The Blind Spot

By Jim Myhill

“Damn — another fine and demerit point,” Brad muttered, sprinting across the pedestrian crossing under the red glare. Cars honked, he waved an apology. A fine for crossing against the red light was going to be less than the fine for being late to work, but both were painful. A further hit on his running debt tab. 

Drones buzzed overhead as drizzle fell from the grey sky, matching Brad’s Monday morning mood. Billboards pulsed the city’s fine totals in real time, like a stock ticker. 

He expected a vibration in his pocket, but nothing came. He grabbed his phone to check. No alert from the Safety Guardian, the app mandated for all citizens. Not even a caution notification.

His brows crinkled in puzzlement. This had never happened before. His entire 23-year life had been spent under the watchful eye of the cameras and sensors. They saw everything. They knew everything. Maybe this is what freedom feels like.

“Whew! Must be my lucky day,” he chuckled despite a growing gnaw in his stomach.

The line at the café for lunch was long. The loud babble of voices and ever-present hum of air conditioning got on his nerves. He willed the customers in front to hurry. The man in front fumbled his wallet and Brad could feel his skin prickling. By the time he got back to work, he had exceeded his lunch break allowance by three minutes.

He sighed. “Not such a lucky day after all. This will be a fine and a demerit for sure, I’m not even sure how many points I have left…”

He opened the Safety Guardian app to read the bad news. Nothing. No fine, no demerit point alert, no caution. 

He padded down the office corridor, footfalls almost silent on the deep carpet. But he sensed something strange. The security cameras weren’t following him. His jaw set as he checked again. He called out to his work colleague, Darren, working in the next cubicle.

“Hey, what’s wrong with the cameras? They aren’t following me. They must be broken.”

Darren hopped up from his desk. “No way — they are never broken.” He walked down the corridor, watching as the cameras swung on their gimbals, focusing on him as he walked. “See?” he said.

What the hell? Am I invisible to the cameras? 

Keeping a close eye, he shuffled to the kitchen and stayed there for longer than the allowed two minutes. He drank soft drinks from the fridge without paying. The cameras remained motionless, and his app stayed silent.

For the first time, Brad felt free. But he couldn’t relax. His nerves jangled as he sat, alone. 

  He raided the fridge again, this time for a couple of beers — normally prohibited during work hours. He began to feel lightheaded, unsure if it was because of the alcohol, or the silence that he had never known. 

Rather than join the dreary throng in catching the train home, he walked up to a shiny BMW parked outside, hopped in and started it. The key fob was inside, sitting proudly in the center console. Since the Safety Guardian app became mandatory, no-one locked their cars anymore.

His foot pinned on the gas pedal, he drove way beyond the speed limit and ran several red lights as he drove towards home. His phone gave no alerts at all.

“I’m invisible!” he laughed. “No, invincible!” he shouted out the open window.

Close to home, he saw a local dive bar — and swung into the car park near a small, single-storey building covered with beer posters and dirty neon signs that had seen better days. The heavy wooden door squeaked as he walked in, and his nostrils protested the smell of dank carpet, soaked with memories of spilled beer and sweat.

A few beers in, he noticed a pale, dishevelled old man beside him. The man had long, greasy hair and wore a trucker hat.

“Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you why you’re not being watched,” whispered the old man, his eyes remaining fixed on his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. 

Brad smiled and raised two fingers to the barman, ordering two beers.

The old man remained silent until the beers appeared before them and the barman had walked away.

The man took a sip and placed the glass gently back on the bar before he spoke. “I’ve been watching you, and the cameras. You think you’re invisible don’t you, you think you’re free? You're in the Blind Spot now. No data, no footprint. It’s not what you think. It’s not freedom. It’s the waiting room.”

Brad laughed and took another swig of beer. “Waiting room? What are you talking about? I bet it’s just a glitch, so I’m enjoying it while it lasts.”

He waved the man away and finished his beer, before returning to the BMW to drive home.

He pressed the start button. The car didn’t start.

Brad tried the starter again, but the car still didn’t respond.

Looking up, he saw snow starting to fall, collecting in small swirls around the nearby light pole. He shivered and his gaze lifted, focusing on the camera on top of the pole. He jumped when he saw it turn towards him.

Heart racing, he leapt from the car and slipped, hitting his head on the doorsill.

He winced as bright lights flashed across his vision. Blinking, he stood on rubber legs and stumbled back towards the bar. The bar windows were glowing, warm and inviting, like a lighthouse beckoning him home.

He looked back at the camera. It had followed him. Freedom, it seemed, had been fleeting. 

The world is watching again. I must find the old man…to find out what he meant…

As his hand reached for the door, he heard a loud click between his ears. A voice, synthetic, clear and authoritative, rang in his own skull.

“Citizen 56709-5b, demerit points exceeded. Termination process commencing.”

About the Author

Jim Myhill is Australian writer who enjoys writing speculative fiction, exploring technology, ideas, and human connections.