Racks upon racks of processed hoag meat rushed past as the cherry picker sailed along through the aisles. Meats kept one eye on the young man holding onto the roof cage behind him. He looked relatively unfazed by the constant icy breeze that usually cut newbies to pieces like wire though cheese.

Something seemed off about all of this. The cases raining down from the racks, the new hires, and something about this kids eyes especially rubbed him the wrong way. They were too dark on the inside. Too unwillingly evil for a kid his age. Meats watched as he rubbed the ring finger under his glove.

“You married, Tom?” Meats asked, nodding towards the hand. Tom immediately froze and attempted to look like he’d never heard of hands.

“No, sir. Never been the type. You?” Tom asked, looking a bit embarrassed.

“Not anymore. Not for a little while now.” Arnold answered, specifically trying to forget a certain four year stretch of his life. He was quickly regretting bringing the topic to hand.

“Sorry, I guess.” Tom said, a look of deep contemplation coming over him. He almost looked disappointed.

“Don’t be. Neither of us were any good at it. She was running a warehouse, and I was running away. Don’t know why we tried to mush the two together in the first place.” Arnold continued, letting himself get a little too carried away. Tom froze again.

“You were married to Rittula Staint, then?” He asked. Meats glanced back at him and nodded. The kid had sounded odd that time. Something about the tone of his voice was setting off alarm bells in his head.

Tom looked distant for a moment, then turned and pulled out his phone. He began typing up a message with seemingly frantic abandon, ripping a thick glove off of his hand. A glint of gold caught Meats’ eye. He’d lied.

“Well, now, don’t go spreading it around like pate! It ain’t like it’s all that public kid.” Meats complained, double taking as he listened to the sound of inputs. Meats stepped off of the dead man switch, causing the cherry picker to screech to a halt.

“You listen here kid! When I say to do something, do it! Now put the fucking phone away before I shove it where the sun don’t shine!” Meats growled, catching Tom a split second before he slammed into the control panel. Meats could feel his heartbeat through his knuckles.

“Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!” Tom agreed, slipping his phone back into his pocket. It had come off more excited than scared. Meats didn’t like that. Neither he, nor Arnold, liked that at all.

Meats turned back to the controls and set his foot on the dead man switch, an uneasy silence enveloping the two. As he began to push the throttle forwards he stopped. Something on the edge of his peripheral vision shifted between the racks. A flash of white zipped between the plastic flaps of the door, and out of sight.

He turned the cherry picker ninety degrees, facing it dead square in the middle of the aisle. It couldn’t have been a box. White boxes were used for the few non-meat products they stored. This was room 22, nearly a mile and a half from the nearest storage space designated for primarily cheese, and whipped cream.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

“You see that?” Meats murmured, pulling the cherry picker up to the doorway. He leaned forwards, peeking past the corner he’d seen the thing disappear around. Meats began to regret his suggestion three years prior to put the lights above each aisle on independent motion sensors. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be moving.

He could see some sort of white deformed blob, stuck up against the painted green racks. Meats unhooked his harness from the machine, and hopped down onto the concrete. He made his way between the few aisles separating him from the thing, careful not to catch his hooks on any struts.

He drew closer, noticing a faint clanking and clattering echoing among the pallets. The lights flicked on. It was a white box, wedged between a pallet and a rack. It was nearly eight feet off of the ground, shaking violently as it forcefully pulled itself further between the green metal beams.

“Huh, it’s whipped cream… All the way out here.” Meats whispered to himself as he leaned around the rack. The part of the box that had made it the furthest through the rack had deformed, a splotch of red in the middle.

“What is it?! Looks like a box!” Tom shouted, still standing on the elevated platform of the cherry picker.

“Drive the picker over here! I want to get a better look!” Meats yelled over his shoulder. He made sure not to take his eyes off of the fibreboard receptacle as he listened for the whirring up of the electric motor. He wasn’t going to lose track of this one if he could help it.

It took about a minute for Tom to make his way over to Meats. In that time the box had made it nearly halfway through the rack, still compelled by some sort of force. Meats waved down the young man and pointed to where he wanted him to stop.

“It’s not supposed to be up there is it?” Tom said, pulling Meats up onto the platform. Meats took a second to eye him suspiciously. Something had changed about the kids' demeanor. His eyes had softened a bit. He almost looked relieved.

“Just… take us up a couple feet.” Meats said, turning his attention back to the anomaly at hand. The picker shot upwards a few feet, bringing the box to waist height. He leaned over, getting a closer look at the growing red stain bulging through the cardboard.

Meats poked the bulge with a spare wrench he had attached to his belt. The box wiggled a bit more and then sat completely still. As Meats turned back to gesture for Tom to come have a look, a can of whipped cream found its breaking point.

“Holy shit!” Meats shouted, shielding his eyes from the fountain of pressurized dairy product, along with any metal shards that might head his way. A red streak whizzed off into the distance pinging off of a rack or two as it sailed through the freezer.

“What was that? Some kind of drone or something?” Tom asked, helping Meats to his feet.

“Do I look like I know? Shit.” Meats grumbled, wiping off some of the whipped cream covering his face. He looked at Tom. They were both covered head to toe in the stuff. Meats reached into his suit and felt around inside.

“I think I’m soaked through.” Tom said, flicking some more cream out of the arms of his jacket. Meats pulled his hand out, the wetness immediately beginning to freeze his hand.

“Yeah, we should head back. By the time we get back to the office we might be nearly frozen solid. No point in getting hypothermia on your first day.” Meats said, pulling the box and five or so remaining cans of whipped cream onto the cherry picker.

“What about the picker out in 42?” Tom asked, lowering the cherry picker to the ground.

“What about it? It’s a machine. We’re people. It can wait. We’ll come back tomorrow when we’re dry.” Meats said, inspecting the red stain, now a red frayed mess of fibre board. Meats knew he might have to be a bit of an ass to Staint to get her over this one, but he wasn’t going to freeze to death for a cherry picker.

As the machine turned in a 180 degree swivel Meats watched the darkness fall away behind them. He listened. Even over the whirring of the cherry pickers electric motor he could swear he heard faint dings and pops, coming from all around them. Arnold feared it was getting louder. Meats feared he was going to have to do something about it.