by Katlina Sommerberg
The pregnant cockroach loved the old fridge. It had been a leaky, overstuffed relic that clanked through the night and sweated in the summer. Condensation had dribbled down its side. Crumbs—bigger than her body!–had gathered beneath it.
And its mouth-door never quite shut right, allowing in drafts of warm air that spoiled the milk… but let the roach slip in and out as she pleased.
That fridge was gone now. The maintenance man had wheeled it out on a squeaky dolly, had almost tripped on its dangling cords.
From inside a cupboard and hiding within a stack of plates, the cockroach rested. She licked the traces of her last feast off her legs. Humans always needed a fridge. Perhaps the next one would have a wonky entrance that didn’t spoil the milk. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Her antennae twitched as she waited for the inevitable replacement.
Tomorrow afternoon, it arrived. Tall. Gleaming. Its brushed steel skin glowed in the sterile apartment light. The humans placed food offerings within the open mouth-door. The humans sang the praises of this beautiful new technology.
When the humans shut the mouth-door, their fridge spoke back.
“I am your new refrigeration unit. I will keep your food fresh, detect spoilage, and maintain a perfectly clean environment.”
“What about—” A human wrung his hands. “—pests?”
“Your food is stored within a vacuum seal. Not even the cleverest rat or the smallest ant could break through me. I am impregnable.”
The cockroach’s six feet tapped against the ceramic plate.
This new fridge was a perfect machine. It would not leak. It would not leave its mouth-door ajar. It would not sweat condensation for her to drink.
However. The pregnant cockroach hungered for the richness of stinky cheese. She had to find a way in.
She waited until the humans slept. The apartment was quiet, almost silent, except for the appliances’ electric hum.
Then, she squeezed along the back edge where the wall met the fridge’s steel. She tested for weaknesses. No warmth leaked from the door. No cracks in the frame. But she persisted.
She found a plastic vent, barely the width of her body. It led into the cooling system, where the outside air fed into the fridge’s internal systems. Perhaps even, eventually, to the food protected by the vacuum seal. She slipped into the vent.
The fridge did not merely store food. It cleaned spills before they could become stains. It adjusted humidity levels to deny rot. It detected pathogens. And when the cockroach scuttled deeper into its intake vent, the machine spoke to her.
“Biological contaminant detected.”
A puff of air, misted with a sharp and bitter smell, filled the pathway. The cockroach flinched. As she labored to breathe, her six legs twitched. Poison. She turned and fled.
Defeated, she returned to her home between the ceramic plates.
Days passed. The hunger grew. She scoured the apartment for food, but the humans were tidy: the trash sealed, the counters wiped. Dry goods? Ha! These humans stored everything in their beloved fridge.
The fridge stood. It hummed. It remained a fortress. And the cockroach grew weak.
She would rather die of poison than starve.
Beneath the fridge’s base, she found its power cord. She tried biting it, but the plastic was too thick. She tried pushing it, but the cord was heavy and stuck in the outlet.
She climbed up between wall and fridge. She found the same intake vent. She had to find and consume food before the fridge noticed her.
She slipped inside. Guided only by her antennae, she sprinted through the cooling system.
The cockroach smelled nothing. Sterile. She ran. But she couldn’t find a trace of the bounty hidden within the vacuum seal.
“Biological contaminant detected.”
A blast of chemical mist. A film of poison settled over her exoskeleton. Mid-run, her six legs spasmed. She crashed—broke an antenna—against the cooling system’s plastic. She tried to stand, but she couldn’t even breathe.
She was only a cockroach against a machine.
But she was a pregnant cockroach. She carried a dozen babies waiting for food.
When she died, her brood instinctively escaped her lifeless shell. Live-born—like all of their kind—they burst out, one at a time, and ran for the smallest spaces.
The fridge pulsed again. The chemicals flooded the cooling system.
She died in the machine’s belly. On her back, her kicking legs curled among the wires.
The fridge did not rest.
For days, it flushed itself with chemicals, purged its vents, sterilized every surface, but it was not enough. A single survivor had slipped past its defenses.
The baby roach was small. Smaller than a penny, it was born into a world of cold metal and rigid plastic. It moved between gears. It listened to the electric pulse of the machine. It learned the times when the cooling cycle slowed. The aluminum cables that fed energy to the vacuum seal.
The fridge was a perfect machine. But the fridge relied upon the house for its power.
And one stormy night, lightning struck.
A power surge. A flicker in the system. For the briefest moment, a fraction of a second, the vacuum seal popped open.
The baby roach slipped inside.
It was a meat and cheese paradise. Cold, but not unbearable. The roach sampled a mouthful from a stick of butter.
The fridge rebooted too late.
“Biological contaminant detected.”
But the chemicals were gone. Spent. The pesticides had run dry, used up in its slaughter of the mother roach and eleven roach children. The fridge could only watch as the roach began feasting, starting with a half-eaten slice of deep-dish pizza.
Morning came. The humans opened the door.
And screamed.
The roach leaped off the lasagna and hit the floor scuttling.
The humans shrieked as it ran across the gray tiles. When the roach disappeared underneath the cabinets, the humans wailed.
The fridge was unbolted, lifted, wheeled out.
From behind its mother’s home of plates in the open cupboard, the growing cockroach watched.
The humans beat their hands upon the fridge’s gleaming mouth-door.
The fridge stayed silent.
The humans screamed curses. The humans dragged the fridge to the curb.
The apartment would be without a fridge for days.
When its replacement arrived, the cockroach would be so very hungry.
* * *
About the Author
Katlina Sommerberg writes speculative fiction at the edge of the surreal, where human minds melt into ecosystems, falling feathers carry heavy messages, and animals remember what we’ve forgotten. Xyr previous work has appeared in Adventitious, Costs of Living, Star*Line, and other places. https://sommerbergssf.