'The neighbours have come home. I can hear Mr L pulling his filtration system off – the sound seeps through the walls. Our walls are so thin – doesn’t seem like it could keep what’s going on out there at bay, does it?'
About mid-week this story was slammed into my brain, without warning, by the universe.
And I am but a simple writer - the universe calls, and I answer.
So... have this sci-fi-ish/dystopian-ish short story, I guess! 😅
(Bo Burnham's Inside (especially All Eyes On Me,) was pretty much my writing soundtrack for this - for anyone who finds that sort of insight interesting! ...Plus, it, uh, might explain a lot 😅)
Content Warnings:
- isolation
- life-threatening climate/environmental catastrophes
- brief non-sexual nudity and mentions of anatomy
- life-threatening heat and physical stress
- implied physical disability/health condition
- mental health issues/extreme stress
...I've never done a full Content Warnings list like this for one of my stories before, so be careful and tell me if I missed anything that needs to be listed!
The nitrogen levels are high. Sulphur at high. Particulates dense.
I’m Category 10.
I cannot go out today.
*
I sleep a lot.
When I’m not working – I input the data for tabulating the daily water levels – I sleep a lot.
The work data is coming in less often. I think Tabby at the office is under a lot of strain. - I can’t go out when the air’s like this. Can’t head into the office and find out if they’re OK. - Less numbers are coming through every day. The official updates aren’t saying what the data is telling me. But then, the data is not allowed to tell me anything. I’m an inputter. I don’t make decisions – I just feed the algorithms.
The nitrogen levels are high. Sulphur at moderately high. Particulates dense.
I cannot go out today.
*
The neighbours have come home. I can hear Mr L pulling his filtration system off – the sound seeps through the walls. Our walls are so thin – doesn’t seem like it could keep what’s going on out there at bay, does it?
I eat. I sleep. I work.
I’m fine.
The nitrogen levels are moderately high. Sulphur at moderately high. Particulates dense.
I still can’t go out.
*
I sleep a lot.
When I’m not working – I input the data for tabulating the daily water levels – I sleep a lot.
The work data is coming in less often. I think Tabby at the office is under a lot of strain. - I can’t go out when the air’s like this. Can’t head into the office and find out if they’re OK. - Less numbers are coming through every day. The official updates aren’t saying what the data is telling me. But then, the data is not allowed to tell me anything. I’m an inputter. I don’t make decisions – I just feed the algorithms.
The nitrogen levels are high. Sulphur at moderately high. Particulates dense.
I cannot go out today.
*
The neighbours have come home. I can hear Mr L pulling his filtration system off – the sound seeps through the walls. Our walls are so thin – doesn’t seem like it could keep what’s going on out there at bay, does it?
I eat. I sleep. I work.
I’m fine.
The nitrogen levels are moderately high. Sulphur at moderately high. Particulates dense.
I still can’t go out.
*
Data sets from last month came through today, and I’m not sure what the department are doing. These should’ve been processed weeks ago.
I check the socials but there’s no chatter about the water-levels. I’m over-reacting.
I take a break and then get back to inputting.
Mr L comes back an hour late today.
Most people can go out today. I cannot.
*
Only two data-sets came through today. There must be a backlog.
I avoid socials – pictures of people visiting their families or enjoying themselves in the clean air domes are the last thing I want to see when I’m still stuck here.
During my lunch break, I walk from one end of my apartment to the other. It takes me about 15 seconds, so I pace several times. Exercise. Good for you, in moderation.
I take a few minutes to look out my A3 window. I can actually see the block across from mine! Talk about clear air!
...Not clear enough, though.
But anyway.
I dash out a message to Tabby, ask them how they’re doing. They send one back within about half an hour saying they’re fine, just busy, we must catch up soon.
I consider asking about the data-sets. Decide against it.
I still can’t leave the flat.
*
There’s no data-sets today. Maybe they’re late.
I sleep. I eat.
No data-sets come through.
I’m fine.
The nitrogen levels are very high. Sulphur at
high. Particulates dense.
Most people will be inside today.
*
Mr L leaves late – must have taken him a while to adjust the filtration settings for the air. Rather him than me.
There are no data-sets. There’s still no chatter on socials about the water-levels.
No data-sets come through.
I’m fine.
Most people will be inside today.
*
Mr L leaves late – must have taken him a while to adjust the filtration settings for the air. Rather him than me.
There are no data-sets. There’s still no chatter on socials about the water-levels.
The drone-drop comes. And… there’s no chocolate. And I break.
I huddle under my work-station and sob, knees to chest. I don’t know why. It’s only chocolate. Dammit, it’s only chocolate!
I sleep. I eat. I’m fine.
The nitrogen levels are high. Sulphur at moderately high. Particulates dense.
I cannot go out today.
*
The cooling unit flicks off when I’m half-way through a data-set. The computer flicks off immediately, screen turning dead blank – safety mechanism to stop electronics from starting a fire if the temperature gets too high. My phone and tablet and everything else will be the same. They’re synced with the unit.
I strip off to my underwear and sit on the floor, breathing as calmly as I can, planning when I’ll need to draw water to cool myself if they don’t fix it within an hour.
They fix it in ten minutes. When the light goes green, I cry with relief.
Mr L asks through the wall whether I’m alright, and I cry again, this time because of how loud and strange his voice sounds.
Between sobs, I tell him I’m fine. The words come out creaking and quiet.
He swears quite a bit – I’m not sure at who; the world, I guess. It seems to be on my behalf. Which is nice of him. I don’t know whether he knows my name, or even what I look like.
I see him leave sometimes, through the A3 window when the air is clear enough, but I’ve never seen him without the filtration unit.
I can’t go out today.
*
I work. I eat. I sleep. I surf socials. I pace my flat.
I’m alive. I’m fine.
I’m fine.
Still can’t go out.
*
I think the cooling unit is making a noise. I can hear it buzzing above me as I input – it’s distracting. I lose my place in the numbers a bunch of times and have to redo a whole heap.
It’s like the unit’s whispering… Like it’s muttering, murmuring in the walls and the ceiling and the floor.
My quiet flat suddenly seems all-too loud.
Mr L comes home; he whistles as he takes his filtration system off at the door.
It surprised me – I haven’t heard whistling in a long time. Not human whistling, anyway, only the cooling unit and the power supply and the work system modem.
No-one’s going out today.
*
Even Mr L doesn’t leave this morning.
I can’t see anything out of the A3 window – just a pulsating murk, like the world is in a vape cloud. Which… I guess is kind of true.
At first I think it’s the cooling unit again. Around mid-morning – when I’m working on my only data-set of the day – I’m startled enough to jump in my seat. But then I realise there are actual, real, words in the noise.
My neighbour, Mr L is… singing.
And I cry.
...Which makes him stop. And I shout out, I call out, I tell him to keep going, please, please, please, keep going. It’s so, so, beautiful – please keep singing, please.
He starts singing again and I cry, smiling.
It’s beautiful.
Nitrogen levels high. Sulphur moderately high. Particulates moderately dense.
*
It’s in the third data set.
And I can’t… I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
There’s something wrong with the data. The figures are corrupted. Must be.
I’ll message Tabby. Tell them something’s screwy with the figures. They’re not right. They’re not true. Can’t be.
So that’s what I do. I message Tabby. Just a quick note – just saying that there’s something corrupted here, so it’ll need to be redone. No biggie...
With the cooling unit making weird noises over my head, I try to put data-set number three out of my thoughts entirely, and move onto number four. But about a minute in my hands are shaking so bad that I can’t input anything.
All those people...
Jesus Christ. Jesus. Je-sus.
Tabby does not reply to my message.
Nitrogen levels very high. Sulphur
extremely high. Particulates very dense.
*
The cooling unit goes out first thing in the morning.
That light turns red and my heart sinks and flies at the same time.
I tell myself it will be 10 minutes. Then it’ll be fixed. I’ll be OK. I’m fine.
I strip down to my underwear. I sit on the floor, keeping my breathing as even as I can as the temperature goes up. And up. And up.
An hour later and the light is still red.
I’m going to die. No. I’m going to be fine. Oh God.
I make it to the bathroom, douse myself in cool water before the timer kicks in and the tap switches off.
I strip off my underwear – last layer, no choice. I sit naked and alone in my flat, hearing nothing but the silence the cooling unit left behind and my own heavy, lead-weighted, breathing. Sweat drips down my cleavage and I’m actually relieved because it feels so cool in comparison to everything – everything – else. My body sticks to the floor beneath my bare butt – it’s a welcome sensation, something to feel other than the heat and my scorched-tired breath.
I’m going to die.
I don’t know how long it’s been. Can’t raise my head to look at the clock. I can feel the heart in my chest like I’m powering a small piston engine.
I hit the panic button; I don’t know if it did anything. I don’t know if anyone will see.
What if someone does answer the signal? Death inside or death out, unless they’ve managed to get a Category 10 filtration system. I’ve never seen a unicorn either, I guess, but stranger things exist in the contaminated zones.
I don’t remember lying down, but I’m spread horizontal on the floor. My eyes drift closed, and I only partly notice. Everything in me is focussed on pushing slicing-hot air in and out of my lungs.
I’m going to die.
I don’t know how long I lie like that.
“...alright?”
I drift back from the place my brain’s gone to with a jolt.
“Hey! Are you alright? Your panic light’s on? Hey! Hello! Are you OK in there?”
The words have meaning attached at a distance. The voice seems closer than it should be, but it’s a voice I know – a voice that sang for me.
“Are you alright?” he asks again, he seems stressed.
“Answer me! Are you OK?”
Am I OK? My chest muscle-shudders with silent laughter, rippling from my stomach to my breasts.
Am I OK? What a question. Is anyone?
“No,” a woman’s voice says – very close, not very loud, “No, I’m not OK.”
Somewhere in the distance, the man’s voice has been joined by others, and by the sound of a door being forced open.
*
Even Mr L doesn’t leave this morning.
I can’t see anything out of the A3 window – just a pulsating murk, like the world is in a vape cloud. Which… I guess is kind of true.
At first I think it’s the cooling unit again. Around mid-morning – when I’m working on my only data-set of the day – I’m startled enough to jump in my seat. But then I realise there are actual, real, words in the noise.
My neighbour, Mr L is… singing.
And I cry.
...Which makes him stop. And I shout out, I call out, I tell him to keep going, please, please, please, keep going. It’s so, so, beautiful – please keep singing, please.
He starts singing again and I cry, smiling.
It’s beautiful.
Nitrogen levels high. Sulphur moderately high. Particulates moderately dense.
*
It’s in the third data set.
And I can’t… I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
There’s something wrong with the data. The figures are corrupted. Must be.
I’ll message Tabby. Tell them something’s screwy with the figures. They’re not right. They’re not true. Can’t be.
So that’s what I do. I message Tabby. Just a quick note – just saying that there’s something corrupted here, so it’ll need to be redone. No biggie...
With the cooling unit making weird noises over my head, I try to put data-set number three out of my thoughts entirely, and move onto number four. But about a minute in my hands are shaking so bad that I can’t input anything.
All those people...
Jesus Christ. Jesus. Je-sus.
Tabby does not reply to my message.
*
The cooling unit goes out first thing in the morning.
That light turns red and my heart sinks and flies at the same time.
I tell myself it will be 10 minutes. Then it’ll be fixed. I’ll be OK. I’m fine.
I strip down to my underwear. I sit on the floor, keeping my breathing as even as I can as the temperature goes up. And up. And up.
An hour later and the light is still red.
I’m going to die. No. I’m going to be fine. Oh God.
I make it to the bathroom, douse myself in cool water before the timer kicks in and the tap switches off.
I strip off my underwear – last layer, no choice. I sit naked and alone in my flat, hearing nothing but the silence the cooling unit left behind and my own heavy, lead-weighted, breathing. Sweat drips down my cleavage and I’m actually relieved because it feels so cool in comparison to everything – everything – else. My body sticks to the floor beneath my bare butt – it’s a welcome sensation, something to feel other than the heat and my scorched-tired breath.
I’m going to die.
I don’t know how long it’s been. Can’t raise my head to look at the clock. I can feel the heart in my chest like I’m powering a small piston engine.
I hit the panic button; I don’t know if it did anything. I don’t know if anyone will see.
What if someone does answer the signal? Death inside or death out, unless they’ve managed to get a Category 10 filtration system. I’ve never seen a unicorn either, I guess, but stranger things exist in the contaminated zones.
I don’t remember lying down, but I’m spread horizontal on the floor. My eyes drift closed, and I only partly notice. Everything in me is focussed on pushing slicing-hot air in and out of my lungs.
I’m going to die.
I don’t know how long I lie like that.
“...alright?”
I drift back from the place my brain’s gone to with a jolt.
“Hey! Are you alright? Your panic light’s on? Hey! Hello! Are you OK in there?”
The words have meaning attached at a distance. The voice seems closer than it should be, but it’s a voice I know – a voice that sang for me.
“Are you alright?” he asks again, he seems stressed.
“Answer me! Are you OK?”
Am I OK? My chest muscle-shudders with silent laughter, rippling from my stomach to my breasts.
Am I OK? What a question. Is anyone?
“No,” a woman’s voice says – very close, not very loud, “No, I’m not OK.”
Somewhere in the distance, the man’s voice has been joined by others, and by the sound of a door being forced open.
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- much appreciated!
So... what do you think?
Talk to me! 😅💬
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Sharing and commenting is really super-appreciated! 💖
This was a great story, Cee! I loved the repetition in it, and it does seem to invoke an eerie apocalyptic tone. Also, for what it's worth, I think you did well with content warnings :)
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Em :) <3 <3 <3 - I was pretty nervous about posting this!
DeleteVery well done - it belongs to an anthology.
ReplyDeleteWhat a sweet thing to say! Thank you <3
Delete