The plan was to stand it upright, then slide it across the floor through the goo, and finally shove it out the backdoor into the yard—not a long-term solution but good enough for now. I squatted down, got a grip, and heaved. It was much heavier than I’d expected. I heaved again, got my legs underneath, and with all my strength tipped it upright.
The plan went awry.
The refrigerator door swung open. Twenty-odd cubic feet of yellow-brown, frothy floodwater and rancid foodstuffs—vegetables, meat, Ziploc bags whose contents had liquefied, eggs whose shells had turned soft and translucent—gushed out and surged across the floor, splashing everywhere. (Sadly, I wasn’t wearing my ridiculous but waterproof overalls.)
Down/Up
The smell slammed me in the face. (My mask typically blocked even the most noxious of aromas, so the unmediated stench must have been simply horrific.) I felt the vomit surge in my throat. Though uncertain of the exact consequences of puking into my respirator, I was pretty sure it was the heinous first step in a hideous comedy-of-errors chain reaction that should be avoided at all costs. I had to leave.
I staggered backwards, slipped, and nearly fell into the carpet of maggots, lunged forward through the house and out the door, ripped my mask off, and gasped deeply.
I took a particularly vigorous shower that evening.
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