the top drawer of the bureau out. Pushing aside the unwashed underwear, I find the gun. I lift it out of the drawer and aim it with both hands at the bed.

“You might as well give up,” I say in a loud voice. “I dialed 911 and they’ll be here any minute.” A lie. I know who will come if I dial 911, and it won’t be the police. “And I’ve got a gun aimed at your head. I’m not joking.”

The only response is my pounding heart. I couldn’t have imagined the laughter, could I?

A few seconds more. Do I hear someone breathing? No, it’s just me. Faint wheezes amplifying each time I exhale.
Crouching down, I lower my head so that it’s close to the floor. I peer into the darkness.

A gray blur about the size of my fist leaps at me, causing me to recoil in surprise and fall flat on my back. The gun slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor. My assailant streaks past my field of vision and disappears into a hole in the wall.

I can do nothing but lie still for several moments. A steel cable is lashed around my chest and it feels like I’m trying to force air through a straw no wider than a pin. Reaching into my pocket, I find my inhaler. Two puffs and it’s easier to breathe. My pulse still races. When I pull myself into a sitting position, a drum corps marches through my head. I reach into another pocket and find my other treatment – a pack of Camels. Dr. Rosa said smoking would make my asthma worse and could lead to lung cancer. He told me a lot of things. If I live long enough to get lung cancer, I’ll consider it a win.

My hand trembles so much that it takes three attempts to place the cigarette between my lips. I find the matchbook and flip it open. Only one match left. The first time I strike it, nothing happens. The second time, my hand shakes like I’m in the middle of an earthquake. As the match strikes the book, it splits in half.

I stare at the broken match. My heart hammers in my chest. I try to remember if there’s another matchbook in the kitchen. No, I think I used it last week. The drums have gotten louder.

The gun lies only a few feet away.

My fingertips feel numb. A bead of sweat rolls down my cheek. Plucking the cigarette from my mouth, I stare at it, twisting and turning it. I can almost see the nicotine crawling between the tobacco grains, reaching out to me.

Shaking off the image, I jam the cigarette back into my mouth. My gaze falls on the gun again. For a long moment I stare at it, cannons firing in my head. With a shaky hand I reach out and snatch the gun from the floor. Running my hand over its surface, I can almost feel the heat from the barrel even though it’s never been used.
Twisting the gun around so I stare down the barrel, I chomp down on the cigarette. My hand wraps around the trigger. Snapping my eyes shut, I tell myself there’s no other option. I need that cigarette.

I squeeze the trigger.

Click.

The flame from the barrel ignites the cigarette tip with an amber glow, a glow that rushes through my body as I drag on the filter. My pulse slows to a gallop, the pounding in my head subsides and my hands stop shaking. Extinguishing the lighter, I toss it back on the floor. For a few moments I savor my release.

All too soon, the tobacco is gone. Snuffing the butt between my fingertips, I climb to my feet and stagger back into the living room, pulling the bedroom door shut and locking it behind me. I can’t remember the last time I slept – three days? four? – but today I can’t afford to fall asleep. I know what will happen if I do.

***

The day after I returned from the hospital, I’d received a phone call. Another “Unknown Caller.” I should’ve ignored it, but I thought it might be Dr. Rosa checking in.

“You can’t hide from us, Mr. Angstrom,” the voice said.

“What?” I said. The voice didn’t sound familiar.

“There’s nowhere you can go now. You can’t resist.” The caller spoke to someone in the background. “I can’t talk now. You’ve got five days.” The caller hung up.

I thought it was a prank. But then wherever I went, every face was watching me. Every camera in every bank or store was directed at me. People were talking about me behind my back, whispering about me.

I extended my sick leave and stayed home, only venturing out to buy supplies, wearing disguises and dark glasses whenever possible. Then the headaches started.

Although he didn’t feel my symptoms were that serious, Dr. Rosa ordered an MRI. He showed me the results and reassured me they were normal.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“What?”

“There.” I pointed to a smudge.

He squinted at it before shrugging. “Probably just motion artifact.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means you moved your head and it created a blur. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? That’s the exact spot where I get headaches. I didn’t have headaches before the accident or the surgery.”

Dr. Rosa pulled the MRI sheets off the wall and placed them on his desk. He used the same tone of voice he might when comforting a four-year old. “Maybe it’s a residual clot. But it’s so tiny I doubt it’d cause you any harm.”

The words from the phone call replayed in my head. You can’t hide from us. “Doc,” I said in a low voice. “Did they – did they put something in me?”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“A chip. Is there a chip in my head?”

He stared at me without speaking. After a moment he pulled out a book and started flipping through pages. When he found the one he wanted, he looked up and said, “Mr. Angstrom, who would want to put something in your head?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the government.”

“Did you work for the government?”

“No, but I think they chose me for some –”

“Have you been hearing voices or sounds but no one’s there?”

As a matter of fact, I’d been hearing a humming noise, every now and then, when I was alone in my apartment. “Yes.”

Dr. Rosa closed the book. “Mr. Angstrom, I’m afraid you’re experiencing what’s known as a schizophrenia-like psychosis. It happens sometimes after traumatic brain injuries, causing a feeling of paranoia. I know it can be quite frightening but it can be treated with atypical antipsychotic medications.”

“Schizo – Are you saying I’m crazy?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying –”

“Doc, you gotta help me.” I grabbed his jacket by the lapels and pressed my face into his. “They’re coming for me. You gotta get this thing out of my head.”

Prying my fingers from his lapel, he said, “It’s going to be okay.” He turned to his computer, rattled the keys, grabbed a paper from his printer, scribbled a signature, and handed the paper to me. “Just give this a try and I promise you’ll feel better soon.”

Although I wasn’t happy about it, I stopped at the local pharmacy to fill the prescription. While waiting at the checkout, I scanned the papers. One headline screamed at me: “Government Conspiracy: What They Don’t Want You To Know!”

When I got home, I read the article. It described a top secret CIA experiment involving advanced GPS implants that allowed remote monitoring of a subject’s thoughts and actions. Some of the chips were faulty, causing erratic behavior and hallucinations. A malfunctioning chip created a feedback hum, alerting the subject to its presence. Rather than risk exposing the study, the government was hunting down subjects and eliminating them during the night.

I stopped sleeping after that.

***

The unopened bottle of Risperidal glares at me. The warning label says it causes drowsiness. So it remains unopened.

The magazine clippings reflect every article I could find about thought control, the CIA, and paranoid schizophrenia. They all say the same things. Thought control is impossible. There is no government conspiracy. The number of people suffering from paranoid schizophrenia seems to be increasing, the consequence of bad genetics and poor mental health screening. But I have the newspaper article that says otherwise. And I have something else.

I sit down and flip open the briefcase. Inside is a flimsy sheet of plastic. I remove it from the case and lay it flat on a piece of paper. The white background provides enough contrast for me to recognize the major brain structures. Since slipping the MRI under my jacket while Dr. Rosa was entering my prescription, I’ve had two days to study the film and compare it against diagrams I found on the internet. I now know the smudge is located in what’s called the left medial temporal lobe.

I’ve got a butcher knife. I don’t have any surgical skill and my hands tremble despite my nicotine fix. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to do this myself, but I don’t have any choice in the matter. I can hear the humming sound inside my head. I can feel eyes watching me from far away. If I don’t get this thing out of my head right now, they’ll come during the night.

Lifting the knife, I touch the tip against my skull, visualizing my target. Closing my eyes, I draw back the blade. I need all my strength to do this, both of hand and of will. My fingers tighten around the knife handle.

This is it. On three. One. Two.

Wait. Can I do this? Is this necessary?

The newspaper catches my eye. The headline shouts out at me. Government Conspiracy.

Yes, I tell myself. I have to do this. Closing my eyes again, I count. One. Two.

The phone rings, causing me to drop the knife in surprise. On the way down, the blade scratches my leg, slicing through my pants and skin. “Dammit,” I cry out, feeling the sharp pain in my thigh. I look down at the knife, then over at the phone.

Suddenly I realize how foolish I am. There’s no way I could withstand the pain of driving a knife into my skull. I’d bleed out before anyone could help me. And they knew. That’s why they’re calling now. They knew what I was about to do and they’re telling me it’s too late. No matter what I do now, they’re coming for me.
When I stand up, the pain shoots through my leg. Every step to the kitchen counter is like walking on hot coals. The caller ID says, “Unknown Caller.” Taking a deep breath, I pick up the phone.

“It’s time, Mr. Angstrom.” It’s the voice.

“I know. I know when I’m beaten. I’m ready.”

“So you’ll accept our offer, then?”

“Offer? What offer?”

“To join our firm. We know our competitors can’t match our retirement plan. The number you gave us was wrong and it took us a while to track you down. But now we’ve got you, so you may as well say yes.”

The floor seems to have given way beneath my feet and I can’t keep my balance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What retirement plan? Who are you?”

There’s a moment of silence. “Isn’t this Christopher Angstrom?”

“No, this is Christian Angstrom.”

“Oh. Dammit. Hold on.” I hear yelling in the background. “Sorry, dude.” He hangs up.

For a long time I can do nothing but stare at the phone. Then I let it drop to the counter top and stagger back to the couch. As I sink down onto the cushions, my head fells like it’s been held underwater and is now allowed to break through to the surface. I lift the paper, glance at the headline, and flip the page to scan the other bylines.

“Ten Year Old Delivers Alien Baby.”

“Is The President Really A Vampire?”

“Fetal Dog Predicts Date of WWIII.”

The paper falls to the floor. My body starts to shake, but it’s not from nicotine. I can feel a rumbling start from deep inside, working its way up and out. I hear laughter, but this time it’s my own. I fall against the cushions, allowing the laughter to work its way out, feeling the tension drift for the first time in five days. As I convulse with mirth, my foot crashes against the table, knocking the MRI, the magazine clippings, everything to the floor.

The bottle of Risperidal bounces on the carpet and rolls against my foot. While I stare at it, I realize Dr. Rosa was right. He was right all along.

I pop two pills in my mouth and swallow them dry. I feel nothing at first. A few minutes later the humming stops. My head feels heavy, warm, like a blanket has been wrapped around it. As my eyes drift close, I smile. Everything’s going to be okay.

***

They came for me while I slept.

THE END

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