The iThink Corp. Building sat at the edge of San Francisco Bay; it was Leed-certified, with a roof garden, directional mini wind turbines, and solar panel-infused windows. A black Aston Martin DB9 skidded into a parking spot marked, "Res. for Prof. Boyd."
The building's open-air atrium was empty. Gerard, the security guard, looked up from his bank of security monitors as he heard Boyd's echoing footsteps approaching him.
Boyd smiled at him. "Hi, Gerard."
"Hi, professor Boyd. Didn't expect to see you here on a Saturday."
"Oh, there is always something to do. How are the kids?"
"They're good, thanks for asking."
"Give them my best."
Gerard's phone, sitting on the desk next to him, beeped; he looked at it and smiled. On the screen was a picture of grilled meat on stick and the message: "iThink you should order Korean BBQ for Hi-Lo Gardens."
Gerard looked at Boyd and grinned. "Hell of an app you and Mrs. Mearsteen got there, professor."
Boyd forced a smile. "Yes. Yes, it is."
***
The server room was a windowless cavern, filled with row after row of rack-mounted computer servers. They blinked green and red, beeping in an atonal pattern, a never-ending, ever-expanding whirlpool of data.
Boyd leaned over a terminal, and it scanned his eye. It chirped, and the screen read, "Welcome, Professor Boyd."
He typed on the keyboard and loaded new software from his private development server. The screen read, "Processing," as a red progress bar grew. Boyd tapped on the side of the terminal.
The screen chirped again, and read, "Update Installed."
Let's see how smart you are, Doctor, he thought. Like you said, it's one of the most rewarding things in life when you can solve your own problems.
Boyd smiled. "That will show her."
***
Gather, a restaurant in Boston's Seaport District, was filled with a young, hip crowd, all ordering from the iThink app. Mitch paced in front of the bar; he wore tight black jeans, black Doc Marten boots, and a short-sleeve t-shirt with a T-Rex trying in vain to take a selfie.
He talked into his phone, "It's not going to end bad, Tippi."
"I don't have a good feeling about this, Mitch," Tippi said. "Just bail tonight. See her tomorrow."
"Come on, how bad could it be?"
"Just leave. If she likes you, she'll understand."
"I think you're jealous."
"Shut up, Mitch. Just trust me on this one, plea-"
Rachel entered the bar, phone in hand, and waved to him. Her tight black skirt and cashmere sweater took his breath away, and he completely forgot about his conversation. I love this app, he thought.
"Mitch? You there?"
Mitch snapped out of it. "I gotta go," he said, cutting Tippi off. "See ya on the flip-flop."
***
"Hello? Hello?"
Tippi, sitting on her bed in Frankenstein T-shirt, looked at her phone.
Mitch had hung up.
"I'll see you on the flip-flop. Who freaking says that?" She crossed her arms. "Well, I hope you get stabbed."
***
"Hey, Rachel," Mitch said, nervously leaning on the bar. "Wow. You look great."
"You too," she said. "Nice shirt," she said, pointing to the T-Rex on his chest.
He laughed. She gave him a long kiss.
She pulled away, and Mitch blushed. "So," he said. "You hungry?"
"Yes," she said, and looked at her phone.
***
Let's see...burger with green chilli...no wait, maybe blue cheese... Tippi thought as she stood in Tasty Burger in The Garage in Cambridge, checking out the menu.
From the corner of the restaurant, a plump frat boy in a Dartmouth sweatshirt nudged another frat boy in a Yale sweatshirt. Each held a phone in his hand. "I think you spit in my drink!" Dartmouth Frat Boy said.
Yale Frat Boy looked at his phone and replied, "No way, dickhead. I think you spit in mine!"
Tippi turned her head to the commotion.
Dartmouth Frat Boy puffed up his chest. "Fuck you!"
Yale Frat Boy rolled up his sleeves. "No, fuck you!"
They started to push each other.
A balding manager with overly hairy arms and thick glasses rushed towards them with a broom in hand. He yelled, "Take your shit outside, losers," and pushed them out the door.
Tippi watched as the frat boys looked at their phones again. The familiar spinning, rainbow-colored icon told them what to do and they squared off.
The girl behind the counter asked for her order, but Tippi just left.
She'd lost her appetite.
***
David brought the bong to his lips. He took a huge hit, exhaled thick, white smoke, and farted. Heaven, he thought. There is nothing like doing a bong hit on the toilet.
The bathroom was filthy: the mirror hadn't been cleaned in what seemed like a year, clothes were strewn on the floor, and the shower was nearly black with mildew.
He was about to take another hit when there was a knock on the door. "What?" he shouted. "I'm busy."
"Hey, numbnuts," came the voice of Vince, his roommate. "It's for you."
***
Tippi sat on her couch, picking at her painted black fingernails. She held her phone to her ear.
The TV was on, with the sound muted. She turned around and tried to ignore it.
"Come on, come on!" she said "What's taking so long?"
***
Vince, his girlfriend Lisa, and his best friend Randy, all in their mid-twenties, sat in a living room decorated with mismatched, second-hand furniture, watching a woman kicking ass with two swords. Beer cans littered a cheap, black plastic ikea coffee table.
"Wow," Lisa said to Vince. "She's amazing."
"Yeah," Vince replied, taking a swig of his beer. "The Women of the Twelve Swords is one of my favorites."
David entered, strumming his guitar, just in time to see the kung-fu woman decapitate three men with one swipe. "Classic," he said.
He picked up a tan nineteen-seventies-style phone that was lying on the ground.
"Where the hell have you been?" Tippi asked.
"It's the weekend, you know I don't use the cell phone," David replied, strumming his guitar.
"Something is wrong with the app."
***
At Gather, a waiter cleared the dessert dishes.
"That mousse with chocolate sauce reduction was amazing," Rachel said, reaching for Mitch's hand.
Mitch took her hand in his. "No doubt," he replied. "I'm stuffed."
They both looked at the spinning rainbow brains on their phones. "You want to get out of here?" Mitch said. "Go to my place?"
"You read my mind," Rachel replied with a smile.
***
David strummed his guitar again and rested the phone on his shoulder. "Oh please, not this again."
"Listen, dickhead!" Tippi screamed through the phone. "Turn on the news! The app has a bug."
David stopped strumming, mid-chord. "Wha?"
"Turn on the news, now!"
David turned to his roommates on the couch. "Turn it to Channel Five."
"Fuck you," Vince replied, with an inebriated grin. "We're just getting to the big axe battle, where-"
"I'm serious."
Vince put his hands up. "Okay, okay." He turned it to Channel Five.
The Channel Five newsroom was abuzz. News anchor Cynthia Fox's golden blond hair was a mess, and her power suit jacket was disheveled. She spoke, with a faster cadence than normal, "The iThink app has been hacked. It's telling people to do horrible things. And people are! We must warn you, the footage you are about to see is extremely graphic. So sensitive viewers should leave the room."
The news broadcast switched to a shot of a large man running down the street, his phone in one hand and a butcher's knife in the other. He lunged at a woman, stabbing her in the chest and laughing. He kicked an elderly man to the ground, and stood over him. The elderly man screamed; the man brought the butcher's knife down into the elderly man's throat, and he screamed no more.
David stared, horrified.
On the TV, two young ladies in their twenties pulled each others' hair, cellphones in hand. One screamed, "He is mine!" as she drove the other one's face into the curb, cracking her teeth and breaking her jaw with a spray of blood.
Lisa grabbed Vince; he grabbed her back. Randy covered his mouth.
On the Massachusetts Turnpike, an eighteen-wheeler truck barreled through a line of traffic at ninety miles an hour. Cars flew as the truck hit them, thrown to the side like snow from a plow. The truck driver clutched the wheel with one hand and his phone with the other.
The camera returned to Cynthia, who spoke again, "It's horrible. I can't even speak..." She paused. "Ladies and gentlemen, do not, I repeat, do not use the iThink app."
She looked at something off-camera, and grabbed the desk defensively. "No wait, Stan, I can explain, I-"
Her voice was cut off by a shotgun blast, and her head exploded; it covered the anchor desk with brain, blood, and blond hair.
The broadcast turned to static.
No one spoke a word.
David had a horrifying realization. Into the phone, he said, "Oh fuck. Mitch."
***
Mitch's apartment was dark. He and Rachel lay on his bed, kissing. He slipped a hand under her shirt; she giggled, but did not move it away.
The thick brick walls of the hundred-year-old apartment building, and the soft tunes of The xx, isolated them from the sound of the chaos outside.
On the nightstand, Mitch's phone glowed. It was set to silent mode, so neither Mitch nor Rachel heard a sound.
The words "David's Cell" flashed on the screen, then stopped.