Two barcodes flickered to life on the warehouse monitor, sharp and unmoving in the top-left corner. The monitor, which had somehow grown to 30 inches, loomed over the backroom like an awkward reminder that something was off. Bob squinted at it, but didn’t let himself think too much about it—not yet.
He had bigger problems. For hours, he’d been fielding updates from corporate: another panic-buying wave was on the way. Toilet paper had already sold out once, and now the company was planning to stockpile extra inventory. They needed every spare inch of storage to hold the incoming freight.
“Wherever we can fit it,” Bob told Trevor and Larry. “Might even need to stick some of it in the aisles.”
Trevor shook his head. “Just not on the new shelves. Agreed?”
“Yeah, nothing goes on the new ones,” Bob agreed.
This wasn’t Bob’s first overstock nightmare. A few years back, tornado warnings had driven a rush for generators, and he'd handled it with his usual system: print out forms, log everything, and make sure the clipboard stayed in reach. He set up the same process now—printing a fresh form, clipping it to the wall, and getting ready for the storm of boxes that would soon follow.
The first shipment arrived without fanfare, and Bob got to work. He filled out the form, noted down the deliveries, and hung the clipboard back where it belonged. It was business as usual—at least for now.
Then it happened.
When he finally gave in and glanced at the monitor—the one he’d been studiously ignoring—he saw it: two perfectly still barcodes, sitting quietly in the top-left corner of the screen. There was no glitching, no nonsense. Just… barcodes, clear as day.
Bob’s gut sank. He didn’t like it. Without a word, he stalked off to find Trevor and Larry.
“Hey,” he called to them, “I’m taking a picture of those codes. What do you want me to do?”
They followed him back to the monitor, squinting at the barcodes like they might leap off the screen at any moment.
Trevor crossed his arms. “Have you tried scanning them?”
Bob scoffed, shaking his head.
“Fuck no,” he said. “I know better than that.”
****
Larry, always on edge about things spreading, was the first to ask if they had a scanner that wasn’t too smart—something without software updates or complex connections. “You know, like the old-school wired kind,” he said. “Not like a cell phone. Real dumb tech.”
Bob scratched the back of his neck, thinking. “Well, the scanner we’ve got hooked to the computer is probably the simplest one. It’s ancient. But yeah, it’s still tied to the computer.” He paused, catching Larry’s expression. “But the little hand scanner... yeah, that’s the most basic thing we’ve got. If I have to scan the barcodes, it’ll reach.”
Larry gave a slow nod. It wasn’t the most reassuring conversation.
Bob brought the hand scanner closer, hesitating just long enough for the tension to build. He aimed it at the two barcodes glowing quietly on the monitor. Just as he was about to pull the trigger—both codes vanished.
In less than a quarter of a second, a new, larger barcode replaced them. The change was so fast that Bob’s brain barely registered what had happened. It was like the system was trying to trick them—but in truth, Bob suspected something worse. It was learning. The two smaller barcodes had merged into one, more efficient code, as if the system had figured out a better way to pass information.
Bob saw the flicker. Trevor missed it entirely, and as for Larry… Bob wasn’t sure if he noticed or not.
“What did it come up as?” Larry asked, leaning over Bob’s shoulder.
Bob didn’t answer right away. He was focused on the computer, scrolling through windows, trying to track where the data had gone. It didn’t show up in any of the usual places—no entries appeared in the Excel spreadsheet he had open. His fingers clicked and scrolled faster, frustration creeping in.
Then the printer in the corner whirred to life. It spat out a sheet of paper with the mechanical precision of a machine that had just solved a puzzle.
Bob grabbed the printout. At first glance, it looked exactly like the spreadsheet he had printed earlier—same layout, same structure. But the contents were… strange. The columns were filled with weird, jumbled letters and numbers, arranged in repeating patterns. It wasn’t complete gibberish—some elements repeated at regular intervals, like weights or quantities. But it wasn’t anything Bob could immediately make sense of, either.
Larry and Trevor both leaned in closer. Before either of them could say a word, Bob acted on reflex. He grabbed the clipboard, clipped the new printout to it, and hung it on the wall.
The barcode on the monitor changed.
The white lines shifted to a bright, unnatural green. Then it stopped moving, locked in place.
Everyone fell silent.
The color shift made Bob’s stomach sink. This wasn’t just some glitch—something was responding to him specifically. It was like the system had anticipated him grabbing the clipboard and treated it like an input. That green barcode wasn’t random; it was a signal. And worse, it felt personal.
Bob’s mind was racing. This is tailored to me. It knows my system. That thought screamed louder than any alarm bell.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Larry, ever the paranoid one, took a step back, eyes darting to the green barcode. “Okay… that ain’t normal.”
Trevor, by contrast, shrugged and gave a half-smirk. “Yeah, well, weird stuff happens all the time. Just another day in the madhouse.”
Bob didn’t respond. His eyes stayed glued to the barcode, watching the green lines hold steady on the screen. Whatever was happening, it was just beginning.
******
Larry made a photocopy, scanned it, and sent it off in an email to head office. Then, the three of them—Larry, Bob, and Trevor—sat around for the next couple of hours, drinking coffee and playing hooky in the back, trying to figure out what they were looking at. They were freaking out a little, hunger gnawing at them, but they couldn’t stop staring at the sheet. They kept hoping it would start to make sense.
It wasn’t until two hours before quitting time that Larry got a reply. Someone smarter—probably much smarter—had taken a look at the data. The message translated part of it: These numbers might be weights. This section could be letters. And this part here? Probably a pass/fail code. Some of the data was actually a list of deliveries they’d already received, showing which ones were on the shelves and if they had passed inspection. A simple yes or no, or maybe an up or down.
The weird part? There was also a new delivery on the list—one that hadn’t arrived yet. No status, no answer. Just sitting there on the page, waiting to happen.
Bob looked at the sheet again. This time, something clicked—and he didn’t like it. A strange, uneasy hum started vibrating in his skull, as if failing the delivery had triggered some primal fear. It wormed its way into Bob’s mind and stuck, grinding away at his nerves. His mood soured, fast.
But everyone knew Bob could be a little erratic. Some days, he was grumpy and stubborn; other days, he was weirdly upbeat for no reason. They just assumed it was Bob being Bob. With the stress they were all under, nobody blamed him for being on edge.
Still, Bob had an internal moment of frustration. I can do better than this, he thought. This isn’t hard... I just can’t read it, that’s all. Small problem. He tried to psych himself up. But it felt like trying to sell a chocolate bar to Cthulhu—futile.
Larry, the practical one, saw where this was heading. “Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Everything’s going sideways. Bob’s obsessing, Trevor’s losing it over the toilet paper shortage... If they lose it, I lose it.”
Larry fished out his wallet and handed them both twenties. “Get yourselves some pizza tonight, on me,” he said. “This whole thing is stupid, and I don’t want to deal with it until corporate sends something else. Bob, from what you’ve told me, there’s another order coming in. How many have we passed? How many failed? Can you make sense of it?”
Bob squinted at the paper. “Looks like... one in three failed. Some chocolate bars got destroyed.” He traced his finger down the sheet, frowning. “And... oh, wow. Two big fat negatives for a high-security package—apparently it contained the heart, lungs, and soul of a dryad.”
Larry and Trevor exchanged glances. “Can you read this stuff, or...?” Trevor asked.
“Hell no!” Bob snapped. “It’s garbage. Absolute nonsense.” He glanced down at the paper again, as if it might suddenly make sense. It didn’t. “Yep. Still garbage.”
Larry sighed. He could tell Bob was in too deep. “Look, Bob, take a copy of this home with you tonight. See if you can write down what you think it means, and bring it in tomorrow. Thanks for putting up with this mess—now just go home. Seriously. Clock out early.”
Bob opened his mouth to argue, but Larry raised a hand. “Just go. We’ll figure it out later. But Trevor—stay.”
Trevor blinked. “What? Why me?”
“Because I need you watching the front, especially with the toilet paper situation.” Larry rubbed his eyes. “And heads-up: we’ve got new COVID protocols coming down the pipeline. Mandated cleanings for the next few days, new procedures on the way... just hang in there.”
Bob stood slowly, still clutching the cryptic paper. “So... tomorrow?”
“Yeah, yeah. Tomorrow,” Larry waved him off. “Also, use the back door when you come in from now on. We might have to lock down some areas for safety.”
Bob hesitated. “Anything weird going on in the rest of the building? Other staff saying anything?”
Larry shrugged. “Not that I’ve heard. But if you see or hear anything strange, tell me right away.”
Bob gave a weary nod, tucked the sheet under his arm, and shuffled out the door. Larry sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Pizza,” he muttered to himself. “Everyone needs pizza.”
**************
Trevor and Bob exchanged looks.
“Really?” Trevor said, squinting at Larry. “I thought you had that under control.”
Bob shrugged in agreement. Neither he nor Trevor was big on small talk—they mostly stuck to work stuff, always busy handling their tasks. But now, it looked like they had dropped the ball. Somehow, they hadn’t realized how much the changes in the back were affecting things up front. It hadn’t exactly slipped their minds... They just assumed everything was fine. In hindsight, it was pretty stupid.
“Yeah,” Trevor muttered. “Hindsight’s 20/20.”
“And we probably need to bring in security,” Bob added.
Larry cut them off with a sharp wave. “Security’s clueless about all this. But yeah, I’ll get them involved... just not today. I'll handle it in a day or two.”
With that, Larry gave Bob the nod to leave early. “Go home, man.”
Bob didn’t argue. He grabbed his stuff, muttered a half-hearted goodbye, and headed out. Larry sighed and retreated to his office, already thinking about tomorrow.
----------------------------------------
Bob wasn’t much of a drinker, but every once in a while, he treated himself. When his last paycheck came through with that overtime bump—and a steak dinner practically calling his name—he decided to indulge. He picked up a box of cheap white wine and a bottle of Jack Daniels, then stopped at the grocery store for a few vegetables. He apologized mentally to Larry for blowing the twenty bucks on food, but it was worth it.
Once home, Bob set out to make a proper dinner. He threw together a salad, fried up some mushrooms and onions, and grilled one of his big steaks to perfection. As the food sizzled, he tossed the crumpled paper from work onto the kitchen table, next to a pen.
Music played softly in the background as Bob worked. He poured himself a drink, downed it, and went outside for a quick smoke to clear his head.
When he came back inside, something strange caught his eye. The paper on the table—it was filled out. Somehow, without realizing it, Bob had written everything out in plain English, or at least as much of it as he could understand.
He stared at the messy handwriting, trying to piece together what he’d scrawled. The main reason for the failed deliveries, apparently, was destruction of property. But storing the items, even temporarily, was enough to pass inspection for now.
Bob noticed something else: one column repeated the same strange symbol over and over. But just as his eyes glazed over, he spotted one more entry—a single symbol, the same as the others, but inverted. It was buried at the bottom of the page, so easy to miss. In fact, if he hadn’t been paying close attention, he wouldn’t have noticed it at all.
The more he stared at it, the more his head throbbed. It felt like the paper was alive—like it was shifting the longer he looked at it. Screw that, Bob thought. That was a problem for tomorrow. Right now, he had steak and Jack waiting.
He dropped the pen, shook his head, and muttered, “Time to eat.”