Side Hustle
by Karen Ovér
At the alert from his company handheld, Driver #925 looked up from his phone. His assigned Autonomous Delivery Vehicle was hesitating at gates that wouldn’t open. Swapping his phone for the handheld, Driver #925 scanned his ID bracelet’s QR code.
The device confirmed he was at the correct address. And though he might doubt the gadget, he couldn’t argue with the number plaque attached to a brick pillar. He overrode the alert, and the ADV went into standby. Driver #925 stepped outside his vehicle to figure things out.
The relic of a house sat well back from the street. A low brick wall, overrun by tangles of hedges and creeping vines, surrounded the grounds. A boxwood loomed, blocking almost all views from the street.
A narrow driveway broke the wall of brick and bramble. Ornate iron gates that must have once been a showpiece hung from broken hinges. Flaking black paint leopard-spotted the pervading rust, and the whole works looked like it might come down on top of him if he were to nudge it. No way could he get his little electric delivery pod through the gates.
Friggin’ AI only smart as the last brain it picked. How am I supposed to drive up there? “Leave at side door, signature required?” Friggin’ dispatcher’s havin’ me on.
It was tempting to turn around, call the dispatcher, and report the property abandoned and the item undeliverable. A “Delivery inaccessible” report would mean he wouldn’t get paid, though.
Trees lined the narrow drive and had grown so thick they touched overhead, their branches interlacing to form a black tunnel. Spying the house through that arch was like looking through a telescope the wrong way.
The box addressed to this place was small but heavy. He managed to squeeze through the gate with it and dropped it on the other side. Then Driver #925 retrieved the collapsible hand truck out of the ADV, slid it through the gate, and carefully navigated through the gates again to meet it on the other side. There he unfolded it, nudged the item onto the hand truck, and started his grim journey.
Drop this friggin’ thing and get outta here.
That wrong-way telescope effect was total. As Driver #925 marched, the house never seemed to get any closer. Yet eventually, when he looked back toward the Autonomous Delivery Vehicle, he couldn’t see the gates nor the sunlit street beyond. And sunlight didn’t stand a chance against the old black trees working together to shut it out of his tunnel.
It seemed as though he’d been trudging forever when the cover broke and permitted sunlight through a short stretch of drive between the trees and a newly appearing porte cochere. On either side of the path, the front lawn appeared unkempt and oddly lumpy, weird humps arising here and there throughout. An errant breeze gave the impression of movement beneath the overgrowth, as if the ground itself were breathing.
Driver #925 hurried toward the door. Various other deliveries were stacked there, some looking the worse for wear. While he wondered at this, he didn’t pause. He was now convinced the dispatcher had set him up for a prank at an empty address. And there it was: A tiny camera fixed at the apex of the port cochere roof tracked his movements.
Fine, jackass. You wanna go viral? Let’s play.
He added the box to the pile by the door and rang the bell. A tune, familiar from his childhood, began to sound from a tinny speaker. It played through—and then played again. It didn’t stop after that second time through, either.
Friggin’ thing busted. This’ll be a friggin’ earworm!
Unbidden, the creepy lyrics played in his head.
The worms crawl in, and the worms crawl out…
Shaking his head, he went on with the game. “Hello? You need to sign for this, cuz I need to make my fee. I noticed you didn’t add a tip, so the least you can do is come to the door. Especially since you got a shit ton of stuff out here. I guess that driveway keeps the porch pirates out, even if the gates don’t.”
Your eyes fall in, and your teeth fall out…
“And turn that friggin’ doorbell off, man!”
An AI voice rattled over the continuing music: “Please hold your handheld device up to the camera with the screen facing away from you.”
“Doesn’t work like that dude, and you know it,” he said, but he struck a pose and obliged.
Your brains come tumbling out your snout…
The device pinged, and a thick scrawl appeared in the signature box.
“Delivery registered,” the voice echoed. “Thank you. Have a nice day.”
He shrugged for the camera. “Fine, dude. You rigged the game, you gotta pay my delivery fee.” He took a photo of the handheld’s screen with his own phone and then pocketed both devices. He punched the doorbell button again, but the music only played louder.
The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out…
“Intelligence, my ass,” he muttered, wheeling the hand truck toward the dark tunnel of overhanging trees.
Really don’t wanna go back under those trees.
As he hurried along the drive, the hand truck slipped off the edge, bounced out of his hands and toppled into the overgrowth of the yard. Hitting one of those strange hummocks, it tipped over, one wheel jutting out and spinning.
Friggin’ really?
He waded through the overgrown grass. “AI ain’t smart enough to hire a friggin lawn service?”
The music played on, louder than ever. Was it in his head?
They eat your eyes, and they eat your nose…
He leaned, reaching for the hand truck.
The lawn rippled—did it?—and the handle disappeared.
Reaching further into the lawn, he got hold of something, and pulled.
They eat the jelly between your toes…
Something grabbed back. Driver #925 felt a sharp, downward yank. It pulled him in. Down. Deeper than the grass was tall. Whatever cursed thing was passing itself off as a lawn was absorbing him.
It was only then that Driver #925 noticed what had littered the lawn bordering the long driveway. What he’d been missing as he’d been drawn along the venus fly trap of a path. Disintegrating hand trucks and smart devices.
He would’ve screamed as he was pulled through a pile of bones, but something filled his mouth. And his ears.
The worms crawl in, and the worms crawl out…
#
After thirty minutes of inactivity, the ADV signaled the handheld device. It received no response, and protocol kicked in. The vehicle de-coupled from Driver #925’s gig account, drove itself back to the warehouse, parked itself, and plugged itself in for recharging.
In the morning, Driver #926 checked it out with their handheld terminal and climbed inside.
Karen Ovér is back in Texas after more than a decade in New York City. Her latest works appear in the anthologies The Book of Carnacki, The Legion Press, Dark Yonder #6 and #11, Arkham Institutions, Detectives Sleuths, and Nosy Neighbors, and the Triangulation anthology Dark Hearts. When not wrestling the cat for the keyboard (and dealing with persistent feline editing), she can sometimes be found clinging to a ballet barre, attempting to realign the vertebrae sent in all directions by hours of maniacal word processing. Visit Karen’s author pages at balletsandbogeys.weebly.com/golemwerks and www.facebook.com/KarenOverAuthor/.
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