Spyder (standard:horror, 901 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Mar 18 2009	Views/Reads: 3211/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Everybody wants this invention, and those who know about it will stop at nothing to get it. What is it, and why is it so dangerous?

I have become suspicious of everyone. It is not something I particularly
wanted, but it has become this way. I'm an inventor, you see, and I 
have invented a machine that everybody wants, especially corrupt, 
paranoid governments and dictators. They all know about it, and all 
want what I've got. Even normal people want it, from teenagers to the 
elderly. It can make me rich if I knew how to market it properly. If I 
knew what I was doing, but I don't, and these governments are going to 
steal it. I have locked myself in my detached house on the outskirts of 
Chester, and through many vigils at my upstairs bedroom window, where I 
am now, I have seen sleek black, tinted windowed cars drive slowly 
past. I think they're recceing the place for their assault here to 
steal it. Who they are I have no idea. Russians, Argentinians, or my 
own British. None of them would surprise me. They all want it for 
themselves, to perpetuate the paranoia they all have of other 
countries, and their population. The mistrust governments have of each 
other will be heightened by this, and will further enhance the 
portrayal of a media driven world which purports to convey their 
‘facts' such as we're all going to be burned to a cinder by global 
warming in a matter of hours. Those terrorists have planted bombs 
everywhere, and you're going to be mugged and assaulted as soon as you 
step out of your front door. The newspapers are full of gloom, full of 
misery, and it beats me why people pay money to read them. My paranoia, 
however, is real and justified. You see, my machine wasn't just 
invented by me. My friend helped me, but now he's gone. He went 
straight to the top to tell them of the invention. He thinks he can get 
rich from it, and he may well do, but my reservations are that he's 
dead, as I will be soon, and the invention sneaked away to be used 
covertly by a satellite. 

There you go, see, I knew it. Through my net curtains I see two tinted
windowed cars pull up. Obviously they've driven past once too often and 
now it's time for them to stop. Oh no!, look at this. Three police vans 
have also pulled up. There's no need for the riot squad, unless it's a 
cover-up, which I can see it as being. They all look the same as they 
vacate the vehicles, togged up like robots with their helmets, batons, 
and boots. I think it's to show the rest of the neighbourhood, and any 
passers-by who try and sneakily film it on their mobile phones that 
it's a drugs bust. It happens all the time all over the country, but 
each of these will have been paid off, paid for their silence. It 
doesn't surprise me at all. In fact, it's pretty much exactly what I 
expected. Ironic really that governments are so fearful of being 
overthrown, or invaded, that society and I, well I suppose I'm a member 
of it, are all paranoid together in some version of it. 

There's one of them with a battering ram, and they're approaching my
front gate. Oh well, that's it then. I turn and walk across to the 
machine, which we named ‘Spyder', and is basically a chair, a helmet 
fitted with probes, and a computer monitor. That's it. A person sits 
down, puts on the helmet, and their thoughts come onto the screen. It's 
a mind-reading machine. It can easily be made into a satellite, so our 
minds can be read, and seen without us even knowing it. The last 
bastion of privacy a person has is now going to be blown wide open and 
exposed, and exposed worldwide, and it's the British police that I can 
now hear battering my front door down. I bought several door locks and 
chains so that will mean it will take slightly longer for them to get 
up here. There's nothing else in this room. It's where it was built.  I 
sit on the chair, and pick up a small digital camera from the small 
table upon which rests the monitor. I hear the door crash open. Heavy 
footsteps rumble around down there, and start up the stairs. See, I'm 
quite ofay with machines, electronics, and technology basically, so I 
converted the camera into a remote device that means when I press the 
button, it will detonate all the explosives I have set up around the 
house. The bedroom door is kicked open, but I cannot see them coming in 
because I am sat facing the window, and the door is south-easterly 
behind me, but it doesn't matter. I suddenly realise that my friend has 
the notes, has all the information on how to make the machine, but 
they're going to want a fully working one, and to stop their ‘enemies' 
from getting it. Well, no-one will get this. I cannot live in a world 
where my thoughts are read, where news and press shove misery down your 
throat every day. I often wonder why, why are we bombarded with it? or 
maybe it's not as bad as it seems. Maybe it's just me. I know I'm 
paranoid, but not anymore. I push the button, and all seventeen bombs 
throughout the house explode at once. Then I feel nothing. 


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