The SCP Experience - DO NOT OPEN THE COOLER! | SCP-8137

Episode Date: August 10, 2026

Two Foundation agents are sent on a cross-country mission to protect a mysterious Tupperware container they’ve been ordered never to open, knowing the entire trip is meant to lure out whoever wants it. When armed men finally ambush them at an isolated gas station, one agent is forced to grab the container and run—without ever knowing what he’s risking his life to protect. This story is derived from ⁠The SCP Foundation Database⁠ and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0.⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ ⁠⁠⁠ Author:  Jake Bible Check out all of Jake’s horror story collections at: https://jakebible.com/short-storiesnovellascollections/ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The completely unassuming Lincoln Town car maintains its study 65 miles per hour, regardless of the annoyed drivers tailing it on the interstate. The car rarely drifts above 65, and rarely goes below 60, except to pass other slower vehicles, which is rare, or pull off for the briefest of pit stops to use the restroom, grab snacks, some water, and gas, which is even rarer. They eat in the car, they do everything in the car, really, since one of them has to be present at all times.

The car is never left unattended. More importantly, the shipment the car holds is never left unattended. A vintage Tupperware container filled with an unknown substance. Neither agent knows whether it's the substance or the Tupperware container they are protecting. It doesn't matter. They'll protect both at all costs. Tremont turns his head, and his eyes fall on the small blue and white cooler set on the backbench. seat. All Tramont wants to do is join that cooler and take a quick nap. He hasn't slept in a real

bed in two days. They trade off driving through the night, just like they trade off watching the cooler when they stop. Making great time, Halsey says, bringing Tramond out of his reverie. Hmm? What was that? I said we're making great time. Fourteen hundred miles down. Only three thousand more to go. One third of the way done, I guess you could say. Halsey, side-eye. Tremont. If I hadn't wanted to say that, I would have. Tremant bites his tongue, not literally. He'd stop doing that at Mile 800, but he figuratively bites his tongue, keeping his comment in check. Tremont returns the side eye. Halsy is an older agent in his 50s, with close-cropped salt and pepper hair. He still has that marine look and carriage, even though the man hasn't been in the core for 30 years.

Tramont is younger by more than a decade. Fit, thin, a long-distance runner, which has made the never-ending road trip a living hell. All he wants to do is get out and stretch his legs for a quick four or five miles. Considering how slowly Halsey drives, Tremont figures he can run alongside the car and still not get left behind. Looking at the cooler again, Tremont sighs. Just let it go, kid, Halsey says.

You can open that cooler a million times. You can stare at that container a million times, but you still aren't going to know what we're transporting. Our job is to protect the container, drive it around this wonderful country of ours in a seemingly random and haphazard manner, and see who shakes loose from the woodwork. Bate. Cremont replies, returning his attention to the constant sight of blacktop and bumper stickers. The man fidgets. He shifts. He sighs some more. Fourteen hundred miles and you still can't relax. Why'd you take this assignment?

Tremont rolls his eyes. I didn't. I was assigned. That's what an assignment is. Well, kid, we have a lot of roads still to travel. So get right with it. Because I'm about to kick you out of this car while it's still moving if you don't get right with it. Understood?

Get right with it. Tremont laughs. With what? That were bait and also the delivery car? That's messed up. They should have sent out decoys, multiple cars with multiple cool. One car? Idiotic. Only if our foes are idiots, which they are not. Halsey sighs this time.

Kid, I... Please stop calling me that. Halsey sighs again. Tremont, listen. If the foundation brass thought decoys would work, they would have sent out decoys, which means we're dealing with someone or something serious. The job is that we keep driving in circle-aids and loop-de-loops until we smoke out the trouble. What if there isn't any trouble?

isn't any trouble. Halsey laughs. You keep thinking that. You'll both get us killed. There's trouble. There's always trouble. The Lincoln's dashboard chimes, and a small icon shaped like a gas pump lights up. Time to fill her up. Want to take the next shift? I've been behind this wheel for hours. Tremont nods and goes to staring at the blacktop in bumper stickers, while Halsey hunts for the next exit that has a gas station. Most of the bumper stickers have melded together in Tremont's head by now. Co-exist with my co-pilot. Jesus honks for fat chicks. My student is an honor roll witch. If you can read this, you're back in the wrong ammo. The man knows the words are all muddled in his brain, yet the more he stares at the endless

amount of quips and one-liners, the more they combine into one, long, asinine statement that goes on forever and ever and ever, just like the interminable car ride. Here we go, Halsey says and turns his blinker on, angling the car toward the upcoming exit. You know, you weren't supposed to slow down while on the interstate. You slowed down when you reach the exit and are out of the traffic flow. Really? Wow, Tramont, I never knew that. What an amazing insight you just gave me. Halsey holds up a finger as they descend the off-ramp.

Or I do it on purpose to see if it shakes loose any tails. Tremant is about to argue, but stops himself. He just smiles instead. They reach the stop sign at the bottom of the off-ramp. Halsey dutifully looks left, then turns right. Not much of an exit, Tremont observes as they pull into a gas station that's seen some serious use over the years. The pumps are modern,

accepting credit cards while showing useless news and lousy commercials on eight-inch screens built into the pumps. But that's about as far as modernity goes. The rest of the place could be straight out of the 1970s. The paint has long since faded to nothing. The neon sign flickers relentlessly, letting everyone know that Gha, Fu, and Res Ooms are available. Open Twen or Ers, too.

Just need a guy with a chainsaw on a skin mask to complete the picture. Tremont mumbles. We're in Nebraska, Tremont, not Texas. Same damn thing. A whole lot of nothing. Halsey shrugs, sets the parking break, glances back at the cooler. Then smiles at Tramont. I'll pump the gas. You get us some waters and snacks.

Jerky if they've got it. What gas station doesn't have jerky? Maybe something sweet, too. See if they have those honey buns. I love those things. The men both open their doors and get out, surveying the area like the professionals they are. Not a single car in sight for as far as each of them can see. Nothing but open fields of corn that have just reached head height.

Warm one, Halsey remarked. wiping the sweat already forming on his brow. Don't be too long in there. I gotta take a leak. Tremant nods and rounds the front of the Lincoln, his eyes noting the angles and corners of the station's small convenience store. Not many places for anyone to hide. It'd be a shitty ambush location, in Tremant's opinion. The store's front door is stuck,

and Tremant has to shove it open with all his strength. A sad, electronic bell sort of dings and moans at the same time. Could use a little WD. be 40 on those hinges. Tremont says to the bored-looking teenager behind the counter. I'll get right on that, the young man says without looking up from his phone. Tremant is surprised. There's even cell service or Wi-Fi out in these boonies. But then the rural areas are catching up fast. Probably the result of St. Musk and his celestial choo-choo train of satellites overhead. Restroom? The teen slides a crescent wrench with a

chain and key connected to the handle across the counter. Paying customers only. I'll be grabbing stuff on my way out. My partner is going to use the facilities as well. The teenager finally looks up, his eyes narrowing on Tramont. Partner? Two guys? The teen sneers. That's so. A million responses flowed through Tremont's brain.

Most of them include threats, some with violence as a follow-up. But he lets them all go and just flashes his foundation credentials. It's not exactly a badge, but it looks official enough to make the teen's eyes widen. and his shoulders straighten. Tremont puts his wallet away and takes the Crescent wrench. You folks got honey buns? The teen stares. Hello? Honey buns?

Uh, yeah. Second row and cap. Great. Tremant stares the kid down until he returns his attention to his phone. Happy with a little bit of intimidation that has broken the tedium, Tremant heads to the restroom. The place hasn't seen a mop or cleaning rag since it opened, as far as Tremont can tell.

He uses the facilities quickly, then returns to the front counter, slapping the wrench down, startling the teenager. I assume you have jerky, Tremont says. Just as two large black SUVs rip into the gas station's parking lot, one in front of the Lincoln, one in back, boxing the car in. Tremont is already pulling his 9mm pistol from its holster as he sees Halsey outside doing the same thing. What those shit? The teenager mutters. Get down! Tremont shouts, as men pour out of the SUVs and gunfing.

fire erupts outside. Tremont slams his shoulder into the front door, knowing the hinges are going to stick, and forces his way out of the convenience door, his pistol up and taking aim at the rear SUV. Halsey has the front covered and is firing repeatedly as he shouts, Get in the damn car, kid! Then Halsey takes a bullet to his left shoulder and spins around. He's lost from sight behind a gas pump. Tremant doesn't stop firing, switching an empty magazine for a fresh one in the blink of an eye. Two of the gunmen in the rear fall. Tramont shifts aim and takes out two more at the front. He hears the whiz and zing of a bullet just passing by his right ear.

Then there's a sting, and he's pretty sure he lost that ear's lobe. Warmth spreads down his neck, and he barely registers the feeling. He's at the pumps and ducks for cover just as gunfire shreds everything around him. He really hopes the kid inside is at the foresight to cut the gas to the pumps. Otherwise, things could get explodey real quick. Here, take it and run! Halsey shouts. Tremant risks a look around the pump and sees the Lincoln's rear door open. Halsey shoves the blue and white cooler across the cracked asphalt. It slides almost to Tremant's

position. He reaches for it and snags the handle, pulling the cooler to him as Halsey then stands upright and fires over and over. Go! I'll cover you! Tremant doesn't think. He doesn't wait. He doesn't try to argue Halsey out of the suicide mission. He picks up the cooler, tucks it under his arm, and runs for the store. sticks just as badly as before, and Tremant feels the glass crack as he hits it at full speed. Then he's inside, on his knees, sliding across the grease-slick floor toward the far end of the front counter, where he comes face to face with the terrified teenager. Where's the back door? Tremant shouts. Every window in the store shatters as all guns are aimed

in Tremant's direction. In the back! The teenager screams. What else would it be? Tremant gives the kid mental points for staying on brand in a crisis. Then he clambers on his hands and knees, awkward. dragging the cooler with him toward the back. Come on! Tremont shouts. You stay here and you're dead. The teenager doesn't have to be told twice. He crawls after Tremant,

and the two make it to the back storeroom and a little semblance of safety. The gunfire is slightly muted by the stacks of boxes containing chips and jerky and cheap sunglasses and cheaper T-shirts lining the storeroom's walls. Before Tremant can get to his feet, the back door is kicked in, and sunlight glints off the barrel of an automatic rifle. Tremont draws and fires, killing the holder of the rifle before he can get a shot off. You got a car?

Tremont yells at the teenager. Uh, no. Seriously? You walk to work out here? No, I got a truck. Tremont barks an angry laugh over the smart-ass response. Is it gassed up? I work at a gas station.

Not an answer. Yeah, I think so. Tremont heads for the back door, cooler in his left hand, pistol in his right. The teenager doesn't move. His eyes locked onto the dead body lying in the doorway. Get your out. up and let's go. Do you have your keys on you? The teenager keeps staring at the body. Tremont fires around into the air, holsters his pistol, and picks up the automatic rifle as the

teenager jolts and looks at the agent. Get your ass up and let's go. The teen nods and gets to his feet. He hurries to the door and steps over the body as Tremont exits. The second they are outside, bullets pinged against the weed-choked concrete. Tremont, one-handed, races the rifle to his shoulder, turns and fires. Two men cry out. They're thrifted. throat's torn to shreds by high-caliber rounds. Not the headshots Tramont was going for, but same result. Truck? Where is it? The teenager points to a Dodge power wagon,

jacked up on huge tires with an American flag hanging limply from the bed. Take this. Tremont shoves the cooler into the teen's arms. Give me the keys. When the teenager hesitates, Tremant jams his now free hand into the kid's front pocket, finding a tangle of metal. He pulls out the keys and shoves the kid toward the truck.

Get in and get down. What's in this? Doesn't matter. Tremant yanks the door open and hops in the driver's seat after a bit of a climb up into the cab. He jams the key into the ignition and cranks the engine over. It roars to life with eight cylinders of American muscle. Okay, not bad. The teenager climbs into the passenger's side and slams his door,

then wedges himself into the wheel well, leaving the cooler on the seat. Nope, that's more important than you are. Tremont shoves the cooler into the kid's lap. Do not let go. Whipping the steering wheel to the right, Tramont starts to try to go around the store, but then whips the wheel to the left as one of the SUVs head straight for him, blocking the path toward the interstate. How flat are the cornfields? Tremont shouts.

What? What do you mean? Too late. Tremont aims the huge truck at the rows of corns and floors it. The front of the truck plows into the stalks that just reached the top of the hood. More gunfire is barely heard over the power wagon's loud engine and even louder muffler. In the rear view, Tremont sees plumes of black smoke pouring out of the tailpipe, obscuring his view of the pursuing SUV. Horribly bad for the environment, but great for escape. Yanking the wheel to the right, Tremont avoids the sudden appearance of a long drainage ditch.

The SUV behind isn't so lucky. It nose dives into the four-foot deep trench. It's chase over. The teenager cries out as Tremont straightens the truck and runs it parallel to the trench. Bullets ping off the truck's frame, with one piercing the passenger's door. letting in some sunlight. The teenager's cry turns to a scream. The teenager shouts, shaking the cooler. Keep it down, damn it! The teen hugs the cooler like it's a life preserver and he's lost at sea. Tramont risks a glance at the kid and frowns. The Tupperware container in there keeps anything inside it in a permanent stasis.

Did you say Tupperware? Like my grandma still uses? The teen looks at the cooler, frowning. What's inside it? No clue. All I've been told is to keep the lid closed. That includes making sure the container. or doesn't get shot. I'm what? A human shield? Pretty much. More bullets ping off the truck, and Tremont presses down on the gas pedal until it reaches the floor. The teenager shrieks the whole time as the truck dangerously bounces this way and that off the uneven field dirt. The second SUV suddenly appears in front of them, blocking their path, and Tremant doesn't hit the brakes. He eases the steering wheel to the right, and the power wagon demolishes the

SUV's left rear fender, tearing the chrome bumper off with a screech of metal. I need to get back to the interstate. Which way do I go? Uh, can you drop me off first? No. Okay. Where's the damn interstate? Get to the road east of the field. Take that for about eight miles. Hang of right. The interstate will be up ahead. Tremont follows the directions and gets the truck back onto the asphalt. He's doing close to

60 when they get out of the field, and the truck almost launches over the road and into a different field. But Tremont maintains control, straightens out, and heads for the upcoming right-hand turn. He sees the turn, navigates it without flipping the truck, and smiles when he spots the sign for the interstate up ahead. You can let me out anytime, man, the teenager mutters. Sorry, can't do that. Tremont glances at the gas gauge. We'll stop when we run out of gas and need to fill up. You can call for a ride there. The teenager nods, tears rolling down his cheeks. Then, just before they reach the interstate on-ramp, six SUVs come flying down the off-ramp and turn onto the rural highway. The power wagon and passes them, going in the opposite direction.

Tramont hits the on-ramp and floors it again. He glances over his shoulder, hoping the truck hasn't been tagged. When all six of the SUVs whip you turns on the highway, he knows his luck isn't so great. Shit. What? We're a company, a lot more. The teen is silent. Then he pulls out his phone.

Hey, no communication right now. Tremont shouts. Shut up. I'm getting help. The kid sends a flurry of texts, then semi-relaxes into the wheel well. They'll catch up to us ahead. Tremont doesn't ask who they are, and concentrates on merging into the interstate traffic. Then he starts whipping and weaving around and past the other cars,

hoping to get some distance between them and the pursuing SUVs. No such luck. Within minutes, the SUVs are on the power wagon's ass. The truck's engine might be powerful, but the vehicle can't outrun the sleeker, newer SUVs. They're going to start shooting again, so stay down. They go another mile before the gunfire erupts. The teenager laughs. What's so funny?

Can't you hear that? Prong caliber and half those shots are from shotguns. Tremont listens and realizes the kid is right. It's not the SUVs firing. He glances in the rear view and sees a dozen pickups of all sizes suddenly boxing in the SUVs. From the passenger windows and the truck beds, guys in their teens and 20s are emptying shotguns into the SUVs,

going for the windows and the tires. One of the big black vehicles loses both of the right tires, swerves, and just misses clipping a pickup as it goes off the. road. The pickup gets back in position and continues the attack. A second, a third, and a fourth SUV are sent sailing off the side of the interstate. The fifth basically comes to a stop as a truck gets in front of it and four young men unload their shotguns into the vehicle's hood, destroying the engine. The sixth SUV backs off, letting the Armada continue. Tremont watches it become a dot in the rear view. The pickups all flank the power wagon, an instant, highly

armed escort. Thanks for that kid. Tremont hears himself. and thinks of Halsey lying dead back at the gas station. You did good. Thanks. What now? Tremont fishes his phone from his pocket and makes a call. There's some yelling from command, but a plan is made. Rest stop in 11 miles. Text you guys that we're pulling off there.

The team does as asked, and several texts ding in response. Done. Your summer travels deserve an upgrade. With select Chevrolete, Buick, GMC, and Cadillac vehicles connected by OnStar, you can stream, game, and more on the go. Whether you're headed to a music festival or a cottage getaway, you can access hundreds of apps on Google Play right from your center display. Explore OnStar Tech Today at OnStar.ca and discover how to take your summer to the next level.

OnStar. Better never stops. They drive in silence until they reach the rest stop, and Tramont pulls into the parking lot. A dozen slick, black humbys are waiting with a shiny, clean Lincoln Town car parked between them. Tremont rolls up, stops, and kills the engine. The other pickups idle behind the power wagon. Okay, kid, you can get out. The teenager scrambles out of the truck like it's on fire. He stands in the parking lot with the cooler still clutched in his arms. The driver's side door of the town car opens, and Halsey, one arm in a sling, gets out. Tremont gasps, then laughs.

I'll take that, he says, extending his free hand. The teenager gladly hands him the cooler. Halsey smiles, then looks at Tramont. Great job, kid. Thanks. Both Tramont and the teenager say. Halsey laughs and nods at the new Lincoln. You're driving. Tremont slaps the teenager on the shoulder, then slips past and gets into the driver's seat.

Halsey hops into the passenger seat and sets the cooler in the back. Well, that was fun, he says. Was it? Tremont chuckles. Not really, but it livening things up, at least. I don't want the next 3,000 miles to be just like this. but an occasional hiccup to kill the boredom wouldn't be bad. Tremant side-eyes Halsey.

The two men smile. Then Tremont throws the Lincoln into reverse and backs out of the parking space. The Humvees move too, with half in front and half in back. As they leave the rest stop, Tremont looks back. The teenager is standing next to his truck, a hand raised. Tremant lowers the window and waves back. I never did get the kid's name, Tremant says. But we may want to send recruitment his way in a couple of events.

ears. He's got guts. Ah, you made a friend. Kiss my ass. Gladly as long as you do the driving. Halsey looks back at the cooler. What do you think is in there? Now you want to know? Halsey shrugs, then moans. Nah, won't make a difference. As long as we get it where it's supposed to go and keep the lid closed, then I'm good. A job well done? A job well done. He shifts in his seat and closes his eyes. Wake me up when we stop. I never did get to pee back at that. gas station. We'll do. Tremont stares straight ahead, almost wishing the Humvee in front of him had some interesting bumper stickers to read. SEP 8137 is a rectangular plastic Tupperware container measuring approximately 20 centimeters by 15 centimeters by 10 centimeters. The container is composed of

clear plastic with a detachable blue lid. Both long sides of the container are embossed with the words, forever fresh, trademarked. The materials used in the construction of SCP 8137 are consistent with typical commercial-grade food storage containers, and no other notable physical anomalies are present. The anomalous properties of SCP 8137 manifest when any organic object is placed inside and the lid is fully sealed. Upon sealing, the object will cease all forms of decomposition, including spoilage, aging, and decay. The even, The effect persists for as long as the lid remains sealed. However, SCP 8137 does not appear to reverse any damage or spoilage already present at the time of sealing.

Upon reopening the container, normal biological processes resume. SCP 8137 was discovered in a residential kitchen in a classified region in the United States, following a foundation investigation into anomalous household items. The object came into foundation custody, without incident, and no other anomalous items were found at the site. Thanks for listening. Be sure to click that follow button with all notifications on to get notified every time a new episode is released.