The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S15E12

Episode Date: November 15, 2020

It’s Episode 12 of Season 15. Our lost highway journey deals with the gravity of pain. “Ghosts of Gemini” written by Kevin Atkinson (Story starts around 00:05:40) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Investigator – Nikolle Doolin, Elaine Hicks – Jessica McEvoy, Gerald Begley – Atticus Jackson, Wills – Dan Zappulla, Hurt – Jeff Clement “Graduating” written by Michael Harris Cohen (Story starts around 00:30:10) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Jones clones – Graham Rowat, Resea Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hello, I'm award-winning ballet dancer and guerrilla street artist Atticus Jackson. So, I want you to picture a scene. It may be hard, but bear with me. What if superheroes were bad, actually? Imagine a world where our real heroes didn't exist. People like Captain America, Batman, David Cummings, they weren't real. Instead, superheroes were just. Jerks. That'd be terrifying, right?

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Huh? What then? Remember that's simplysafed.com slash no sleep. Avengers! Tales of Warrants yourself for the No Sleep podcast. Episode 12 of the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. And now...

I don't know about you, but I'm excited about all the excellent content being created out there these days. And there are some great projects featuring many of our talented no sleep team. Let's start with the great new podcast most of you got a sneak peek of this week. It's called The Oyster,

an immersive, sci-fi mind-bender with an all-star cast. It includes quite a few of of our voice actors in supporting roles. You won't want to miss listening to The Oyster. And our friends over at the Creepy Pizza YouTube channel have released a great new short film called Hext. And it stars our very own Jessica McAvoy in her screen debut,

along with a great musical score by Brandon Boone. Check it out and let it cast its spell on you. And finally, the new podcast, Fear Noir, has released its first episode. It's created by writer Michael Whitehouse and stars the inimitable Peter Lewis. Delve deep into this engaging crime horror anthology series. Check the show notes for links to all three projects and discover some of the quality content being created these days. And speaking of quality content, we have some for you starting this very moment. Now let's begin our journey down this lost highway. In our first tale, we find ourselves in the vast blackness of the universe. Space, so much of it

is uncharted territory, and the idea of traversing the stars beyond our solar system is but a distant dream away. But in this tale, shared with us by author Kevin Atkinson, we discover that some things can be found in space that were better left unfound. Performing this tale, are Nicole Doolin, Jessica McAvoy, Atticus Jackson, Dan Zapula, and Jeff Clement. So bring that cargo in from the void, but be careful when you do. Otherwise, you might be haunted by the ghosts of Gemini. Personal log of Captain Elaine F. Hicks, dated day 332 of Mission 1212. Submitted as evidence in investigation number 3945, Exhibit 12A.

We found something today. Recording this seems a bit strange. But I wanted to log this before the shock wore off. We were latching onto the last roid, about 30 meters in diameter. After locking orbit, it continued to spin, slowly, and we just saw it there. Buried in the rock, half in and out. It was bright white. You never forget that shade of white.

this business. Every cadet goes to see it, the flag. It's sitting in the museum on Luna. Nothing looks that shade of white up close. So it makes sense, I guess. No, it doesn't. Scratch that. This must be some kind of prank. One of those Kondahar crews working out here a few years ago left it. Begley's doing an analysis of how long it'd take for something to bleach that color if left unshielded. I figure about two years. Regardless, it's not real, but certainly not genuine. You don't just find Apollo-era spacesuits floating around out here. Engineer Gerald Bagley's notes. Logged in personal tablet on day 332 of Mission 1212. Exhibit 5A. I had to check the math, of course. Sit down and really crunch the number.

on something like this before we did anything else. It's terrific. I mean, massively exciting. Captain wanted me to prove it wasn't real, and yeah, technically speaking, something could lose all shade like that if exposed basically within just a year, but come on, massive! This is the biggest discovery anybody in the company or the corpse had in a century! She wants to pretend it's a joke, and I get it, but... It's... So after I got to the report on UV bleaching, I went back and tried to figure out how the damn thing got out here.

What it would have taken? What speed it would have needed to be here based on a rough time frame? It would have had to depart orbit in 1965. That's four years before we got someone on the moon. I didn't remember us ever losing someone out like that, so I went back and checked the records. The Soviets lost knots in space, but the U.S. never did. It's clearly a U.S. design. At least the initial look is. Looks like early generation spacewalk gear.

Going to do a bit more digging. See what I can find. Sick leave approval. Logged on day 33 of Mission 1212. Exhibit 9B. Shift three early dismissal for Dennis Wills. Reason for dismissal? Creating an unsafe work environment. Notes.

Wills was sluggish throughout the first portion of his shift. Asked him why. Responded he hadn't slept well. Send him for bed rest before somebody got hurt. He was mad to lose the shift, but we've already got one busted line-out array. Another one would slow us down too much. Put now we on a double shift to cover.

Signed. Foreman Red Lancet Captain Hickslog Date 33 of Mission 1212 Exhibit 12b We've halted mining operations until we figure out what's going on with the suit Begley thinks it's the kind of thing that could make us all rich

He's an idiot Worse, he's a desperate idiot We've been scavenging off the scraps of Kandahar's last trawl through here for six months now. Payroll is already underperforming, and Begley's had to sell off some of our surplus parts just to keep us in the black. Hopefully, the corp will get us some decent leads by the time we get to the station. Lancet is already complaining about the crop of rookies on this run, but there's no way around it. We have to use the people we get, not the other way around. This suit is just another trap, a joke. Still, couldn't hurt to pull it in.

clear the path for the next crew anyways. I've sent word to Lancet that tomorrow will spacewalk and pull the thing in. I had a dream about it. It's stupid, but I did. We pulled it in and got it into quarantine. Then we had Dr. Garwara open it up. When he did, the arm moved. Yeah, that made the old heart rate kick up.

I had to spend the rest of the day doing shallow breath and catching catnaps here and there. to stay alert. Corp has me on file that Dr. Garwara is not to prescribe any stimulants unless medically necessary. Thank God for that. Transcript of security log and canteen A. Day 33 of Mission 1212. Exhibit 10B. Synopsis

Crewman Wills and Crewman Hurt discussed the anomalous object and its effect on the crew. Not that big a deal. I was just a little fucking tired, you know? Yeah, man, I get it. Being off that shift means I don't get any shares from that day, and I'm already close to signing on again for another goddamn trip. That bad? I don't know, man.

I tried investing in that light coin shit. Oh, fuck. I went sideways months ago, Wills? Yeah, and Henri wants to get a skim sled for Yule next year. Rent is up. This whole field is spent anyway. Condahar's out there in Kuiper. We're stuck here.

Did you talk to Dr. G? Might hook you up with a sleeping pill or a stim next time. I don't know. I just had that dream and it freaked me out. Probably nothing, right? Captain says it's a prank. I sure hope so. God, can you imagine if there was a...

Fuck. No, man. I don't need that shit in my head. Begley's insisting it's real, but there's no record of someone getting spaced before 2022, at least not with the Americans. Shit, man. Can you believe that?

You think the old presidents would have gotten on TV and said, yep, lost another astronaut today. If they didn't have to. This predates the moon landing, Dennis, if Begley is right. But it's not real, right? There's nobody in that suit. Engineer Gerald Begley's notes. Logged in personal tablet on day 334 of Mission 1212. Exhibit 4C.

Captain ordered a wait on pulling the anomaly into the ship. It's buried too deep in the pile to pull out with the arms, so we were in the middle of prepping for the spacewalk with Lancet's crew. But then word came down that she was ordering a full stop. When we asked her why, she said it wasn't worth the risk. It's ridiculous. We had guys out there yesterday planning charges before we found the suit, but now she's skittish?

I'm prepping a full ride up on the suit, based on the observations we've been able to do with the drones. If I had permission, I'd use one of the drones to try and excavate. Would corporate regulations say no usage of drones for retrieval, unless you have the spares on hand? And I sold off the last two we had to cover last pay period. So I'm just using the camera on them to take pictures of the suit for comparisons. From every detail that we've been able to capture,

the unit is from around the time of the Gemini missions. Photographic documentation of those units, and I think that this matches up. I've seen what looks like an old micro-thruster, probably using N2 built into the suit, with handheld controls locked onto the belt. I spent a long time looking at the visor and helmet unit, trying to identify any serial numbers,

but if anything was on there, it's not visible. It was tough to think about. I read up on Gemini 4, the first official American spacewalk. The list of things that went wrong in there. The door mechanism jammed and wouldn't open. And then wouldn't close when Ed White came back aboard until they fixed it. The radio unit in the suit failed.

It wouldn't fire for 79 seconds. It would be a mercy for everyone aboard if the knot had. This got morbid. The point is, even in circumstances when everything looked like it had failed, like death was a certainty, our ancestors managed to get it together. It is impossible that there be a person in that suit. It is, at worst, a talented mock-up as the captain suspects. Best case scenario, it's worth a fortune.

We cannot pass this up. Sorry, Captain. Gotta make a call. Partial transcript of investigation number 3945. Testimony of Elaine Hicks. Exhibit 17A. Captain, did you speak with engineer Begley after his report to the corporate office? Yes.

How would you describe that conversation? I would say it was heated. Why is that? I was upset that he had gone over my head. You had decided to move on? I had decided that dispatching someone to retrieve the item in question. The suit? Yes.

I decided the risk-reward ratio was not in the corporation's favor. Engineer vaguely disagreed and contacted the corporate office, and they instructed you to retrieve the item. Yes. Audio clip from Private Office of Captain Hicks. Day 335 of Mission 1212. Shift 2 Exhibit 1D

Cabin What do you think you're doing undermining my authority like that? Cabin, we're not making any money on this trip. That does not justify! There just aren't enough mineral drops to justify this trip. We're busting up rubble piles?

Kandahar pulled everything of value out of here five years ago. The last trip we barely broke even, and if we don't get some profit out of this, the corp is going to repossess the ship. Gerald, I don't. I swear to God. If that's real out there, then it's worth more than anything in the Aitans. Do you understand?

That could be a human-sized chunk of gold, and it wouldn't be worth as much as a historical artifact never before seen. Do you hear how you sound? We are talking about a missing spacesuit from one of the most heavily documented programs of all time. There is a listing of every spacewalk, every experiment run, every single thing related dated to spacework up until the collapse of 55. That thing out there doesn't exist in any of that documentation.

So what is it doing there? Some board engineer on a Condahar ship mocked it up. Somebody spray painted a suit with the words, Murricans go home and set it out to mess with us because they knew we were behind them. Then just pull it in and be done with it. I am not risking one of my knots to pull in a joke. Captain, we've done hundreds of spacewalks in this ship.

This is not a risk. Every one of those walks was a risk. You know that. Look, even Lancet could run a simple walk like this. I don't care how simple it is. We're not doing it. Put staring at me, Begley. Captain, have you been sleeping?

What? Captain, have you slept in the last... This is low, even for you. What are you talking about? You want me out of commission. You think if you start trying to make a case that I need to be relieved of duty? That's not it at all. Your eyes are...

Quiet! I don't want to hear another word out of you. Get down to your station. Finish your shift and get the nav ready to get us to the station. Captain, with all due respect, you are passing up a golden opportunity here. You are dismissed, Begley. Don't you ever go over my head again? Or I will file a complaint.

And I will get you done. demoted. Log of Elaine Hicks. Day 335 of mission number 1212. Exhibit 3D. And the suit starts trying to get to its feet. That's how I always know it's a dream. And I always wake up right afterwards.

Last night, I thought maybe I'd just wait it out. See what happens. But part of me knows. It gets up. It takes the helmet off. and underneath it a skull is too easy. I don't think my subconscious would bother with something so simple. Maybe Dad's face.

Maybe Dad's face all zombified and rotting, or Gerald or somebody. Really, that's all it needs to be to make me feel like I'm going to throw up. It just needs to be somebody in there. The reason most of us are out here is because Whatever happened in the past, it can't hurt you. Break orbit and your past is... Sailors on Earth used to say that the ocean was freedom.

Freedom from your old world. Space is the ocean multiplied by infinity. I'm out here. We're all out here. Because when you go to space, you're leaving behind every problem you ever had back home. Nothing's supposed to come back to haunt you. Not stim use, not government shutdowns, not ex-wives.

We leave it behind, and it never haunts us again. That's the reward for staring into a blackness so big it can only swallow you whole. Testimony of engineer Gerald Begley. Exhibit 19D. The idea started with Wills. He didn't look good, and we asked him why. He said his family wasn't going to get enough money from this trip since he'd been relieved twice. Captain and I had had our talk, and Will's was almost crying.

Looking back with his sleep the way it was, maybe I should have seen it. But I've seen a lot of guys break when the money doesn't come through. And the money wasn't going to come through on this mission. So, Willis and I decided we were going to. gonna get rich. Partly it was because I was mad, sure, but I also thought it needed to be in a museum, you know? This was our history. The history of America before the Indians shut us out of the space we had laid claim to.

So I talked to Wills, and we decided to do a quick walkout, grab it while the captain was off duty, and smuggle it to the station. Once we had it there, we could do whatever we needed. He was shaking, but it was fine. I was shaking, too. I was excited and exhilarated, and I... I triple-checked the rigging. I did.

I went through everything three times with a fine-tooth comb. I used to spacewalk every other day when I was on the leopard. We got his maneuver pack attached, triple-checked that, and I got him into the airlock. That's when it started to go wrong. He spooled out after the decompression period. His thruster took him out there. The suit was only 300 meters out, nothing at all.

No distance of significance. And his thruster took him halfway there. And then he stopped firing. Let the momentum carry him the rest of the way. firing a bit to slow himself in reverse as he approached. Textbook. God. The kid had eight walks under his belt.

He knew his shit. I don't know what happened to him out there, but he had the carabiner in hand and just sat there. I don't know what was going through his head, but he stopped moving for a solid 15 seconds. In the console, I saw a light go on. His radio had gone dead, just like Ed White. I was looking out there as he was attaching the tether around the waist of the anomaly. I was looking right at him. When the charges detonated, it shouldn't...

They weren't on any standard frequencies. They shouldn't have been primed. But they went off. And the pile started to shift apart. one of the pieces of debris slammed into him and the thruster on his suit fired it was old and one of the canisters must have ruptured so he started spinning

and the line went taut I went to pull him in but the winch wouldn't budge I was trying to get him back in but he wouldn't stop hitting the cancel button on his control stick at least we were getting the signal that he was The Gemini suit was flying off. And then one of the rubble pieces got tangled in the tether.

And the line-out assembly went. It pulled out of the hole and... And he was gone. He was tumbling, spinning. And I tried to get into a suit to grab him myself. But the airlock wouldn't open. Why didn't you and the captain go after him? We tried.

But between patching, the damage sustained and the action, accident and the extra time we had to take to navigate out of the debris field. He was more than six hours out of reach. That's the SOP amount of oxygen in the suit. His radio went live five minutes after he started flying away. We tried to talk to him. He didn't say anything. Partial transcript of investigation number 3945.

Testimony of Elaine Hicks. Exhibit 17A. And is it your position, Captain Hicks, that the people under your command did their best to retrieve crewman wills? I believe with the limited resources at our disposal, they did, yes. And the charges against Bagley? I do believe they are not necessary at this time. It was a hard run. And what about the anomaly?

I don't know what you mean. Did you consider trying again to retrieve it? Captain answered the question It was gone You could not place it on visual Or radar or short range scans It was just gone The piles collapse meant we had to be extra cautious

Negotiating our way out And without any way to look for the anomaly It was essentially irretrievable And your thoughts on the value of the suit Not enough Listen, allow me to interrupt the horror just a moment. Hi, cell phone plan saving enthusiast, Nicole, goodnight here. And I want to talk to you about the awesomeness that is cell phone plan savings. That's right. Breaking up with your old

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Cut your unlimited wireless bill to 30 bucks a month at mintmobile.com slash no sleep. Get into bed with Mintmobile, just like I have. And now, back to the show. It can hurt, but we understand that, right? We're taught from an early age what could cause us harm. Think about it. How many things do you know would hurt you without ever experiencing them yourself. But someone must have once upon a time. And in our next tale, shared with us by

author Michael Harris Cohen, we meet a man whose job it is to learn about pain, and class is almost over. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett and Peter Lewis. So grit your teeth and prepare to keep up with the Joneses. It's a tough class to pass, but no pain, no gain, right? That's the secret to graduating. Jones comes back from his resuscitation, all smiles and high-fives. Jones four whispers in my ear. Headshot again. Guns are generally a one or a two if it's a headshot.

Gutshot is a whole other number. I've been gut shot twice, a shotgun and a nine-millimeter. Three times if you count the crossbow. The crossbow took the longest. I curled on the floor, skewered and bleeding. out, unable to move without colossal pain. It took a long time to die. I rated it a six plus. Based on Jones Five's mood, it's pretty clear this was a headshot. The bullets capsule, 12,000 pounds per square inch, drills the brain. A rapid flare of bright sound and pain,

then lights out. Basically painless. Lucky five again, what a surprise. Four's got his sour look, a mouthful of mustard. Our faces are identical, but I don't think I make that expression. There's a rumor, Jones Five has some sort of connection, and that's why he gets the easy sessions. Of course, this rumor, like all rumors here, is unconfirmed.

I'm philosophical when the topic of five comes up. We all die a certain number of sessions. What does it matter how? Focus on your work, I always say. Give good numbers. I turn to Jones Four. You don't know it was a hedge number. shot? Besides, pain is relative. That's why there are seven of us. Jones 5 crosses to the main

table to watch Jones 6 play chess with Jones 2. Jones 5 lets out a whoop. He's the loudest of us, for sure, as six checkmates too. No one has ever beaten, Jones 6. I've come closest, almost gaining a draw, but Six sees things we can't. He's moves ahead. Jones 5 starts talking about his Session. His voice floods the room like water in a bucket. New RPG! Head exploded like a firecracker. Must have been a hell of a cleanup. Four shoots me a lemony. I told you so. Look. He rolls his eyes. Sure. Relative. Anyway, what do you care? You're almost done. One session away from the gift.

It's true. Only one left. Though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. Not about my last session. After 244 of them, I can endure anything once. It's the after that has me uneasy. What it holds, and what I know it doesn't. Dying is all I know. Soon, I won't even know that. I'll never die again. That's the gift, or so the rumor goes.

No brother who graduated ever came back to confirm it. Joan Six calls the gift our ontological carrot. I don't know what that means. What I know is I'll never see my brothers again. I'll be gone. This fact serves up a hard-to-pin feeling. It feels like staring at the ocean in the beach hollow, eyes straining across an impossibly vast and empty distance.

It's loneliness, I think. But as I've never felt it, I can't be sure. I've started paying extra attention to the things my brothers do. I don't know what I'll miss or what I won't, so I try to catch everything. How Jones One cries in his sleep, a sound like some bright bird in the jungle hollow. The way Jones 2 noisily brushes his teeth, how he spits into the sink as if trying to lose a bad taste the brush can't reach. Jones 3 and his list of imagined future sessions.

By helicopter blades, by bottomless holes, by rockets, by crucifixion? How Jones 5 jokes about being the handsomest of the bunch, and how four always gets. gets riled by that, though it's absurd. The differences between us, physically anyway, are non-existent. Only Joan Six looks older, as he's been here the longest. I watch Six read in his corner and wonder if I'll miss him, our chess games, his cryptic comments and gruff voice. He looks up from his book and meets my eye, like he knows what I'm doing, how I'm memorizing. He winks, then forgets me, returning to his fat book. He shakes his head, like the words he reads, tickle the inside of it. He holds the all-time record for sessions, over 700, but his pain reports are

terrible. He's rated napalm a two and a morphine OD and nine. He refuses to provide good data. Thus, Jones after Jones passes over him. He may never receive the gift. The strangest thing, He doesn't seem to care. He just reads and dies and reads and dies and cooks and dies and plays chess. Like he's perfectly happy doing sessions and staying here forever. He doesn't even use his daily hollow visits. When I asked him why, he just shook his head. Getting rid of delusions makes us wiser than getting hold of the truth.

Whatever that means. The light over my cot goes on, and I stand and put on my suit for the last. time. Our white cover-alls are identical except for the numbers. I trace my finger over my seven. Lucky seven. After I'm gone, Jones five will likely become Jones seven, skipping over six, just as I did. Most everyone will go up a number, except for six. Six nods from the table. He cooked me breakfast. He always does on the day a seven chips, scrambled eggs and heaps of greasy bacon. The smell makes my stomach growl. I nod my appreciation and settled in across from him. Graduating, moving on. I nod, my mouth already full of eggs. It always unnerves me, looking at my

older self. There might be a year or two difference among the rest of us, but it's hard to detect. Everyone but six is a mirror, the same close-cropped dark hair, the same narrow nose and thin lips, identical black coffee eyes. Joan Six has all that too, but his hair is gray splashed, wrinkles graft his skin. There's something different in his eyes, too. He points to the chessboard. Last game? I shrug. He sets up the pieces, offers me white. I finish my breakfast and open my queen's pawn. What do you think they'll choose for your final session? I wipe bacon grease off my chin. I've obviously considered this question, but I don't say anything. Conversation with six often feels like a trap, like the chess game doesn't only happen on the board. We trade nights.

Jones 5 pulls up a chair and studies the board. He's always listening, always jumping into things, something I'm certain I won't miss. I'm betting on fire. Among us, it's generally agreed that fire is one of the worst. Your skin blisters, your blood boils, you smell your own death. Jones One is the lone abstainer, but he hasn't suffered as many imalations as the rest of us. Six makes a mistake and leaves his bishop unprotected. I take it, and he winces. Not a big fan of drowning. That moment when you can't hold your breath, the first suck of water in the lungs. Agony. Five leans in closer. Yeah, but with burning, seconds feel like years.

These are recycled conversations. Old as the hollow hills, though they never grow dull. I'll miss them. You learn a lot when you understand what session a brother most fears. In a little while, I'm up three pieces and have a serious position advantage. The game is mine to lose. Six really must be getting old. I feel giddy about my first victory against six.

Whatever it is, it's the last one. I can endure anything once, even skinning. Five shutters and six smiles. Five and I smile back. It's a reflex. When one of us smiles, the others can't help but do the same, as if to do otherwise would be to ignore the face in the mirror. Skinning is, everyone agrees, one of the worst.

Easily a nine. Teadious and excruciating. It's worse than anything except some deaths by animal. Six still smiles, though I put him in chair. Check three times and we'll meet him soon. His smile is bigger than mine. Rinkles split his face. Whatever they've got in store is for the good of science.

Those words have power for us. A motto, a mantra. They ease our fears and swell our chests. We all have faith in science. Science made us. Science brings us back to life. Science constructs our food from thin air. Science created the miracle of the hollows and the gift.

Whatever it is, But when sick says the words, they sound wrong. Somehow, soured. He topples his king, and I stretch my smile till it hurts, trying to match his. That's right. For the good of science. None of us knows why they gave us the hollows. Some brothers believe it's to prepare us for the outside world.

Of course, since we don't know the outside world at all, this rumor is unconfirmed and merely plausible. Others say the hollows keep us from going mad from the sessions. This rumor is also unconfirmed, but seems more probable, since Joan 6, the only one who skips his hollow visits, is definitely not what the rest of us consider sane. I put on the helmet for the last hollow before my session. I've tried them all. City, driving, swimming, flying, all the others. But I'm partial to the nature hollows, the wonder of the outdoors. Hand in the air, I select beach. I adjust the knobs. The test pattern sharpened. The beach comes into view. Sun on water. My eyes squint. A white bird dangles in the breeze.

I pivot my head, and there's the hollow guy, same as always. He's one of us, exactly the same except his cover rolls are black. He smiles. I smile back. He closes his eyes, breathes in the ocean. I mirror his seated posture, bunched up knees, hands spread in the sand. I study his profile. I'm nearly sure he's the last seven to graduate. No, there's no way to confirm it.

I smell salt. I hear the surfs crash like radiostatic, the white birds, angry squawks. Touch is the only thing missing, and therefore is the thing I spend the most time imagining in the hollows. What does the sand feel like? Is it wet? Sticky?

The breeze that blows the face that is my face, the hair that is my hair. What does that feel like? The hollow guy's eyes remain closed. He holds an expression I can't ever read. Not yet, anyway. His skin is smooth as an iron sheet. I wonder again if he exists when I'm not here.

I wonder again if he wonders if I exist. He won't respond, but still I speak. This is my last hollow. I'm graduating. He smiles as if he hears me. I smile back. I ask the last hollow. the questions I always ask. Is this where we go? After the gift? Are the hollows real? Are you?

He opens his eyes. Maybe he nods slightly. If I could feel in the hollows, I'd reach out and touch him. I've done it, of course, but it's too weird, touching someone and feeling nothing. He turns away and watches a wide-winged bird circle above. It's call echoes, then cuts off as the hollow flickers and goes blank. Time's up. Usually I feel elated after the hollows. Most of us do, like our world has expanded, like we're momentarily part of something larger than our daily routine.

But this time it's different. I don't know why. My head sweats inside the hollow helmet. It's a long time before I take it off. Others gather around me. We shake hands. They pat me on the back. We huddle as Jones III says his habitual

prayer, a litany of all his deaths so far. By water, by Ebola, by snake, by strangulation? The consensus is that three has gone mad. It happens, though we're all silent and respectful when he prays. Three was always different. He came back from his first session sunny and smiling. Jones 7, it was Jones 5 at that time, asked if it was decapitation, which is quick, barely a one-plus. Decapitation leaves some guys euphoric. Jones III, who was Jones 1 then, shook his head. Boiled alive. A seven or eight in a pretty harsh first session.

Still, he smiled, and so did we all. He spread his hands and exclaimed, What a beautiful thing to be reborn. He finally finishes the prayer. All for the good of science. We nod and repeat the words. All for the good of science. My tension.

lifts slightly. Jones 5 shakes my hand. Good luck outside. We'll keep suffering for the greater good. For the good of science. My spine feels straighter. My handshake firmer. Jones 4 rolls his eyes as five moves away. Some suffer more than others. I smile. He smiles. I tell 4 to focus on his sessions, to keep his eyes on the gift. Joan 6 is the last to say goodbye. He steps up and stares me in the eyes. My smile waits to spring into action, but he doesn't draw his. His eyes burn like he wants to tell me something important, something new. Instead, he just says the same enigmatic thing he always says when a seven leaves. There are worse things than dying. I feel sad he's afraid to move on, afraid to change, but I break out my smile. Like your eggs. Rubbery is a shoe sole. He says,

smiles back and raises both thumbs, though his eyes are gloomy, the flicker gone, like overcast skies in the mountain hollow. I stand by the door as the green light blinks. I spread my smile as wide as it can go. I wave goodbye to my six grinning brothers as the door slides open and I step into the corridor for the last time. They'll have a new Jones one soon. I'm sure they'll treat him well. They made me feel at home right away, an instant family, and I tried to do the same for each new arrival. Jones ones are always disoriented. None of us remember anything before arrival. I always made them a cup of tea and introduced them around. I'd tell a few jokes while the others grimaced. They'd heard them too many times. I'd show the ones the hollow machine, explain that someday we'd

maybe be like the hollow guy, outside and free. I never told them what they'd have to do to get there. They discovered that on their own. It seems cruel, but we all went through it. Plus, their first reading is more accurate if they don't know what awaits. When they return from their first session, that's when they truly become family. Sometimes they cry when they understand what we do. Some rage or hurt themselves. Some sit frozen, staring into space.

We'd always hold a party. It was the only time the researchers sent in alcohol, a case of beer and bottles of whiskey. By the end of the night, drunk and singing, the new Jones' ones' tears usually mingled with laughter. We'd clink our glasses across the table, and three would stand up, swiveling his hips. We're gods and saints.

We suffer like saints. For the good of science! I'd shout. We'd all shout. Jones Six would drink, but hardly talk. He'd wait for the new Jones' wand to ask. asked the question. Sometimes it came right away, sometimes later. Eventually they'd always ask. When they did, Six would smile, and therefore we all would, including the new guy. Six would lean forward, his words a little slurred. Exactly. Why, my brother? The eternal question. The walk

down the corridor is often the worst. It's the not knowing that gets to one. Will it be a tankful of piranhas, a new type of acid in a glass beaker, a harmless-looking liquid that eats off one's face. Usually I focus on my breathing and conjure a scene from the hollows. I'll imagine the desert or the snow-covered forest. If I concentrate, I can see snow falling, dizzying flakes piling into mounds. But today, as it's my last walk, I relish the anticipation. I even wonder if I'll miss it. I pay attention to each step down this winding corridor, marking it. Someday, all of this may be a story to tell. A thing I'll share with someone I don't yet know.

I reach the laboratory, and the researcher, a thin man I've never seen, stands by his instruments, dressed in the researcher's usual green coveralls. The only other place I've seen this color is in the mountain hollow. It's the color of the grass. I scan the room. I don't see cages or smell. Well, animals, so I doubt I'll be eaten. There's no fire or drowning chamber either.

I relax a little as the researcher passed the examination table, and I hop up. He, like the other researchers, is not one for small talk. He rolls up my sleeve and produces a hypodermic from a numbered case. I raise my eyebrows. They generally don't answer questions, but since it's the last session, I can't help myself. Poison? He shakes his head and taps the air. bubbles out of the syringe. Some sort of neurotoxin? Straight up gasoline? I've had variations on both.

Most are slow and in the mid-six range. One neurotoxin paralyzed me, but didn't take away sensation. They lowered my immobile body into a container filled with small insects that nibbled away. Death took a long time. That was a solid eight. I swallow as he swabs my skin with an alcohol-soaked pad. None of the above. This is the gift. He jabs the needle into the meat of my shoulder. The pain is less than a one. More like a point zero one. I thought I had one more session. My expression must have been one of alarm because he pats me on the shoulder, something a researcher has never done. Usually they're all business, men of few words, let alone comforting pats. Relax. You've died your last death.

I sit on the lab table waiting to feel something. Some poison feels like an advancing fire, scorching its path to the heart. Others start in the gut or head, gathering storms that gust with pain. But this feels like nothing. The researcher stares at his watch and whistles. None of us can whistle, but I'm always impressed when the researchers do. I get lost in his tune until his head snaps up and he rolls down my sleeve. That's it.

That's all? You were expecting something else, more technological fanfare? I shrug, but inside I'm nodding vigorously. You might not feel different, but you are. You can't die ever. Whatever disease or accident befalls you, your body will regenerate. Here, allow me to demonstrate. He pulls out a scalpel from the pocket of his coveralls.

With a swift backhand, he slices my throat. The cut is deep, but hardly painful. Maybe a two-minus. After decapitation, having your throat slit is probably the easiest session. Warm blood spurts through my hands as they reflexively cover the gash. The researcher glances at his watch. Of course you'll still feel pain. But you're hardly a stranger to that.

He smirks as I gasp for air and gurgle. This, I believe, is his attempt at a joke, though I can't be sure. I try a face that models his, though it's not easy as I'm choking on blood and can't catch my breath. Still, I do my best to echo his smirk and look casual as blood seeps through my coveralls, as I grow faint. He produces a hand mirror and passes it to me. I lift my bloodied hands to take it. Watch. The crack in my throat curves like a smile.

I fade, closer to death. Then an itching sensation stirs at my throat. I watch in the mirror as the wound pulls together, sewing itself shut. After another minute, there's no sign of the injury on my skin, only my bloody coveralls. The pain drops to a zero. My expression in the mirror

is brand new. Eyes wide, mouth open. I've never been so amaced. Not even in my first hollow sessions. Neat, huh? No more unpleasant resuscitations. You struggled with those, didn't you? It's true. Except for Jones Five, I was perpetually cheerful. And three, who calls the resuscitations, the process leaves us queasy and weak. It's even worse than some of the sessions. Being Angry born ain't for sissies, four used to say. Time to go. He smiles for the first time. His teeth, unlike ours, are yellow and crooked.

The imperfection of them troubles me, but I smile back, happy to mirror his face. I think of my brothers, as the researcher leads me down a brightly lit corridor, a part of the building I've never seen. What would they say if they could see me now? immortal and dressed in black coveralls, just like the hollow guy. I wonder if they'll see me in the hollow. I wonder what they're doing with the new Jones One, whether someone tells him my worn-out jokes before his first session, or perhaps I've lost track of time after receiving the gift.

Maybe Jones-1 already returned from his first session, already voiced the inevitable question. Perhaps alcohol-soaked talk has turned to why we don't know why. It would influence our readings. Five always says, We'd feel pain differently. They'd keep us in the dark, or we'd screw up the data. Exactly.

I imagine Jones Four might say, wishing him a rare moment of agreement with Five. What does it matter whether it's for weapons development or a pharmaceutical company? Clearly the work is important. Jones III, as always, would hold a more radical theory. They're making us messiah. Or, they want a sense of the soul's mass.

and shape. Death is not the point. The point is recording the soul's exit and trajectory. For the good of science, they'll all say and raise their glasses. All but six. I utter the words in the corridor. The researcher smiles. Of course he smiles. He is science. We turn a corner and an even longer corridor stretches before us. The researcher stops and pulls out a touch tablet. He scrolls on it and I wait behind. Down the hallway is a series of large windows, though from here I can't see what's inside the rooms. Next to the windows,

the vitals monitors they use for our sessions line the walls like black paintings. I know paintings from the museum hollow, one I never thought much of, though Five claimed it was his favorite. He said the Hollow Guy has excellent taste in art, though How Five knows this, I can't say. For me, it's just the same hollow guy, silent as sleep.

All he does is point and smile and stare. Room 344. Just head to double check. Wouldn't want to put you in the wrong room. He starts whistling again, and I give it another shot. After the gift, who knows what I might be able to do? I purse my lips and, for the first time, manage a warbly note as I follow. I suck inner breath and try again. But when we reach the first window, my mouth slackens,

and the air leaks out of me. I once had a conversation with Six, back when I was only Jones 2. My debriefers had told me my numbers were excellent, some of the best they'd seen. They told me I'd rise quickly, that I might be the fastest to ever receive the gift. I'd come back from my resuscitation with the usual nausea, but also elated, bouncing on my toes. I'd told Six about it as we played chess. He blitzkrieged me in ten moves, but even that couldn't spoil my mood. People give gifts when they want something.

They give gifts as an expression of love, too. They give gifts when they want to say thank you. He held my king in his hand, swinging it back and forth before letting it tumble to the board. Gifts are barter. There's always an agenda. Think about it, John's. What's in it for them?

I'd remembered something he'd read to me. I served it back with a smile. He that dies pays all debts. Pure, simple truth. He smiled back, but shook his head. The truth is rarely pure, and never simple. On the other side of the glass, a brother stands in the center of the room. He stares at me, I think, though it's hard to tell because he's bleeding out of his eyeballs.

Smoke rises off his body and waves. Even from this side of the glass, I know what the smoke smells like. I've been electrocuted enough times to memorize that odor. It's an overcooked piece of meat. It's rancid barbecue. His body vibrates with the current, though there are no wires. Glancing at his smoldering feet, I realize the electricity comes from the floor. The monitor by the window charts his vitals.

The whole column of data scrolls down next to the jagged mountain peaks of his heartbeat. The line of his heart shudders, then finally goes flat. The researcher steps up to watch. This is the best part who wait for it. Immediately, the monitor line spikes back up as his heart revives. His feet, that had just started to slightly pinken, blacken again as the power jolts back on. No resuscitation is necessary. The gift prevents him from dying.

I force a smile just to see if he can see me. He smiles back. His teeth are bloody. The researcher tugs at my coveralls. Come on. You're just down here. We pass a room where another brother is submerged in water. He gulps his last breath, dies, then comes alive.

His face twists from my least favorite agony. The next room is filled with army ants. Only arms are visible as we move past, rising from the swarming insects as though he's waving. Another room has a Jones buried in his neck in ice. I study the face. It's the last Joan 7, I think. The one who grabs me.

graduated before me, though I can't be sure. The glass is frosted from the cold, and his features are indistinct and plued. I smile. He smiles. Freezing isn't so bad, I think. It's like falling asleep. Barely a two. In another room, there's a giant concrete block. No brother visible, but the monitor shows a heartbeat. One of us is in there. I stumble on. My feet not feeling. the floor, legs rubbery. Here we are. The researcher presses his badge to the wall, and the door to room 3-4-4 swings open. My brain screams, run, but my legs march into the room. I stand still as a hollow tree as he affixes wireless sensors to my heart and temples. You thought you'd be getting out of here, didn't you? My mouth opens and closes like I'm being suffocated.

He shakes his head. His expression is impossible to read. It's between disgust and sadness. You guys always do. They had to give you all the normal emotions for the numbers to be good, even hope. But what about the hollows? He makes a funny sound like a squeaky hinge. I realize he's laughing, and I mimic it.

Both of us laugh. His laughter dies out, and he shakes his head. Do you know? what we call the hollows. He closes the door of the room and waves from outside the window. He gives that strange look again. I know the word pity, but I've never seen the face. Maybe this is it.

Then he's gone. There's a stretched moment before I know what my endless session will be. Fire or acid raining from the ceiling. The ceiling itself lowering to meet the floor. Infinite hornet stings. Gassing. I shut my eyes. I envisioned the beach hollow. Only this time my brothers are there with me. All of us together by the sea. Even six. Hell is other people, six once said, and though I understand what he meant, I don't think he's right. Hell is something else. Unseen machinery wars.

With my eyes closed, the sound becomes a sea wind, a wind on my face, caressing my skin. Our skin, our skin, a sea gust that blows forever. A sea wind my brothers and I can finally feel. For the good of science! I say, we all say, I feel a little better. I say it again. For the good of science. Thank you for joining us on our journey down the lost highway.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mike Halski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 2499. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening.

As the darkness fades, it feels like you're going to. It is copyright 2020 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media.