David Koepp - Cold Storage

Teacake and Naomi stared in horrified fascination. From this closer perspective they could see the deer had numerous gunshot wounds to its head, and one hindquarter appeared to have been completely crushed and then reinflated, somewhat off-shape. The deer’s belly seemed to expand as they watched, and its once-spindly limbs had taken on the shape of piano legs.

Naomi held her hands out, one toward the deer and one toward Teacake. “Just—just—just—”

Teacake looked at her, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Yeah?”

“Don’t—don’t—don’t—”

“Are you talking to me or the thing?!”

She wasn’t sure.

The deer took another few steps toward them, and they, in turn, took a few steps back. They continued to back away, moving toward the T-junction of the hallway.

Inside the deer’s head, a civil war was taking place. Every one of the animal’s natural instincts was screaming at it to turn and run away from these scary two-legged creatures, but an even stronger instinct, a new one that had taken hold only recently, insisted on just the opposite. And this new voice was loud and firm.

Move forward, the new voice said, get as close as you can, go to them, go to them, walk, walk, walk. And then the pain will stop.

Cordyceps novus knew what it wanted, and it wasn’t a cockroach, cat, or deer; it was the intelligent, highly ambulatory, communal creatures that were ten yards away at the end of the hall.

The deer kept moving toward them, and Teacake and Naomi continued to back up, until they reached the cinder block wall at the end of the corridor. They could have turned and run in either direction, but that would have meant tearing their eyes away from the unnatural spectacle that was unfolding in front of them, and that they could not do.

The deer was still swelling, its body creaking and groaning and snapping on the inside. It was puffing up like a water balloon at the end of a hose; there were just a few seconds left before its gut let go. Naomi and Teacake were directly within its spatter radius and didn’t realize how close they were to a certain and painful death.

But at the very last moment, Naomi’s four-year-old daughter, Sarah, stepped in and saved both of their lives.

For the last three months, Sarah had been deep in the throes of a Willy Wonka obsession. Sarah, and therefore her mother, had watched the 1971 version of that movie, in whole or in part, more times than Naomi cared to count. Sometimes Naomi was awake, actually watching it with her daughter. Sometimes she was asleep, dreaming it, or folding laundry in the other room, the audio bouncing off the walls and into her head. Naomi knew every line, every lyric, every part of it by heart, and the parts she knew best were the parts that scared Sarah. The parts where she needed her mama to come over and sit down and pull her onto her lap and stroke her hair and tell her it was all just pretend.

Naomi didn’t mind. She actually liked her kid best of all in those moments, because those were the times she felt like a halfway-okay mother. The scary parts of Willy Wonka were some of the most peaceful moments of Naomi’s life, which of course made her feel guilty. Does my kid have to be terrified and clingy in order for me to be happy? Well, no, but sometimes it helps.

What mattered now was the part of the movie that scared Sarah the most: when Violet Beauregarde stole the Three-Course-Dinner Gum and began to swell and blow up into an enormous blueberry. Sarah would cover her eyes and scream in panic, “She’s going to pop! She’s going to pop! Mama, she’s going to pop! ”

The deer was going to pop.

Naomi grabbed Teacake by the arm and hauled him to the side, pulling him around the corner and slamming them both up against the wall, hard, just as the deer’s overtaxed frame gave out. It isn’t accurate to say that the deer burst, like Mr. Scroggins and Enos Namatjira’s uncle had. This was different. One second the deer stood there, swollen nearly to round, like Violet Beauregarde. And the next second, the deer was not standing there, but the ceiling, floor, and walls of the hallway were painted with thick, foamy green fungus. Naomi held Teacake pressed firmly against the wall, inches out of the line of fire, safe behind their blast shield when the goo flew.

There was a second there where Teacake could look into her eyes from up close without coming off as creepy, a second where it was just gratitude and connection. The first half of that second was thrilling—her eyes were home, they were the only place he ever wanted to be, and the last lines of the only poem he knew flitted through his mind—

But then came the other half second, and his mind was no longer at peace, it felt only sorrow. Because he knew no matter how she felt tonight, no matter the thrill or danger or exhilaration of discovery, inevitably tomorrow morning would come, those feelings would fade, and she would realize they couldn’t possibly be together. A single mother—no, an outstanding single mother—would not, could not, choose to be with a minimum-wage worker with a prison record.

Specifically, she would not choose to be with him. If she did, she wouldn’t be her, and he wouldn’t respect her. He’d spare her the awkwardness of telling him once they got out of this; he’d just slip away. She wouldn’t know why, but maybe she’d know he’d saved her the trouble.

From around the corner, they heard the elevator doors open again, and the sound of footsteps on the hard cement floor.

What now ? Naomi pulled back from Teacake, and they looked at each other in confusion and alarm. Still hidden around the corner, they stayed silent, gesturing to each other. Her furrowed brow and cocked head asked, Who the hell is that? and his upturned palms and quick shake of his head answered, Like I know?

The footsteps drew closer and louder. They were definitely human, but there were no other workers in the place at this hour, and neither one of them had buzzed anyone in.

Teacake called out from around the corner. “Hello?” He tried to sound authoritative, but stayed where he was, hidden from view.

The footsteps paused, then started walking again. They heard a soft gush as the feet must have hit the edge of the wet carpet of fungus in the middle of the hall and kept coming toward them.

Naomi’s turn, louder: “Who is that?”

The footsteps stopped again, but only for a second before they resumed, faster, splatting through the fungus. They were just around the corner now. Teacake and Naomi backed up a few feet into the middle of the hallway, a safe enough distance away to still turn and run if they had to.

A man came around the corner and stopped, staring at them.

It took Naomi a moment to comprehend the weirdness of what she was seeing.

“Mike?”

Mike pulled back his lips and showed his teeth, which was not at all the same thing as a smile, but it was the best he could do. “Hi, honey.”

Teacake looked back and forth between them, three legitimate questions in his mind. He elected to skip two of the more mundane ones— You guys know each other? and “Honey”? —and move immediately to the more mysterious issue. “You were in the elevator with that thing?” he said to Mike.

Mike turned his head, as if noticing Teacake for the first time. “I was in the elevator with that thing.”

Teacake looked at Mike, then at Naomi. He’s your weirdo. But he pressed on, turning back to Mike. “So, you pushed the buttons?”

Mike blinked. “I pushed the buttons. A deer can’t push buttons.”