Their World
by Dan Scamell
Violet oil oozes from your phone as the connection stutters. A small segmented leg writhes from the speaker hole.
“Sir?” rasps the voice at the other end of the line. “Sir, I can’t understand you.”
“Hello?” you bark into the microphone. You pull the phone away and check the signal. Through the sheen of purple grease leaching from the screen’s corner, you see one bar, then no bars. “Hello!” A minuscule claw snicks from the charging port and pinches your thumb. Blood. It ought to hurt.
“Sir, we have a poor connection, please direct your query through our secure app.”
Stars flare in your vision. “I can’t use the app because I don’t have my fucking account number! Hello!”
“Have a nice day.”
The line dies. You hurl the phone at the side of the apartment complex. Despite the case you got for upgrading your plan, the device chips and the screen shatters, splattering violet goo against the cinderblock wall, then the pavement. Tiny black crabs scuttle from the destroyed thing’s insides. You feel a pang of guilt—panic at what you’ve done, but really, what difference does it make? You’re fucked either way.
What now? Back to the bank’s service desk, you suppose. Maybe you could chalk it up as a bad day and just relax. Self-care. No. Things need to get fucking done. No one else can make those calls, scan those forms. Mom needs her funds moved before they’re totally drained and she’s destitute and she has to live with you and you don’t know how to care for someone like that and what about your life and—
Deep breath. Walk.
Six blocks to the lawyer’s office. You can at least feel like you’re doing something other than sitting around worrying.
Fuck.
The sidewalk teems with people on their phones, wiping slime from the screens. Must be a bad day for everyone. You should have sprung for Infestation Ferality Insurance. Probably wouldn’t change anything. Crabs scuttle across the poured concrete pavers—they crunch under your feet. Rage.
Sympathy.
On the corner, someone with red pinch-marks on their cheek sprays an aerosol can at their tablet and wipes the back. “Fucking bullshit,” they mutter as you pass. None of the sprays work. Nothing works. The tech needs the ooze, the crabs make the ooze, and the crabs do whatever the fuck they want.
Or whatever they’ve been trained to do.
Mina, the receptionist at the law office looks ragged. The check-in screen is flickering and dripping onto the carpet. It’s a nice old building, smells like wood oil and dust. The screens and cables all look out of place. Crabs amble lazily up the walls.
“Hi.” You try to sound sane. “I’m just wondering if Rob is—”
“Check in,” Mina says. “Stand on the X.”
You step back and look at the mounted check-in screen. It flashes blue, but mostly it’s dead black. “Not sure it’s gonna work.”
“Just give it a second. It’s been bad today.”
“Mina, you know me, I just need to see Rob for a second.” Your fist clenches.
“Just have to check you in for the system.” She taps away behind her desk. “Come on… Stupid thing.”
“If he’s not available, I’ll wait.” A wave of vertigo. “Just tell him I’m here, please.”
Mina frowns. “Sorry, hon. You can do mobile check-in if you prefer.”
Acid boils in your guts and almost spews forth in a vulgar tirade, but you staunch it. You pull a pen from your pocket. “I’ll leave a note and come back.” You scan the room, checking the antique corner tables and bureaus. There’s no paper anywhere. No pads. No scraps. No pamphlets. Black crustaceans skitter over every surface. Your arm goes limp. The pen falls. You leave.
Sitting on the sidewalk, gray humans bustle about. They pluck crabs from their phones and earbuds and watches. They wipe screens with Samsung and Apple brand microfiber cloths, clearing purple grease away.
The electronic billboard above the car lot across the street flashes, and even from here, you can see the black insect-things swarm across its surface. When the image displays properly, it’s beautiful. A flawless AI-generated blonde assures you that with an instant credit check you can drive off the lot in a brand new hybrid SUV with 19-inch touchscreen, Bio-BT, GPS and integrated Meta-Assistant. No knobs or dials or buttons to distract you. You will be taken care of so you can drive to the beach and sit by the ocean and ignore your reality; your pain. Amen.
Your knees creak as you rise and walk in a random direction down the street. Instinctively, you reach for your phone. You pull your hand from your pocket and wipe the violet oil away, ignoring the sore red marks from countless pincers. You turn, wondering how many payphones used to be on this street, how many banks with tellers who knew you and were willing to assist you without biometric scans and two-factor identification.
Mom taught you how to use your first cell phone. Now she can’t remember your name. She needs help, and you can’t give it. Everything you try ends in crabs, ooze, and failure. No one will speak with you. No one will help you. No one will trust you. In this world, you are nothing.
You are nothing.
You trip and stumble into the stucco wall of a touchless, cash-free mini-mart. You scuff your palm as you fall onto the sidewalk. The pain is physical—it’s old. That’s good.
Lying motionless, hundreds of crabs crawl over your legs, your arms, your face. You lie there. This is their world now. You are just a visitor. They will not kill you. They will simply cover you and needle you. They will needle you and needle you, and you will be grateful for it.
You have no choice.
