The Nuts & Bolts of Conspiracy Fiction

NOTE: Some of you have asked me about the steps I took to develop my novel. In general terms, the following essay will outline what I've learned about the genre and how it works.

Conspiracy Theory is a modern form of Speculative Fiction. It can trace its lineage back to the post World War Two Science Fiction, which was more politically conscious than its pre- war predecessors. In the 1950's, Science Fiction and Cold War spy fiction took parallel paths in development. At some point, they rubbed off on each other. The political awareness and technical savvy they shared allowed these two genres to feed off each other for the next three decades. In many respects, that symbiotic relationship still exists.

In the 1970's, Cold War Fiction came in to its own. Espionage and government-sponsored intrigues became accepted parts of spy fiction. Within that genre, skilled writers played on the reader's nationalist sympathies and fear of unsympathetic ideologies. For the first time, we see well-defined trends that result in well-defined writing formulas which routinely pit the story's heroes and heroines against their own governments.

By the early 1990's, these scenarios and character types became an accepted part of Espionage Fiction. The element of governmental mistrust had become so common that it was often ridiculed by those who did not appreciate the genre. Real-world events such as the stand-offs at Ruby Ridge and Waco only served to increase the popularity of conspiracy-based fiction. By January of 2000, the modern Conspiracy Theory form of Speculative Fiction was well established and thriving.

I published my first novel, "Politics & Patriotism: The Fisk Conspiracy," on September 14 of 2004. This book is just one example of modern Conspiracy Theory that will make its mark on the 21st Century. I put everything I learned about the genre in to practice as I wrote this book. Since publishing, I've been asked many times how I did it. I personally think that knowledge is useless if it isn't shared. With that in mind, I'd like to share with you how I wrote my first novel in this challenging genre.


I hold a Bachelor's degree in Political Science. I also hold a degree in History. Before you can write about a conspiracy, you have to understand it, and its place in world events. Even if you're just making it up, you still need to understand how your imaginary intrigue fits in to the world around you. Educating yourself about history and politics can go a long way towards making your dream a reality. Don't get bogged down in the small details of the period you're trying to understand. If your story takes place in the present day or near future (as mine does), you should concentrate on the essentials. Who, what, how, where, and when.

If your story takes place in the past, be aware that your audience is Here and Now. Don't drown them with period details that only mean something to you. Moderate your use of period dialogue. Don't give too much ink to the descriptions of cars and clothing if they aren't vital to the story. The same goes for firearms and military vehicles. You're not writing a history book that will be referenced for its value to anthropology. You're writing a story that you made up. Your chief duty is to make the reader 'feel' like they're in the period you're talking about.

All conspiracies, no matter how diabolical, involve people. Bureaucrats are people, too. I know this from experience, 'cause I used to be one. Before you start writing, you should take some time to sketch out your major characters. When writing for the first time, you're never going to know exactly when minor characters will be needed, so don't concern yourself with them until you've gotten past this stage in your story development. In school, I hated outlines with a passion. Now, I won't start work without one. An outline can exist in your head, or on paper.
Think about the characters before you write them. Who they are and what they are capable of matters. If you try to make this up as you go along, you'll get in trouble.

As you create them, you're going to find that some characters take on a life of their own. They may not be capable of the deeds you need them to perform. In other cases, they may turn out to be so despicable that you can't stand to write them. I had this problem half way through my novel. A few of my characters were so morally and ethically bankrupt that I just couldn't go on. I stopped writing for three weeks. It hurt me to think I'd created people who were that "bad," even though I knew they'd get their just punishments in the end. Knowing what your conspiracy is, when it takes place, and who its players are, is only half the battle.

The thing to remember about all conspiracies is this:. They have a point. Somebody started them for a reason. Even those conspiracies launched by fictional bureaucrats in fictitious governments have a goal in mind. The people sworn to stop your carefully written conspiracy may not know the reason for the covert connection when the story begins, but they should figure it out in time to do 'something' before the story ends. I began my novel with the "good guys" knowing what the conspiracy was, and what they had to do about it. This shortcut saved me a lot of pages and let me devote more ink to other things.

As you write, you may get lost in your own deceptions and misdirection. If your characters and agendas are well defined and understood in their proper context, you may find the story writes itself. Why? Because you understand your characters and what they will do before they do it. As they move to investigate, coerce, cover up, or kill, you're inside their minds and still able to make the story go where you want it to. This means you reach the end, and it turns out the way you planned it. I reached the intended end of my story after three years of writing. I did get the ending I wanted, but only after much thought and re-consideration. As well as I knew my characters and my plot, the actual journey was more intense than anything I'd planned for.

This brings me to my last point and piece of advice. Conspiracy Theory scares the reader and makes them think. Opinions may vary, but the fact remains that your portrait of What Could Be will provoke a response. As you write, you'll be taking the same journey as your readers. Yours will be scarier and more intense than theirs, because you'll know more than they do from the start of the first word on the first page. If you find yourself scratching your head when its all over and done, wondering "what just happened," don't be afraid to re-write some or all of what you've done. If you don't know what your point is/was, neither will your readers. I re-wrote the first 10 chapters of my book 15 times before it 'felt' right. I re-wrote the ending of my novel 4 times before I felt like I'd made my very scary point.

Conspiracy Theory, as a genre, is about manipulation. Politics. Deceiving others to get what you want. The hidden agenda is perhaps the darkest and most unclean of human politics. It=s just as complicated as the people who push for it, or against it. Telling your story can seem harder than actually hatching the conspiracy you're trying to write about. As the author, it=s your job to confront these things before anyone sees your work. Unless, of course, there's a conspiracy to keep you from writing the book in the first place.

POST SCRIPT: Some times, you can make your point with a technical paper. In other cases, you need to use Fiction to paint the picture. No matter how you do it, you will be challenged. Some times, its not in your best interest to be "real."

It’s been suggested to me that I write some more on this topic. The mechanics of conspiracy fiction aren’t that much different than any other type of made-up story, except that the genre tends to dabble in real world situations more often than it turns on fanciful environments.

A survey of this literature type shows that it can be very character driven. Exploring the specific motivations of specific people can allow you to achieve a degree of ‘depth’ that you might not otherwise attain if you wrote your story in more conventional formats. Character-driven stories can be created from more than one point of view. You don’t always have to write using the standard third-person model.

Let’s have a look at a typical third person piece. This is the most common type of modern fiction, and its the easiest to learn. New writers will find that they don't lose control of their stories quite so easily. I wrote "The Purchase" just for this post.

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The Purchase

by Justin Oldham

Reggie was a fast mover. He walked in to the bar like he owned it, and sat at a pre-arranged table near the door. His client arrived moments later.

“Does this have to be so public?” The bald man asked through a whine.

The gun runner sized him up, again. A pale unimportant office jockey with no hair, no taste, and evidently no brains.

He checked his watch and scanned the room. The client kepts his eyes on the broker. It ws bad enough that they were meeting out in the open. The teenager next to him looked and sounded too much like the punks who ran loose in his neighborhood.

Reggie decided to go first. “Tell me the bad news.”

The client licked his drying lips. “I can’t meet your price. I thought I could, but I can’t. My wife would have my head on a plate if she found out what I was doing.”

“Nice meeting you.” Reg mumbled as he got up to leave.
The nervous man scrambled to pull and envelope from his pants pocket. “Come on. I’ve got a thousand dollars here. That’s got to buy something!”

The dealer sat and tore open the envelope to count the cash. “I’m gonna put the word out on you. After tonight, you won’t be able to buy a lolly pop in this town.”

The pale man leaned in. “Will you cut me some slack? I’m not asking for credit, or charity. I know that things are expensive these days, but come on. You’ve got to be able set me up with something. Anything.”

Reggie continued to watch his prey for any hint of a lie. This one had been too eager. To ready to accept the first price he’d quoted. He was desperate, or stupid. Or both.

He finished counting the money and then made it disappear. “I’ll do this for you, just this once. Don’t ever come to me again. If I see you on the street, I’m gonna turn around and go the other way. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, sure.” The client agreed.

The runner got to his feet. “Bend over, and put one hand under your chair AFTER I leave. Don’t open the package until you get home. Clear?”

“Yes.” The nervous man confirmed.

When the punk was gone, he slipped one hand under his chair. A small cardboard box wrapped in plain brown paper felt heavy, and reassuring. It was held in place with duct tape. He retrieved the small box and left the bar.

Sweat rolled down his back as he shuffled toward the parking lot, and his car. The drive in to the suburbs allowed him to catch his breath and calm down. He stopped at a self-serve gas station for gas, knowing that he would be photographed by any number of security cams. Making sure to get a hard copy receipt, he went right to his home.

He arrived to find his wife already in bed, and fast asleep. Moving carefully, he went in to his den, and sat in the old wooden chair that matched his antique desk. He turned on a small reading lamp. Tearing off the wrapping, he opened the box. Inside, he found a .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver and eighteen rounds of ammunition.

He smiled. He’d bargained for a loaded handgun. The extra bullets made him feel good. The days and weeks of fear spent gathering and hiding the money faded in to acceptable memory as he felt the cool brass cartridges in the palm of his hand.

“Can’t believe I did this.” He whispered.

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When writers strive to convey tension or mystery, they can keep the reader off balance by using any number of tools. This short piece that you see here mught just be a start to somebody's very scary adventure. Perspectives change fast, and it all turns on names and narration.

Reggie begins the tale as the primary character, but he leaves the scene fst once he's been paid. You've been told what he is right up front, through the use of narration. The client, on the other hand, is less specific and your first clues about him are derived from Reggie's point of view.

There is clearly a lot that we still don't know, but this opener does tell us enough to make some gueses. Conspiracy fiction is known for its use of mis-direction, so we should take what we see here with a grain of salt. The reader's own point of view will determine whether which of these two characters they most identify with.

Narration from a given character's point of view can serve two purposes. It can provide the reader with back story and motive, while at the same time allowing the writer to place clues that will be important later on. This technique may also be used to mis-direct. Just be aware of the fact that this form of deception will eventually irritate the reader if they feel its being abused.

First person stories can allow you to focus your energies on the thoughts and experiences of just one person. The "I" perspective allows the writer to in effect 'be' the person they are writing about. the only down side to this format is that you can lose control of your characters when you get carried away. Likewise, when YOU are confused, your characters tend to be just as bewildered.

I'd like to show you a first person piece that I did for an ATS short story contest some time ago. First person stories can be written as a monologue, or even just half of a conversation. In this case, what you'll see is a simulated transcript. "Sometimes we eat our own" is a narrative monologue in which one man is telling his story to a group of people that we don't see, and we don't hear from directly.

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Sometimes We Eat Our Own

by Justin Oldham

The following is transcribed from an audio recording taken from a classified microscopic eavesdropping device. Metafiles have been attached as necessary to provide the committee members with instant briefing.

I’d like to thank the committee for this opportunity to address what you all must regard as a terrible breach in our security. Before I go any further, I must remind everyone in this room that [redacted] and the rules that govern classified information handling are still in effect. All recordings systems must be stopped or paused at this time.

The 'incident' that brought us all here took place after my team successfully re-introduced the edited JFK film tootage. I'd also like to remind the committee that, under my supervision, we successfully released an original copy of the Declaration of Independence without any complications. I'm not making any excuses for what happened, I'm just telling you that we've done good work in the past and we'll do more if you can get past this anger of the moment.

This isn't the first time that one of our operations has been compromised by agencies or individuals unknown to us. We've all made mistakes. I wasn't told about the new RFID action plan. Under different circumstances, I'd say that I was sabotaged. Now that I've been briefed, I'm enclined to think that we may have been infiltrated. Hold on. Give me a moment. I’m prepared to explain.

As per
directive 43 the special branch activated my team just five days ago. We were tasked with running down a routine COINTELPRO hoax that had some degree of truth to it. It was a light-weight mission, and I was looking forward to giving my people something easy to do for a change. I’m sure all of you can remember what it was like to be in the field.

The specialists traveling with me were taken under surveillance as our plane landed in [redacted]. The committee would be wrong to assume that we'd let our guard down because this was supposed to be a milk run. The rest of my team converged on the designated rally point by different routes and means of transportation. As we assembled, we all thought we were being watched. As you know, our teams routinely work under the noses of the CIA, NSA, and Homeland Security. It's not unusual to be tailed by somebody from National Intelligence, or even some of the more ambitious conspiracy theorists who sometimes write about us on various web sites.

As per published procedure, we attempted to evade our observers. Within six minutes of movement, we lost our flankers to plain-clothes intercept. There was a problem with communications, so we didn't get their last transmissions. If we had, things might have turned out differently. As it was, we had to assume that we'd been made. On my orders, the team scattered to begin the normal escape-and-evade process.

It's clear to me now that the operators who crossed our paths had a lot of experience dealing with class-five infiltrators. Our use of advanced tactics didn’t slow them down. They were just as unmarked as we were. They were just as careful. In spite of the problems we were having, I chose to complete my mission. I don't think there's anyone in this room who would've backed off. Hiding is one thing. Running away is something else. It was ,after all, supposed to be a simple sneak-and-peek.

Two of my analysts got nailed while driving out of town in a rental car by a hinky road block. They had more than enough time to describe it to me before they were taken in to custody by what appeared to be State Troopers. As you know, we haven’t seen them since. The remote location and ambush-convenience of the check point lead me to believe at that time that we were being hunted. As you might expect, I gave the appropriate orders.

I closed on the suspect location with my best people, and we staked it out. Within two hours, the rest of my active roaming personnel had been neutralized by what were at that time forces unknown. Based on some of the random radio chatter, we knew that gunfire was involved. As you'll see from the after-action reports filed by the survivors, there was in fact a sniper-on-sniper incident near [redacted]. My man got two of theirs, for which I'm not at all sorry.

We chose to enter the suspect location after dark, using the local rainy conditions as additional cover. That's when we were engaged. They had three snipers set up to take us in cross-fire. That fact alone told us that we might be dealing with one of our our field groups, or somebody like us. We dropped smoke and flashed counter-signs as per published procedures. There was no lulll in the action.

Yes, we broke with procedure. We had automatic weapons. I'm not going to make any apologies for that. Some times, these little errands you send us on aren’t hoaxes. Sometimes, they’re very real. The opposition outnumbered us, and they were clearly trying to take us alive. I don't have to remind any of you what happened the last time one of us got taken as a hostage. It was our six against their fifteen, and we didn't hold anything back. Their comms were open, like they expected us to say something, but we never heard a peep from them.

The hard drives we found at the target location were easy enough to decrypt and read. Contents were uploaded to the specified devices that you can see listed in my report. I don't know why those archives are now missing, but I’m prepared to turn over backups which we made in the field...assuming that the committee needs to be bargained with.

Time wasn’t on our side. Even if the aggressors didn’t know why we were there ,they had to know that we’d been on site long enough to accomplish our mission. I tripped the silent alarm operated by that business. I had my people turn their guns on the local P.D. when they arrived. There’s nothing quite like putting two dozen rounds in to a cop car to stir the pot. We used the chaos to escape. It’s altogether possible that the aggressors slipped away at the same time.

By the looks on your faces, I can see that some of you are skeptical. You’re asking yourselves, why didn’t he go online or tap regional communications to send a distress call? I didn’t do it because I’m not stupid. The bad guys had our local comms, so why couldn’t they just as easily have access to more? If I had called for help, somebody on this end would’ve wanted a sitrep, and I would’ve given my opponents all the intell they neeed to finish what they started.

Besides, everybody knows that kind of thing is a career ender. Anyone who has to call for the black helicopters to come and save them gets cancelled, and I know it. Everybody who works for me knows it, too. The operators who nailed us probably didn’t plan on such a rough night. If you’re going to judge me, take that in to account. They didn’t take anyone from my team who could compromise this organization.

We put the torch to the business we’d penetrated, with all the usual signs of arson. As you can see from a newspaper search, they’re calling a burglary gone bad. We did get away, but only because they let us get away. I want all of you to understand that. We didn’t have much gear, and we moved fast. Even so, we kept getting sighted by their skirmishers. Please. I’m almost done. Save your questions.

We left [redacted] and stole a car. We headed south, trading vehicles two more times that night. Conservative recon let us get the drop on another very convenient State Trooper checkpoint that just happened to be out in the middle of nowhere. That’s when I made the decision to forage. We back-tracked. Because I thought we were bugged, I had my people lose all their gear. We broke in to several homes along the way to get fresh clothes and other things we might’ve needed.

I’m well aware of the fact that many of you think I’m lying about the data backups from the mission. You think that I can’t lay may my hands on it because I ditched my equipment in the field. I’m sure you’ve wasted your time questioning the other members of my team. I can’t keep you from disposing of them for what you see as failure, but I can discourage you from doing anything rash to me.

We didn’t fail. I don’t know who made your hard drives disappear, but I can tell you that the data on them was recovered under less than ideal conditions. .The people responsible for the COINTELPRO hoax I was sent to verify were guessing. They’re right, but they don’t know it. My suspicion is that the people sent to stop me had some other goal in mind. We lose field teams all the time. Whenever that happens, it means that somebody with a high security rating has something to hide.

I’m just going to come out and say it. Somebody in this room has something to hide, and its not me. I’ve probably gotten too close to some truth that’s “inconvenient.” Who knows? I may have even stumbled on to a plot to do away with this committee. You’ve got my complete report. You know what I did to get away and to get back here. If I was guiltly, you’d be talking to an empty chair. So? What’s it going to be? Are we going to get to the bottom of this? Or, will we eat one of our own?

This transcript is derived from an unauthorized source. Circulation is prohibited. Committee members are directed to disregard its contents. This executive decision requires your immediate attention. Please vote now. Press [1] for yes. Press [2] for no.

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The ATS short story contests are a great way to sharpen your skills and meet writers who are interested in the things that you might like to write aout, too.

In this second example, everything you read comes from the speaker's point of view. His stated opinions and observations can tell you a lot about him. When writing in monologue, its important to understand that what characters actually say is just as important as what they don't say.

[edit on 1-8-2007 by Justin Oldham]

One of the first things you'll notice about conspiracy fiction is that most of the named characters in any story are in conflict. Authors who seek to probe the depths of any would-be conspiracy have to take a close and hard look at the peole who are involved in that plot. They've also got to make an equally detailed examination of the heros and heroines. In this genre, everyone is flawed.

Let me show you what I mean. "The First Rule of Conspiracy" was a piece I did for an ATS short story contest. This short but tense tale of terror is fueled by conflict, and deceit. As you read, watch for the twist. Wait for it, and see if you can't guess what comes before it happens.

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The First Rule Of Conspiracy

by Justin Oldham

Inside the small operations room, Joe Gephard watched his prey through the closed-circuit video camera. Avery Decker’s meeting with the committee wasn’t going well.

The captive agent spoke to the committee as if he were a free man. “I’m just going to come out and say it. Somebody in this room has something to hide, and its not me. I’ve probably gotten too close to some truth that’s inconvenient. Who knows? I may have even stumbled on to a plot to do away with this committee.”

Gephard could see the looks on their faces through more than dozen small liquid crystal displays. The committee was not impressed. They’d already made up their minds.

Jessica Knight slipped in to the room and lowered herself in to the only other chair. She offered him a hot cup. “What do you think?”

Joe sipped at the gourmet coffee without taking his eyes off the screens. “He will run.”

The woman listened to the interrogation. “Have you seen Decker’s file? He doesn’t back down from anything. Listen to him right now. He’s not trying to bargain for his life. He’s dictating terms…to them. That’s hardly the profile of a runner.”

Gephard tapped the nearest screen. “They’re making a mistake with this one.”

Jessica put her cup down. “You might want to be careful about what you say in here. This entire facility is bugged, and the committee doesn’t like it when we talk about them.”

Joe kept his eyes on the camera’s eye view of Decker. “The committee doesn’t tolerate failure. That’s their problem. Nobody is allowed the luxury of a mistake. They’ve been in seclusion for so long that they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be human.”

Knight slid back in her chair. “I’m not taking your side in this. I want to make that perfectly clear right now. Can we get back to the task at hand? You say Decker will run. I say he won’t. He’ll never get the chance. Our security is too tight.”

The cynical man snickered under his breath.

In the next room, Decker was defiant as ever with his final remarks. “If I was guilty, you’d be talking to an empty chair. So? What’s it going to be? Are we going to get to the bottom of this? Or, will we eat one of our own?”

Joe drank deeply as the cameras went dark. Tossing his half full cup in to a trash can, he got to his feet.

Jessica remained in her seat as he checked his tie and put on his coat.

“He won’t run.” She insisted.

“Yeah.” Joe smiled at her as he left the room.

He went to the security checkpoint and asked the guard to call the elevator. Without asking, he reached for the wireless phone on the small desk.

His call went through to the prisoner detention unit on the first ring.
“This is Gephard. Double the number of men you send to get Decker. Sedate him before transport. When you have him in a maximum safe cell, jack him up on neural blockers and use the metal restraints. Catheterize him and feed him with an i.v. drip.”

He made a second call to the armory. “On my authorization, I want you to round up three tactical teams and load ‘em up for immediate fast response. They’ll need armored transpo, and see if you can get one those teams in to a helicopter. Something with a civilian skin.”

Hanging up, he dropped the phone on the desk and took the elevator that had been held for him. Jessica Knight hurried to join him. They rode down two floors in silence. Getting out on the administrative level, Joe made his way to the restricted section.

Inside the conference room, Decker sat chained to a chair. His civilian clothes were wrinkled and spattered with tiny flecks of his own blood.

Joe breezed in and took a seat near his prey. “Hello Avery. How’s it hanging?”

Decker looked over his shoulder at the trio of guards who watched him intently. “I have no complaints. These guys are pretty fun, once you get to know them.”

Gephard smiled. “You know what? I think you and I are the only ones who joined this chicken-spit outfit on our own. Voluntary conspirators and all that. Let’s be men about this. I know what comes next, and so do you. Let me be your friend. Tell me where I can find those hard drive backups, and I swear you won’t feel a thing. I’ll do it myself.”

Decker looked at the woman hovering in the background. “Why is she here?”

Joe shrugged and slid in closer. “You know how it is with the committee. Look, Avery. This is me you’re talking to. I know you didn’t walk back in to this hornet’s nest just to be put out of your misery. Whatever your plan is, it won’t work.”

The captive licked his lips. “As a voluntary conspirator, you know better than that. I came back because I still believe in what we do here. Yeah, sure. I found something while I was in the field. But you know what? I was supposed to find it and bring it back here. I’m not bringing it back here unless I have to because it’ll destroy everything we’ve worked for.”

Jessica shook her head. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Be quiet!” Joe snapped.

Decker approved. “Gep and I go way back. If it wasn’t for us, there would be no committee. Isn’t that right?”

Knight sat and crossed her legs while the guards became edgy.

Gephard checked his watch. “Where’s the transfer detail?”

The prisoner shrugged. “You know how it is with kids these days. Always distracted by something. Who knows? Could be the committee changed their collective minds?”

Joe got to his feet. He pointed at the guards, and then to Decker. “Draw your weapons and shoot this man right now!”

Four men and two women posing as installation security burst in to the room. Silenced autofire from submachineguns took out the guards.

Jessica moved to strike the nearest attacker and was laid out by a shock from two simultaneous tazer attacks.

Gephard raised both hands over his head. Closing the door behind them, the attackers fanned out around the room.

Decker beamed at his jailer. “Do me a favor and get the keys for these restraints.”

Joe was incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

Avery jingled his chains. “Spare me the outrage. There’s no room for compassion in our line of work. Get the keys and unlock me or I’ll tell these nice people to paint the walls with your blood.”

Gephard got out of his chair and searched the trio of dead men until he found the keys to Decker’s manicles and shackles. “You know the silent alarm has been tripped. Lots of people are watching you through lots of cameras. What happens next?”

Decker talked while he was being released. “Standard operating procedure. That’s what happens next. Everybody with a gun comes running to this end of the complex. The committee retreats to its bunker on level nine. Except for the traitor, who will make some excuse to separate from the others to make a run for his-or-her private jet.”

Joe dropped the last of the chains and stepped back. “Jessica was right. You’re not making any sense.”

Decker checked his watch and massaged his wrists. “You saw my interview. I know you did. I wasn’t kidding when I said I found something that wasn’t good for somebody on the committee.”

Gephard leaned on a chair. “Okay, smart guy. Where’s your proof and what is it?”

Decker got to his feet. “During our last op, we found audio and video on a hard drive that documents a series of meetings with persons unknown and a member of the committee. That person has been compromising our operations for at least a year. Remember all that stuff we found on above top secret dot-com? They put it there. That's just one example of the treachery I can prove.”

Joe remained skeptical. “How do you fit in to all this?”

Decker laughed and kicked his chair. “I was supposed to come rushing back here to unmask the traitor. Turns out the hard drives we snatched had auto-destruct systems in them. They would’ve melted hours ago, if my people hadn’t found and deactivated them. It was a pretty slick plan. Nothing but my word left to go on, and I would’ve been telling the truth right ‘til the bitter end. Somebody wants to discredit me.”

Gephard eyed the door to the conference room. “Man, you’re being too clever for your own good. You’ve got nothing if you can’t identify the traitor. Where are those drives?”

Decker began to stroll around the room. He took a pistol from one of his silent protectors and worked the slide to make the gun ready to fire. “Right about now, somebody has just arrived at the hangar. He or she called ahead, and their jet is just about ready for takeoff. I’m thinking that they might’ve had to use violence to clear the area before startup.”

Joe felt naked without a gun. “You’re full of it.”

Avery stopped his wandering. “I am. You know why? Because I lied about what I found. The picture and sound quality in those files is flawless. Digitally perfect. There’s no mistaking who the committee member is. That’s why they’re trying to get away. There's also no mistaking who the collaborator is.”

Exasperated, Gephard flew in to a rage. “You’re grasping at straws! If you really had anything, you’d show it to the committee and they’d exonerate you.”

Decker checked his watch again. “If I’m right, the committee is looking at my evidence right now.”

“What? How?” Joe spluttered.

The swaggering man raised his pistol. “Some of my people are really good at the breaking-and-entering thing I had them put the data we recovered in the executive bunker on level nine. They did it earlier this morning, just after the patrol shifts changed.”

Gephard was speechless for a moment. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Not for you.” Decker admonished with a wave of his gun.

Joe rested both hands on the back of a chair. “Hold on a sec. You’re not—“

The angry man tried not to shout. “I am! Let me tell you exactly how it breaks down. I found out who the traitor is, and I found out who’s been doing their dirty work. It's you! You lousy rat.”

Gephard reminded himself to stay cool and play for the cameras. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If what you say is true, the person you really want is already on the run. You know how it is with traitors, they always run.”

Decker shifted to a more comfortable stance. “They do if you give them the chance.”

Joe began to sweat. “They’re going to kick down that door any second now. You’d better come to your senses. I can help you.”

Avery glanced at his watch and adjusted his aim. “The first rule of conspiracy is that nothing is ever what it looks like. Every time I forget that rule, I get burned. We had a textbook perfect op, and everything that could go wrong did go wrong. I got played, and some of my best people died. None of this would’ve been possible without your help…Joe.”

Gephard took one step forward. “Now, wait just a minute!”

Decker raised his gun. “Sit or die. You’ve served your purpose.”

“What are you waiting for?” Joe demanded as he sank in to the nearest seat.

Every monitor in the large room came to life at the same time. Several cameras provided a stunning sunset view of a private airport. A gleaming executive jet moved slowly down the taxi way. The images came in silence as the jet made its takeoff roll.

Gephard used a handkerchief to mop sweat from his brow as the plane lifted in to the copper sky.

Camera angles changed as the view shifted to the fantail of a large sailboat. The rising jet could be see nearing the horizon as a hooded man stepped up to the handrail. He raised a long plastic tube to his bronze shoulder. Joe looked on in fear as the soundless picture fogged for just a moment due to backwash from the anti-aircraft rocket is it launched. Chaff and flares fell away from the ascending jet as its pilot struggled for altitude. The missile tracked on to one of the falling flares and exploded as the video feed was cut.

“That’s too bad.” Decker mumbled.

Joe put away his handkerchief. “I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.”

Avery took a deep breath. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? No. I’ve got it all figured out. I know who you were working for. So does the rest of the committee. They’ve had enough time to see what I left for them. I’ve only got one question. Why did you involve me in your schemes at all? I never suspected them, or you. Why’d you do it?”

Gephard looked at some of the more visible cameras around the room. “Like you said. First rule of conspiracy. It was only a matter of time ‘til I messed up and gave you a chance to find me out. You know who I worked for. You know what kind of person they are. At first, I did it because I wanted a chance to be on the committee. Then, I did it just to stay alive. None of my…betrayals…were very significant. Little stuff, you know?”

Decker shook his head. “I would’ve never caught you.”

Joe let his chin sink to his chest. “I've messed up a few disinformation ops. If I know what I did wrong, I knew you’d eventually find my mistakes. I really wanted to be on the committee. It seemed like a sure thing. I thought you’d run. I never thought you’d come back here to clear your name. I was wrong.”

Avery put his gun on safety. “I’m sorry about what has to come next. I hope you won’t take it personally.”

Gephard got to his feet as a the door to the conference room opened. “Will you put in a good word for me?”

Decker told his protectors to stand down. He waited for a trio of men in dark suits to enter the room before approaching Joe. “Nobody on the outside understands what we do. They think they know, but it’s all guesses and gossip. It’s like you said. You and me. We’re voluntary conspirators. If the committee gives you the chance, you can speak for yourself.”

Joe shook his head as he was taken in to custody. “I really wish you had run.”

Avery looked at the unconscious woman on the floor. "Is she going to wish I had run?"

Gephard looked away. "You...you'll get a lot of good stuff out of her."

[edit on 4-8-2007 by Justin Oldham]

When it comes to speculation, it can be harder than you might think to spin a good conspiracy theiry . When you look at the material on ATS ,you'll see a lot of deductive reasoning being carried out in the posts you read. Fiction, no matter what the genre, is the ultimate form of soeculation.

Fiction allows you to make certain guesses without the risk of a law suit. Nobody can accuse you of slander or libel if what you wrote is clearly made up. Even so, you can develope realistic characters that do realistic things in realistic places. If your story is logical and plausable, you stand a better chance of making your case.

As a writer, one of the very best tools you will have at your disposal will be your characters. You'll find that its much easier for them to say and do things that you just can't quite find the words for on your own. That's because you are projecting your motives and intentions in to those made-up people as you write. A lot of people can what they think or what they believe, and they'll be quite precise. They won't be embarrassed. If you get tongue-tied when trying to explain your conspiracy theory, it may be wise to let your characters do the talking for you.

Let's have a look at this next piece. I wrote "The Poison in Her Veins" just for this discussion. I've taken a minor character from the "The First Rule of Conpsiracy," and I've made her the center of this tangled tale of travel and treachery.

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The Poison In Her Veins

Jessica Knight woke to find herself behind the wheel of her own bright red Ferrari. The early model F-4 was oarked on the side of a faded ribbon of asphalt that kept on going far in to the hot dry distance. A quick check of her surroundings revealed that she was fully dressed in the same clothing she’d been in when the situation with Avery Decker had gotten out of control.

A feeling of being unwashed and the slight tang of body odor confirmed that she hadn’t been cleaned up prior to release. She also knew that this ‘release’ was the committee’s way of dealing with her. Popular gossip had it that this was how the conspirators dealt with treachery since the earliest days of the organization’s founding.

Knowing that she’d been drugged and deliberately placed in a position where she was free to act, Jessica resolved to survive the ordeal no matter what the cost of her exoneration or freedom might actually be. If the old scuttle-butt was true, all she had to do was figure out what they wanted her to do. If she pulled it off, she’d be free, or allowed to return to the organization. There was no way to tell which reward she’d get until she solved the riddle and completed the mission.

In the passenger’s seat, she found a bottle of water and a cell phone. On the floor in front of the passenger’s seat was an order of take-out from Speedy Burger in a white paper bag. Cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake that was still cold. All of these things were clues. Rumor had it that the committee didn’t go in for red herrings in a situation like this. The items left for her might not lead directly to salvation, but they wouldn’t deceive or misdirect. All the mistakes were hers to make.

The gas gauge indicated half full, which suggested that some aspect of the committee’s challenge could be found within a radius of her current position that was equal to or les than half the total cruise range of her sports car. Putting on a pair of sunglasses, she took the owner’s manual from the glove compartment and went for the index. The factory specs said the F-4 had a two hundred and twenty mile range. Half was one-ten. Now, all she had to do was find out where she was.

The rising heat that reflected off the flat land around her began to take its toll. She could feel her armpits dampen with sweat. A second look inside the bag from Speedy Burger revealed a receipt for the purchase. Seven dollars and eighty-five cents, store number two hundred, located in Raechal, Nevada.

The cell phone beeped as she drank some of the cold chocolate beverage. Noting the time, she answered the little phone with a flick of her wrist.

The voice on the other end of the connection was unmistakably that of Avery Decker. “Hello, Jessica. How’s the milk shake?”

She rolled down the car’s powered window with the touch of a button. “Was this drive in the country your idea?”

Decker laughed. “I advised them to feed you to that thing they keep chained up down in Dulce, but you know how it is with the elderly. They can be so sentimental.”

Knight checker watch and reached for the French fries. “Bless them, and shame on your for being so cruel. What’s the play, and what are the rules?”

High overhead, in an executive jet, Avery watched her every move through a dozen fiber-optic camera hidden in the car. “Your profile says you’re direct. I like that. It’s too bad we couldn’t met under better circumstances. The committee wants Mr. White. Seems that they trusted him, and they’re a little surprised by his defection. You can bring him in dead or alive, it’s your choice. He can be interrogated either way.”

She frowned. “Even if I knew where he was, there’s no way I can get close to him now. He must know I was captured. He’ll expect the committee’s reaction. Why don’t they send you? Retrieval is your specialty, not mine.”

The veteran conspirator approved of her mental stability. “The committee is aware of what they’re asking. You’ll get your freedom, if you succeed.”

Jessica now suspected that her car was tapped. “Does that offer of freedom include a guarantee from you that I’ll never be harmed by your or any of your associates?”

“Yes.” He admitted.

She sighed. “Was it really necessary to put cameras in my car?”

“Yes.” He confirmed, with feeling.

She looked at the keys that hung from the ignition. “What else do I need to know?”

Decker didn’t hesitate. “Mr. White is making the most of his government connections. He’s hiding out in Area 51. I’m in the area with half a dozen capture teams. All you need to do is get him off the reservation. You should try to get this done in three days, because I’ve injected you with a class three radiological poison.”

The revelation made her sit up straight. “Is that your way of helping me?”

Avery enjoyed his moment. “Actually, it is. Mr. White owns 51% of a certain well-known pharmaceutical company that trades on the New York stock exchange. It does business with the CIA when nobody is looking. I’m sure he’s got the antitoxin and hematological stabilizers you need. Tell him I poisoned you.”

Knight shuddered. None of the committee members were people to be crossed. Did they know that she’d been poisoned? Decker’s profile suggested to her a high degree of vindictiveness. He wasn’t to be crossed, either. He wouldn’t defy them. He wasn’t the type. They must have approved his request to ‘motivate’ her.

He nagged at her through the cell phone. “C’mon, Jess. Tick-tock. Your kidneys are melting as we speak. Start the car, hit the gas, and you should be there in two hours. I took the liberty of providing lunch. My people tell me that you like to hit Speedy Burger on the weekends. Call me when you’ve got the package.”

She swore. “You know damned well I can’t get him out of there alive! Why are you going to waste your time with necrotic interrogation? Half of what you’ll get are psychosomatic impressions and subconscious images. That stuff is junk, and you know it.”

Decker’s tone softened. “This isn’t about what I want. You made sure of that when you backed Joe Gephard’s play. Win your freedom, or die trying. Those are the options you gave me. They are the same options the committee is giving you now. I can’t appreciate their sense of justice, but I do love their sense of humor.”

Jessica looked at her phone. Then, around the inside of he car. “This isn’t my phone, Avery. This probably isn’t really my car. You’re not giving me much t owork with.”

“Check your boot.” He coomented and hung up.

She tossed the phone on to the dash and got out. Hot wind blew across her skin and through her hair. She opened the trunk to find the custom luggage compartment. Inside the single expensive carry-on, she found the tools of her trade.

Finding her wallet, she took a long slow look at its contents. Lots of cash. No credit cards. One I.D. card and one driver’s license, each in her real name. She cursed again. Decker was playing fast and loose with the committee’s rule book, and their wasn’t anyting she could do about it. She put her things away, and got back in to the car.

She started the engine and drove within the speed limit towards her objective. Along the way, she tossed the food out of the window. Then, she began to consider her many options. Decker’s use of poison could be looked thought of as a form of sabotage. If the committee had any sene of fair play, they might not be happy about that. Then again, they might just tell her to suck it up.

She arrived in the small town of Racheal one hour later, with an upset stomach. She tried not to think about the reasons for her queasiness as she pulled in to the dusty parking lot of a motel. The manager admired her clothes and her car in a peripatetic way that got on her nerves. When she paid in cash, he became slightly more circumspect.
“Are you going to Area 51?” he asked as if it were the most normal thing to be doing.

“I might.” She muttered.

The energetic man handed her a shiny brass key. “In that case, you can have number seven. It’s on the end, and I just made the bed in there this morning. I have one of those electronic bug detectors. I sweep every room after the guests check out and then again when I clean up and change the linens. Trust me. Number seven is clean.”

Jessica walked off without saying another word. Some of the people who lived near the Groom Lake facility played up the UFO thing for the tourists. Others actually believed. Mouthing off to the guy behind the counter might have been a mistake. She locked her car and took her bag in to the sparsely furnished rented room, and sat on the bed to gather her thoughts.

Mr. White wouldn’t be an easy man to reach. The ‘things’ he did for the U.S. government generated a lot of good will for him, and he did use it. She’d only worked for him for two years, but it was clear from what little she saw that he was not a person to be trifled with. She wouldn’t be capable of going to him. She’d be killed or turned away, and she knew it. He would have to come to her.

She looked at her reflection in a nearby mirror. “What does Mr. White want that he doesn’t have? His gamble to overthrow the committee failed, but he’s planned for that. He had a backup plan. He knows what his next move is.”

A knock at the door de-railed her train of thought. A glance through a curtained window revealed that her visitor was the motel’s manager, holding a stack of white towels.

“Yes?” She said through the door.

The talkative man was embarrassed. “I forgot the towels, ma’am. You’re gonna need these if you want to take a show, or a bath, or something.”
She opened the door. “Thanks.”

He handed over the towels and stepped back quickly. “I-I’m really sorry about that. I don’t usually make a mistake like that. Can I get you anything else?”

She decided that he was harmless. “I could use a blood transfusion.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Right. Know what you mean. I’ve been reading about that on Above top Secret dot-com. Lousy vampires. Lousy stupid Reptilians. Why can’t they leave everybody’s blood alone? I got mine. You got yours. Why can’t they get their own.?”

“I really don’t know.” She commented while closing the door.
He put out a hand to stop her. “Don’t try to go in there at night. That’s when they’re the most ready. Don’t seem to be so alert during he day. Can’t say why. Might have something to do with the heat. If…um…if I don’t see you for checkout in the morning, can I have your car?”

Jessica closed the door and locked it. There was a chance that the eccentric man was one of Decker’s people, put in place to torment her. The idea seemed absurd, but then again, she was in an absurd situation. A conspirator forced to turn against a fellow conspirator. The irony did not make her laugh.
It did give her an idea. Putting the towels in to small bathroom, she sat on the bed and reached for her cell phone. A quick check of the directory confirmed her suspicions. She dialed the number listed for Mr. White.

He answered on the first rign. “Jessica. I’m pleased to hear from you. Disappointe,d but still pleased none the less. You know this isn’t a secured line. Should I assume they have a gun to your head?”

She laughed and fell back on to the lumpy mattress. “The committee turned me loose under the misguided assumption that I would give you up in exchange for my freedom.”

That got his attention. “Did they now? Okay, I’ll bite. Why has a smart girl like you called me in a situation like this. You have nothing I want.”

“I have Avery Decker.” She crooned with false pride.

Mr. White was not amused. “Don’t tease me like that.”

“I’m not in to that sort of thing, or have you forgotten?” She countered.

He paused. “I fail to see how this gets you off the hook. I was on that committee for ten years. I know how stubborn they can be. What’s in this for you?”

She rolled over. “Before my release, Decker jacked me up with a radiological poison which I understand you are quite familiar with. I need treatment, and you want Decker. Seemed like a natural fit to me. Once he’s off my tail, you and I can go our separate ways and the committee can be damned.”

Mr. White was still not amused. “Unacceptable. You’re talking to me over an open line. That means Decker is listening. That also means the committee is listening. I hope that poison hasn’t been in your veins for very long. If it’s the same thing that my company makes, you are…finished.”

Jessica tried to think. “You don’t play this game very well, do you?”

Mr. White understood the reference. “I take your meaning. Just answer one question. How long have you been poisoned?”

“Less than four hours.” She guessed.

Mr. White put her on hold why he spoke to one of his aids. “Jessica, listen very carefully. You must come to me, right now. That compound works faster than advertised. I’m getting the word out now. Run the gate, or crash the fence. Just get yourself on to this reservation within the next twenty minutes. Whatever you do, you must not throw up. No matter how strong that reflex is. Don’t worry about the fall, I’ll catch you.”

Jessica closed her phone and got to her feet. Slipping in to her shoes, she went for her bag to draw a gun. Shouldering the bag, she ran for the door.

Opening the door slowly, she saw that a Nevada State Police car was parked behind her Ferarri. The lone officer was standing with the driver’s side door open, radio mic in hand.

“Excuse me? Is this your car?” He asked loudly.

Hiding the pistol behind the carry-all, she approached. “Is there a problem?”

The cop tossed the mic in to the car and shut the door. “A car matching this description was reported stolen from a collector’s lot in Vegas. If you can just show me your license and registration, I’ll be on my way.”

His presumption of innocence took her by surprise. “I…let me get that for you.”

Walking around the car, she opened the passenger’s side door. Laying the overnight bag on top her gun in the front seat, she opened the glove box.

“Nice ride.” The officer commented from just a few feet away.

She offered him the registration packet and then handed over her driver’s license. “I hope you don’t thin I stole this?”

He scanned her documents. “You? Oh, heck no. Anyone who steals a car like that would get it off the street. Most likely take it to another collector or a chop shop. Hang on a sec while I run these. It’ll only take a moment.”
She waited while he went back to the police cruiser.

He came back three minutes later. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

She took the license and papers he offered and put them away. “It wasn’t a problem.”

She then waited for the police officer to drive away before getting in to her own vehicle and starting the engine. As an experienced conspirator, she knew that the best place to hide is always in plain sight. When things are exactly as they appear, there is nothing to fear.

Jessica drove in the direction of Groom Lake, stopping once for gas. Reaching the inter-state highway with a full tank, she let the car ‘stretch its legs.’ There was something about driving a manual transmission car at high speeds that made her feel very much in control. In spite of her increasingly upset stomach, she felt good. Possibly even good enough to survive what would most certain come next.

There are many different ways to start a story. You can make a fast take-off by getting right to the point, or you can set the stage and warm up to your subject slowly. One of the hallmarks of good conspiracy fiction involves the creation of characters and setting that can be "real." When your characters do things that you can do, they become more "believable" to the average reader. Keep that in mind when you put on your writer's hat.

Let me give you one example. I wrote "take the money and run" just for this post. As you will see, its a slow-er takoff, and the person who is the focis of the narration appears to be nobody special. Just a regular guy down on his luck...or is he?

---------------------------------
Take the Money and run

By Justin Oldham

Ron slipped in to the alley, careful to avoid rattling the garbage cans that lined both sides of the narrow passage. Working from memory, he moved slowly through the darkness until he came to the back door of a small book store. He knocked once, twice, and then three times. The door opened and he passed his bicycle pack to somebody he couldn’t quite make out.

“You’re late.” The male shadow scolded.
He wiped sweat from his face. “I’m not dumb enough to drive a car or ride a bike after dark in this part of town. The blue helmets would pick me up in a New York second. Check the bag, and then pay me. I gotta go.”

The door closed. He waited in the alley for what seemed like a small eternity. The door opened and the man tossed out the pack.

Ron opened it and counted his money. “You gave me too much.”

“It’s Christmas.” The shadow grumbled as she shut and locked the door.

The courier looked up at the night sky. “Some Christmas. No snow, and I’m out after curfew wti ha sack of unregistered money. Oh yeah. Santa loves me.”

Shouldering the pack, he snuck to the far end of the alley and slipped through a pair of loose board in an old fence. He worn and mended running shoes tapped on the pavement has he started to pick up speed. Jogging across an empty parking lot, he went two blocks past empty storefronts before fidning cover. U.N. patrols in this part of town were infrequent, but he’d been caught out in the open before. They knew who he was. Getting caught again was not an option.

Sitting behind a dumpster, he thought about the last two years, and the strange turns his life had taken in post-collapse America. “Go to college. Get a degree. Show everybody how smart you are. Get a job with the Federal government. Yeah, right.”

He’d never been an athlete. He’d actually been fat before things went bad. There was no call for his former skill set, but he did know this own like the back of his hand. Running packages for anyone who paid wasn’t his idea of a career, but it did pay and that’s about the only thing that mattered to him at the moment.

Looking both ways, he got to his feet and started to walk. Hands in pockets, he slouched and shuffled. It was the walk of a man who was going home after a long day’s work. Just the sort of thing the patrolling soldiers might ignore. Because he was officially unemployed, he could show them his entitlement card. If it came to that.

As if on cue, a white four-wheel-drive vehicle turned the corner ahead of him. Bright headlights illuminated him as the driver navigated. A rear seat passenger focused a hand-held searchlight on him as they passed.

“Suckers.” He mumbled smugly as the vehicle drove out of sight.

Stopping to pop the lock on a side door, he slipped in to an abandoned clothing store. Mannequins cluttered the window displays as he walked by shelves full of folded dusty clothing. It wouldn’t be long before other looters found this place and cleaned it out.

He selected a few items and stuffed them in to his backpack. A little something to hide the money. He then went upstairs to the second floor. Each stair in the dark and cramped landing creaked as he ascended. The ideal security system for a man in position.

He roamed through a large work area that was dominated by two very large cutting tables and many bolts of frabric. Finding the manager’s office, he went inside and locked the door.

Having seen a patrol, he’d made up his mind to hide until daylight. He’d used this location once before, and he liked it. Something about the smell of the fabric reminded him of better days. He didn’t have enough confidence to carry a gun, so he resorted to caution and lots of hiding. He slept on the floor under an old metal desk.

In the morning ,he went to the restroom marked as “employees only” to use the toilet. He was amazed to see that it still worked. The flush sounded too loud, and the scent of clorine filled their air as he considered his options.

He stayed in hiding until ten o’clock in the morning. Stepping out of the store like he owned it, he blended in with the pedestrian traffic. Heading east, he walked in to the heart of twon . Blue skies and sun improved his mood. He stopped to buy a hotdog from a sidewalk vendor along the way.

“Ronnie, how’s it hangin’?” The vendor asked with good cheer.

He paid in cash with a generous tip and a smile. “I’m not dea, and I’m not in jail.”

The hot dog didn’t satisfy his hunger, and it gave him gas. He kept on walking. As he neared the downtown district, he had to pass through a monitored checkpoint.

Under the watchful eyes of a dozen security cameras, he presented his official documents nad signed the required electronic documents.

“What’s your business?” The European soldier asked from behind sunglasses.

“Looking for work.” He lied, careful to show off his unemployment card.

Ron found his way to an expensive eatery just after three P.M. Approaching from the rear, he climbed up the loading dock and waited. When he was sure that he was alone, he pulled back an air conditioning grate to open a secret door. He closed the door and vent cover behind him.

His shoes chirped on the linoleum floor. He moved quickly down the unlit corridor to a heavy metal door. Pressing his thumb to a coded lock, he waited for the portal to open. Inside the hideout, he was met by a flabby bald man who carried a pistol.

Ron pulled off his pack and gave it to over. “Hey, Jenks. Merry Christmas.”

The big man sat in a chair and pawed through the bag.

Ron went to a cooler laying on the floor and took out an ice-coivered can of soda. “Hey man. Merry Christmas. Didn’t you hear me?”

“What’s so friggin’ merry about it?” The bald man grumbled.

The courier waited for his comrade to find the money.

“Pluck me!” Jenks declared after counting the money.

Ron stepped up to slap him on the back. “Better ask Santa for something else, you old pirate. I think that haul brings our stash total to something like ten grand. Depending on what the others bring in, we might just have enough green to get the job done. What do you say to that?”

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This might be a slow take-off, but there's still a lot of room for development. We knon judt enough about people. places, and things, to get the idea. But...we don't know it all, do we? Ron deals with peole who go unnamed for a reason. It could be becuase they just don't matter in the scheme of things, or it can mean...otehr things. Remember that a good conspiracy is more than just a cool idea. It's got a 'feel' to it that can make you want read more...if...the people and situations can be believed.

Some day, you might be tempted to write about economic themes. Here's the beginning of what could be a larger story, which involves real economic issues.
-----------------------------------------------------------

Twilight 2014

Text“There’s just no other way to say it. The U.S. economy has failed. The terrible truth is that it’s too late for the federal government to do anything about it. Our sun hasn’t completely set. We’re in that moment of twilight just before things go pitch black. Rich and poor alike are about to see the end of what we used to call 'the American dream.'”

--"Money Watch," Talk TV, April 19, 2014


Anne watched rush hour traffic crawl by on the broken, dirty street below. From her fifth floor vantage point, she could see half the city.

Rain clouds gathered on the far horizon. Anchorage was bathed in the red-bronze glow of a spectacular sunset fueled by a combination of the local smog and regional forest fires.

Commuter congestion was mild, compared to what it had been just two years ago. The city’s unpopular mayor had called a halt to all but the most essential road maintenance due to declining tax revenues.

The tired civil servant drank from her favorite mug as unwashed vehicles of all shapes and sizes paraded by, bouncing on the uneven pavement.

She turned in her chair to avoid looking at the armed checkpoint that dominated the street corner. The very thought of hungry eyes canvassing the building in which she worked made her stomach go sour.

With a growing sense of dread, she watched the digital clock over her desk signal 4:00 p.m.

A chime sounded through the ceiling-mounted intercom, ringing across the entire floor. A pre-recorded voice announced the one thing she hated more than coming to work. “Work day ends. Lights, power, and plumbing will be turned off in five minutes. All employees must leave the building. Failure to comply will result in disciplinary action.”

She pressed her thumb to a universal identification pad. “Computer, off.”
Security software verified her voice pattern, retinal image, and thumbprint through a variety of sensors before it turned off her workstation.

The small woman pulled on her coat as one of her co-workers appeared. “Hey, I hear you have an open seat.”

“You know my price,” She countered, slinging her purse over her shoulder.

The man leaned over to whisper. “I’m a little short on cash. I was hoping to--“

She reached over and pinched his mouth shut, snapping, “No.”

“I have gas,” he mumbled through numbed lips.

She sighed while keeping her grip on the man’s face. “You siphoned it out of your lawn mower or you bought it from somebody who stole it. Either way, it’ll tear up my car’s engine, and then I’ll have to hurt you. My answer is still no. Say it with me. Nooo.”

The captive shook his head involuntarily before he could break free. “Somebody’s going to steal your car, and then you’ll be just like the rest of us.”

Anne put on her glasses and walked away from the taller man. “We’ve all got choices to make. Ride the bus or stop sending your kids to private school.”

“This is why you don’t get promoted!” he fumed.

She gave him the finger. “This is why I still have a house and a car.”

The line was longer than she expected. Checking out of her agency’s secured area took more time than usual. The guards were being unusually alert. When her turn came to show her I.D., she asked, “What’s the problem?”

“Somebody’s been camping out again,” a security specialist explained as he passed her card through a hand-held reader.

"Ah." Anne took her identification and entered the packed elevator. During the ride down, nobody spoke. It was common knowledge that the elevators were bugged.

Single men and women who were financially strapped had been successfully ‘camping’ overnight in the federal building for the last ten months, in an attempt to avoid the spiraling costs of rent, food, and transportation.

The problem was now so widespread that every federal agency had been ordered to take steps to find and evict squatters who used water, power, and sanitation facilities after the business day ended.

The General Services Administration, which managed the building, insisted that increased utility costs associated with these unauthorized inhabitants were becoming too much to bear. Due to the impact on the agency's budget, the practice could no longer be tolerated.

The members of her carpool met Anne in the underground parking garage. One new customer, who had the cash she required and agreed to her terms, was waiting with them. She counted his money before unlocking the vehicle.

“It’s really too bad there's no such thing as auto insurance any more. I just had somebody threaten to steal my car.”

The riders became concerned and agitated. Anne didn’t charge the same sky-high rates that other, more mercenary, car owners did. Her weekly fees kept pace with the rising costs of fuel and vehicle maintenance, plus a very modest commission. She might not be on the fast track for promotion, but she was widely thought of as fair and humane.

“Who threatened you?” Beth asked.

Anne shrugged as an overcrowded SUV rolled by. “It’s not important right now. If anything happens, I’ll get back to you.”

Beth worked in Personnel, and wasn’t afraid to use the power that came with her job. With so many friends and co-workers on the edge of financial ruin, she was pragmatic when it came to getting paybacks for dirty deeds done to those who didn’t deserve the hate.

The anxious group of two men and three women piled into the twenty-year-old minivan. Some were going home to rent-controlled apartments. A couple of them were living with friends and family in cramped conditions that they would have considered unthinkable just three years ago.

Even with enviable incomes from their famously stable federal jobs, home loans and credit cards were things of the past for every one of these survivors.

After the van and its passengers were inspected for contraband, Anne drove out of the garage and merged with traffic. The drive into the suburbs was pleasant, in spite of the bad news pouring out of the dashboard radio.

“A sensitive memo leaked to the press from the Government Accounting Office appears to advise the president that more cuts in the federal work force will be necessary before the end of the year. Experts and pundits are concerned that further reductions in federal services might impair the ability of the individual states to provide for their citizens.”

Anne pulled into the waiting lane for her favorite gas station. “Would you look at that? Ethanol is the same price as gas! It must be so nice to be a corn farmer.”

Beth leaned forward to read the sign. “It hasn’t rained in Kansas or Iowa for six months. Corn, wheat, and everything else that needs water, has doubled in price. We’ll be in for much worse if the Mexicans stop exporting their corn.”

“I can’t read the sign,” another passenger complained.

Anne tapped the accelerator gently as the line of thirsty cars advanced slowly toward the nearest supervised pump. “Three twenty-five per liter. Man, I hate those European measurements. Why do they insist on doing that?”

Beth shrugged. “I read about that last week. Most of the companies that sell us their oil aren’t taking dollars. The same is true for a lot of governments. Everybody’s gone over to the Euro. Nobody wants the dollar any more. Using the money means the sellers want to use the measurements.”

Anne pulled up to the pump when it was her turn. “Two hundred and fifty dollars to fill the tank. Prices have definitely gone up. Sorry, folks. I need an extra ten from everybody,” she said as she pressed a switch on her dashboard. The flex-fuel van was now ready to consume mostly alcohol instead of mostly gasoline.

Everyone started to pull out their assorted cash as she took her keys and purse and got out to fill the tank.

In the distance, the Chugach Mountains glowed with a brilliant purple haze as she pumped seventy-five liters of fuel into the tank. She paid the armed attendant with a large stack of small bills before getting back into the car.

Once Anne had buckled in, Beth handed over the collected cash. “We’ve been talking. If gas jumped, that means groceries are going to be a problem. We should stop in today for whatever we can get, before the stores get mobbed.”

Anne looked at her silent passengers using the rearview mirror. “Beth is right. Most people don’t get off work until five or six. We can just beat the rush if we go now.”

Nobody objected to the expensive detour. The days of cheap and easy transportation were over. Driving for fun, or even the sake of lazy convenience, was out of the question for most cost-conscious households.

Taking the silence to mean general agreement, Beth replied, “I think that means yes."

Anne started the car and headed for her preferred warehouse store, which sold a variety of goods in bulk quantities. Pride and embarrassment were still hard habits to break. Though everyone would go in, some of her passengers would buy what they could while others would walk the aisles and purchase nothing.

Traffic thinned out as they approached a crowded shopping mall. A news program chattered from the radio. She changed lanes and then turned down the volume.

"Interest rates for federal bonds held steady today at twenty-three percent, down two percent from last week. Treasury Secretary Andrew Brown praised the news, saying that investor confidence was being rewarded.

"In other news, food and employment riots continued in southern California as state officials admit they’ve lost control over the situation.”

The tired woman drove her car into the Price-Co lot and parked near the entrance. “I know this stop isn’t planned, but we need to get what we can before things get out of hand. Remember what happened last month. Concentrate on the basics. Don’t commit to more than you can carry. If it won’t fit in your lap, don’t buy it.”

The experienced shoppers got out.

Before the group entered the store, Anne paid a roaming security guard to keep an eye on the car. She took the time to write down his name and employee number. New car prices were unreasonable.

Used vehicles could still command high prices if they were in good shape. Car thieves had no qualms about using any kind of trick to get what they wanted. It was worth a small fee to be sure her van would still be off the market when they came out.

Price-Co had the same problems that affected every other chain store in the nation. Currency exchange rates no longer favored the American dollar. Domestic consumers were faced with rising prices that hurt the same corporations that were trying to serve them.

Fighting an average inflation rate of thirty percent, Anne and her co-workers bought less than half of what they’d been used to.

As the carpoolers walked the aisles, they noted that the fresh meat bins were empty and most of the frozen foods had already been sold. Floor space normally reserved for fresh produce was bare. Surly customers who weren't used to buying such things were picking up fifty-pound bags of rice, beans, corn, wheat, and barley.

Anne dipped into her savings to buy the last five-pound bag of coffee beans on the shelf.

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As you can see, there's a lot going on here. Lots of back story, and personal conflicts. Just the sort of thing you need to set the stage for your own conspiracy tale.

[edit on 17-1-2008 by Justin Oldham]

A lot of you have commented on the 2014 story line. I'm happy to report that this material has found its way in to being. I know that many of you practice your short story wriiting skills on ATS, and I hope you'll keep on doing it.

[edit on 19-8-2008 by Justin Oldham]