Horror short: Bottleneck
A short horror story based on the time I really did have a fly colony escape on my last day of work at a DNA lab.
My last day on the job started just like the thousand before: I woke up before 7—my alarm insisting
I was already late. I stepped over the evidence of the previous night's despair—a greasy burrito wrapper, an empty wine glass, and a half-completed job application to a research facility in Hawaii.
I worked in a private DNA lab. And since my role involved caring for live laboratory animals—flies, specifically—I could never miss a single day of work without compromising our data. I pulled on the jeans lying on the floor, splashed some water on my face, and fished my car keys out of a pile of unopened mail on the kitchen counter. Before closing the door, I surveyed my apartment. This one-bedroom unit was a steal at $1,800/month, but it hardly seemed worth nearly half of my take-home salary. With my work hours and lengthy commute, I was hardly ever there so its Victorian charm and view across Japantown were wasted on me. Even the dishwasher mocked me—I couldn't remember the last time I'd cooked.
Dodging the street cleaners, I jogged across Van Ness Avenue to a coffee shop. In San Francisco, a coffee shop occupies nearly every street corner. You can easily walk into the wrong one, order something simple—like a large coffee to-go—and wait ten minutes as a coffee technician coaxes water temperature toward boiling in a hand-blown glass beaker. Instead, I ducked into Ming's Coffee and Donuts, which is conveniently attached to a laundromat, had I ever thought of dropping off my laundry on the way to work.
A sullen teenager—I suspect one of Ming's daughters—silently poured and handed me a large drip coffee in exchange for two crumpled dollar bills. Sipping my coffee, I stood on the corner of Van Ness and Geary, trying to remember exactly where I parked my car the previous night. The street cleaning schedule meant I had to park up to ten blocks away every other day. And since I returned home close to 7 p.m., there were slim pickings for spots. But I still resented the alternative: paying another $200/month for permission to use someone else's driveway. Remembering that when I'd walked home last night, I'd fallen into the Russian deli for a cheeky midweek bottle of wine, I eventually narrowed my Subaru's location to Sutter Street with the rear end hanging two feet into the intersection.
Pulling out into the street, I suddenly slammed on the brakes. An elderly bare-breasted woman, wearing a prim skirt, pantyhose, but just one dirty sneaker, launched herself in front of my car. Through her stringy hair, I locked eyes with her—her pupils were pools of black ink—a sign that she was high on something.
“They’re coming,” she screeched, pounding her bony fists on my bumper. Then, a street sweeper approached, and when she veered toward the noise, I peeled away, leaving the intoxicated woman and her prophecies in my rear-view mirror.
Traffic across the Bay Bridge took forever. An accident had closed the right lane, so thousands of commuters and I inched along, trying not to look down at the 200-foot drop into the Bay's dark water. I cracked my window. Since I was stuck there, I might enjoy the ocean breeze while finishing my coffee.
I took a huge swig from my cup, but then, I felt something foreign—something alive—in my mouth. Horrified, I spluttered coffee all over my steering wheel. A thimble-worth of coffee pooled in the corner of my driver's console to the right of the gas gauge—and in its center, a huge fly struggled to free itself. I used the lid of the coffee cup to scoop the fly out of the car and then dumped the rest of the cup out the window. I had enough flies in my life, and this was definitely a sign that I needed to finish that job application.
It was nearly 9 a.m when I pulled into the office park in Richmond, California. I had an extra sweatshirt in my desk, and the lab coat would hide the wet spot on my jeans, but I’d still smell like coffee for the rest of the day. I scanned my badge and took the elevator to the top floor.
The DNA analysts, Mary and Carrie, were already typing reports at their desks. Though not related, they could pass for sisters—maybe even twins with their matching waist-length black hair. They'd even arranged their desks into mirror-images with color-coordinated stationery angled towards an indoor palm tree they had named Justin, after Justin Bieber, whom they both agreed should lay off any future tattoos. This palm tree was thriving under their dotage, looking far healthier than myself—and probably the actual Justin Bieber, who, Carrie informed me, has Lyme disease, so I should cut him some slack.
I waved as I passed their open door. We weren't really friends—despite being younger than I, they had their shit together. Still, we were all women in science, working for the same condescending boss, so there was a loose camaraderie.
My office space was next door to theirs. What my office lacked in style and comfort, it made up for with the view. For some reason, Carl, my boss, had pounced on the corner office, which had the anxiety-inducing panorama of ten lanes of non-stop I-80 traffic.
Yet, my tiny space was blessed with an unobstructed view of San Francisco Bay. But, sometimes, I felt like my view was actually a cruelty. I struggled to reconcile the insanity of spending my days—hell, my life—moving from one cage to another: from my apartment to the car to the office, and then back again and again. Just outside of reach, an endless drama of untamable wild water and weather unfolded—mocking me and my choices.
I tried not to think about these things too much.
I dumped my backpack on the floor before changing my sweatshirt. Then I checked the voicemail—two messages. Since Carl refused to pay for an office manager, I'd somehow taken on the role—an irony not lost on me, since I felt overwhelmed simply managing my way home at the end of the day. One message was from a vendor wanting to discuss new pricing on gloves and face-masks. The second was from a client I knew to be mostly insane. She'd been calling weekly to get me to acknowledge that she might be related to the Virgin Mary.
“Could we do DNA testing to prove it?” she begged.
"That's not the kind of DNA work we do here," I had explained many times. “Plus, we’d need a reference sample from the Virgin Mary to compare yours to, and I don’t think that’s possible.”
The DNA analysts used a lab room across the hall for their extractions. The rest of the floor was unoccupied—save for the lab at the end of the hall where we kept the live fly colonies.
I had organized this project into two stations—adult flies and juveniles. The adult fly colonies were located in the empty lab: a dozen mesh cages, each the size of a microwave oven. Each cage housed hundreds of shimmery blue bottles you've encountered a million times at summer picnics. Bottle flies, also known as blow flies, are not difficult to care for. Each morning, I topped up a small dish of sugar water and changed the paper at the bottom of the tray. If I was hoping to get eggs from this particular group, I'd check the small dish of pig's liver I'd placed inside the day before. With luck, I'd find what looked like dozens of tiny grains of rice carefully laid on top—fly eggs.
I reared the fly eggs in plastic containers. The eggs would hatch into larvae—maggots. They'd eventually pupate into their version of a cocoon and then become flies. Fly biology is highly predictable—which is why they are widely used in forensic science. Since fly maturation rates primarily depend on temperature, hot days equal bigger maggots, whereas cooler days result in smaller maggots. If present at a crime scene, fly species can be collected to determine how long a person has been dead.
However, the presence of drugs in the deceased person's system has a considerable risk of throwing off this estimate. Toxins that affect human metabolism, like cocaine and steroids, may affect creatures feeding on those tissues and thereby influence any calculations of the time since death.
So, that's where our work came in. And why I had a locked cabinet filled with cocaine. And steroids. And the full spectrum of antidepressants. And so on. My job was to spike the foodstuffs of these flies with a specific drug at varying amounts and then record the impact on the maggot growth rates. The DNA analysts were researching whether the spiked foodstuffs affected the fly DNA and if it affected the behavior of future generations.
Being a fly zookeeper-slash-drug dealer wasn't exactly what I'd envisioned for my life when I graduated with my Master of Science in forensic science. But I'd certainly had worse jobs. Not only did I not have to take out the trash, but this job also had health insurance.
When I entered the laboratory that morning, I noticed that the adult colonies seemed agitated. They were part of a series of experiments I was monitoring using PCP—Angel Dust—which is commonly associated with aggressive behavior and hallucinations in humans. The San Francisco Bay Area had recently suffered a string of high-profile PCP-related accidents and deaths. In response, our lab had been awarded a small grant for research.
When Carl announced the project, the DNA analysts and I were confused—working with live animals and illegal narcotics wasn’t what this lab was designed to do. I had touched on entomology during my graduate degree work, so Carl had deemed me worthy of conducting the research. Of course, his name would go first on the publications, but he assured me I would be listed as part of the project.
I watched the flies bang against their mesh prison for a few moments. I don’t usually empathize with insects but I identified with their frustration. Prisons are all around us, often nestled one inside the other, like the fly colony, inside the locked lab, inside a concrete and glass office park carved from landfill and marshland, inside a society that rewards us with scraps for following the rules day after day.
Usually, the flies were docile—lazy even. Today, this group seemed enraged. I hesitated to reach inside their cage to top up their sugar water. Generally, this species of blue bottle fly, Calliphora vomitoria, isn’t dangerous, per se. They don’t bite—they’re attracted to dead things, like decomposing animals, from roadkill to hamburgers. That makes them vectors for disease, by spreading bacteria, but these flies don’t have teeth in the traditional sense. Their mouths are constructed like a sponge, assisted by mouth structures that allow the fly to abrade the surface of the decomposing tissue to lap up the liquid beneath. Biologically, they have zero interest in healthy, live animals.
I still wasn’t in a hurry to reach inside their cage, so I loaded up a large syringe of sugar water and weaved it through the gaps in the mesh toward their dish. As soon as I pierced the wall of their sanctuary, the flies mobbed my syringe. Startled, I dropped it inside their cage. Backing away, I watched them swarm their prize.
Ten colonies were lined along the lab bench, each containing about 500 flies. Walking to the furthest cage from the one I had just irritated, I tapped on its wire mesh with my pen. The flies rushed the side of the cage with such force they rocked it. Had I not been standing there to block it, the cage would have tumbled to the floor, releasing its feral contents into the air.
I raced back to my office to call Carl. He was still stuck in traffic somewhere in Vallejo.
“I’ll be there in 30 minutes. Why don’t you set up a camera so we can document this—and did you check the juveniles?”
His excitement reverberated through the phone, and understandably so—this would make a sexy academic abstract at the next North American Annual Conference of Forensic Entomologists.
I had not yet checked on the juveniles. I dug out the video camera and tripod from the storage closet and then paused outside the laboratory door. I could hear buzzing through the solid metal door, which seemed impossible. After all, these weren’t African cicadas, but the common fly. Pushing the door slowly, I confirmed the noise was the vibrations of the metal wire containers rattling on the steel lab benches.
With clumsy hands, I assembled the camera on the adjacent lab bench. I focused the zoom on the fly colony at the end of the row—the one that had nearly knocked over its cage when I had antagonized its residents with a pen. I took a broom we kept in the corner for cleanups and, using the wooden handle, gingerly pushed the cage back several inches from the edge of the table. Then I repeated that technique for the rest of the row.
The juvenile colonies were kept on the building roof to best approximate the specific climate of the San Francisco Bay Area. I had a folding table set up with four plastic containers. Each container was the rearing habitat for 250 fly larvae. I’d climb the fire escape daily with a freshly blended batch of pig’s liver and PCP. Once I’d replaced their foodstuffs, I’d harvest ten maggots from each group for measurement. I’d dispatch them by popping them into a beaker of scalding water I had waiting downstairs.
On the roof, it was a beautiful Northern California morning. I could see the San Francisco skyline shimmering across the Bay. A handful of boats and ferries crisscrossed the dark water, delivering their cargo and commuters from the East Bay to the city and back again. The spectacular backdrop made my folding table of maggots, PCP, and pig’s liver much more amusing—a vignette of the most miserable outdoor dining experience ever conceived.
But the containers were empty that day, save for dozens of slimy maggot trails. When maggots prepare to pupate, they will instinctively migrate from their foodstuffs to find a quiet place to get their maggot-to-fly transformation on. This pupation was days ahead of schedule. Also, I’d never had maggots defeat the mechanisms attaching the mesh to the plastic containers.
I investigated the table and the surrounding floor but found no maggots nor further evidence of them. I watched the boats momentarily, trying to make sense of this development. I was quick to blame myself. Had I forgotten to close up the containers? Had someone else decided to release them? And if they had managed to escape, where had they gone?
A seagull’s call brought me back to earth. I wondered if the scavenging seabirds had found a treasure trove of wandering maggots. That would mean a squad of seagulls under the influence of PCP would soon be wreaking havoc on Alameda County.
From my position on the roof, I saw Carl’s sedan pull into the parking lot. I climbed down the fire escape to intercept him. As competent a scientist as he probably was, he lacked both common sense and humility.
Last Wednesday, he arrived at work before me. I parked next to him and noticed his unoccupied car idling, with the doors locked. I found Carl at his desk, engrossed in an email.
“Why is your car still running downstairs?” I’d asked.
He looked annoyed. “What do you mean?” he asked, still focusing on his screen.
“Your car’s engine is running in the parking lot.”
We walked down to the parking lot together and stood in front of his silver sedan, which was running with the keys in the ignition.
“Huh,” he shrugged. “I must have forgotten to turn it off.”
He didn’t look nearly as ashamed as I thought he should have been.
As I described the fly situation, his eyes shone with delight. First, we returned to the roof so he could confirm that there had been a fly prison break.
“Astonishing,” he said. Then he eyed me skeptically. “You are sure you closed the containers?”
“Of course,” I nodded.
When we arrived at the lab door, Carl was practically giddy. Before spinning the door handle, I paused.
“Let’s get some PPE,” I suggested. “Wait here a sec.”
When I returned a minute later, holding plastic face masks and gloves, he was gone.
I donned a face mask and a pair of elbow-length chemical-grade gloves, then rested my palm on the door handle and listened. This time, I heard nothing—no buzzing at all. When I entered the room, Carl was peering thoughtfully inside a cage.
“They seem a little more agitated than usual, but I was expecting much worse from what you described.”
I resented his insinuation that I’d been hysterical but said nothing.
He took the pitcher of sugar water I’d prepared and returned to the colony in front of the camera.
“I tried to use a syringe this morning to feed them…” I started, but his glare stopped me.
“Those cost four dollars each, remember?”
Carl had minimal experience with live animal experiments and, in my opinion, had a hard time connecting to live humans as well. He was motivated by profit margins and invitations to speak at academic conferences. In his free time, he enjoyed Civil War reenactments—or more specifically, spending the first twenty minutes of our Monday meeting describing the authenticity of his battle strategies. His smug descriptions of grown men playing soldiers enraged me, but mostly because Carl was Canadian—from Victoria. He’d never been east of Denver.
He unlatched the entry flap to the mesh cage. Now, the flies seemed suspiciously quiet, which unnerved me more than their earlier aggression. They appeared poised, as if they were patiently waiting for something.
He deftly removed the water dish and closed the flap without incident. He filled the water dish with the sugar solution. Before returning it to the cage, he paused, remembering the camera. He repositioned himself so the camera could better capture his competence and bravery.
The flies in his cage remained still. But the other colonies began to vibrate in unison.
“Wait,” I whispered, edging closer to the door. “Carl…wait a sec.”
But he had already opened the flap.
Instantly, the colony of flies swarmed his intruding hand. Startled, he jumped back as I had, but this time, the cage tumbled to the floor, spilling the live contents into the room.
I shrieked and bolted out the door, closing it quickly behind me to prevent any escaping flies. I stood at the door, waiting for Carl to come running, prepared to slam it shut behind him. A few moments passed—more than I thought I should have. Pressing my ear against the door, I heard the incredible buzzing and the smashing of instruments against the steel lab benches.
I screamed Carl’s name through the door but got no response. Mary and Carrie appeared in the hall, eyes wide with alarm.
“Call somebody,” I pleaded. “There’s been an accident.”
The sound of commotion I heard through the door lessened. I adjusted my face mask and braced myself before opening the door one centimeter, then two.
Through the crack, I saw Carl standing with his back to me, just a couple feet inside the room.
“Carl,” I whispered.
He staggered a step and then slowly sank to the floor, followed by a plume of attacking flies. When he fell, his face lolled toward me, and I realized the extent of their viciousness. The flies had swarmed his eyes, his nose, and his mouth. I watched him trying to grab a desperate sip of air, but his throat was filled with flies, suffocating his screams.
From an entomological perspective, the fly behavior made no sense—they shouldn’t be aggressive. Clearly, the PCP the flies had ingested had profound and dangerous implications. In the back of my mind, I thought about the escaped juveniles on the roof, but didn’t have time to dwell on that at the moment.
I pulled the door shut. I felt guilty not going in after him, but I couldn’t risk the flies escaping into the hallway.
The DNA analysts poked their heads out of their office.
“Get outside,” I yelled.
They nodded in unison. Carrie paused, ducked back into her office, and returned cradling Justin, the indoor palm. Then the three of them disappeared into the elevator.
I contemplated suiting up in our Hazmat gear and turning a fire extinguisher on the flies in a final attempt to save Carl when I heard a crash through the door. Then, another. Finally, a third. The pit in my stomach told me not to breach the room, because I already knew what those crashes meant.
I stepped into a Tyvek suit and cinched the hood around my face. Between the mask, gloves, suit, and the floor evacuated, I felt confident enough to crack the door again.
Carl lay on the gray tiled floor, his entire upper body thickly carpeted with flies. His hands pawed weakly at his face, but I sensed no life would soon be left in him. The last fly containers hurtled off the bench with a crash, releasing the remaining prisoners to the assembling army.
I slammed the door, pressed my forehead against the cold steel, and screamed out of frustration and fear.
A siren in the distance pulled me out of my panic. I crouched against a wall to wait for the emergency team. I wondered what the plan would be. I couldn’t let anyone open the door. I thought we’d have to seal off the room—maybe even the building—and fumigate.
Suddenly, an idea jarred me to my feet, and I jogged down the hall to the thermostat. Since fly biology is triggered by heat, I wondered if I could reduce their activity by cranking the air conditioning in that room. Maybe they’d even return to a docile state—at least for long enough for us to retrieve Carl’s body.
I turned the thermostat as low as possible and then flew down the stairs to meet the fire engine pulling into the parking lot. I breathlessly explained the situation and my concerns about re-entering the building, especially the laboratory.
To their credit, the firemen seemed to take me seriously. They suggested raising their ladder up to the lab window so they could monitor the situation without endangering anyone.
A young, curly-headed firefighter was nominated for the task. I watched him rise to the third floor, clinging to the ladder. I feared for him. I half-expected the flies, emboldened by their first kill, to respond to his presence by breaking out the windows. But he calmly stood with his hand pressed over his eyes, trying to peer inside against the midday California sun.
“I don’t see anything,” he yelled down to us.
I ran to him when he reached the ground.
“I don’t see any flies in there,” he repeated.
“None?” I was incredulous.
“I saw your friend, though. Doesn’t look good. Looks like a chemical burn on his face. Are you sure it was flies?”
With no apparent threat, three firefighters donned full PPE and asked to be escorted inside to the laboratory.
“In there,” I instructed, pointing to the steel door.
The men entered slowly, while I stayed in the hall with the stretcher they’d brought to retrieve Carl’s body.
Through the crack in the door, I watched as they checked Carl’s vitals. Indeed, no flies blanketed him any longer. But he was almost unrecognizable. His face was blistered and raw. White foam leaked from his nose. Tiny specks of blood had settled like a mist over his bare arms and the floor. Smears from Carl’s sneakers etched his last frantic movements onto the cold, white tile.
I paced the hallway, waiting for the firemen to emerge. I looked up for answers, and to my surprise, I found one.
The HVAC system snaked down the central hallway's ceiling before splitting off into each laboratory. The same duct work that delivered the cold air I’d hoped could pacify the swarm was actually their path to freedom.
They could be anywhere now—the building, the bridge, the world.
The firemen emerged carrying Carl inside a white plastic body bag.
My mind reeled with the implications of a PCP-fueled killer swarm. A single female fly lays around 100 eggs in each batch—and they hatch in as little as 12 hours—but our research had demonstrated that the introduction of narcotics sped up their metabolism considerably.
“Let’s take the elevator. Save some energy,” one suggested. He had removed his protective hood, and sweat was beading on his forehead.
The three firefighters piled into the elevator around Carl’s body on the stretcher. One held the door for me.
I shook my head. “No.” There'd be no more prisons for me today if I could help it.
As the doors closed, I heard one say, “Look. That’s the first fly I’ve seen.”
