The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E12

Episode Date: June 27, 2021

It’s Episode 12 of Season 16. Our correspondence signals the end of times. “Dictionary for the Apocalypse: Section N” written by C Devlin (Story starts around 00:06:15) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy“Love in the Apocalypse” written by Austin Gragg (Story starts around 00:49:20)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin, Tan – Kyle Akers, Bell – Wafiyyah White, Niall – Atticus Jackson“The Last Day of Summer” written by Shawn W. Foley (Story starts around 01:10:10) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Mike DelGaudio“Sirens” written by Bill Schwarz (Story starts around 01:19:45)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Graham Rowat, Glenn – Jeff Clement“Flesh & Blood” written by Jerry W McKinney (Story starts around 01:49:30) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Jessie – Atticus Jackson, Pa – Jesse Cornett, Sarah – Sarah Ruth Thomas  This episode is sponsored by:HelloFresh – With HelloFresh, you get fresh, pre-measured ingredients and mouthwatering seasonal recipes delivered right to your door. Skip trips to the grocery store and count on HelloFresh to make home cooking easy, fun, and affordable ñ and that’s why it’s America’s #1 meal kit!. Go to HelloFresh.com/nosleep14 and use code nosleep14 for up to 14 free meals plus free shipping!ShipStation – ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your orders from all your sales channels faster, cheaper and more efficiently. You can import orders from any sales channel and ship with any carrier using their deeply discounted rates. Go to shipstation.com and click the microphone icon at the top of the page. Enter code NOSLEEP to get a 60-day free trial.  Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about C Devlin Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Dictionary for the Apocalypse: Section N” illustration courtesy of JörnAudio program ©2021 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The No Sleep Podcast is ready with Season 16, Episode 12. I just hope I can make it through it. What's wrong? Not feeling well? No, no, I'm fine. I'm just starving. I really need to eat. There's some kettle corn and circus peanuts in the break room. Ugh, that chunk? I dare not eat Jessica's food. You know how she gets. Of course. Why not try making your own delicious meals with the help of the fine folks at Hello Fresh? Ah, yes, why didn't I think of that? Now we're talking about it.

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and with the most common kitchen utensils, I can cook like a seasoned chef. And their meals don't take a lot of time to prepare. Listen, I'm running a podcasting empire here. You think I have hour after hour to make meals? No, no, I do not. That's why HelloFresh is perfect. Our listeners owe it to themselves and their family

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That's why HelloFresh is America's number one meal kit. Well, before you get cooking, how about we start the show? Great idea. It's time for the No Sleep podcast. In the dark hours, in the antique, in the letters long lost and forgotten, there are tales of horror to frighten and disturb. Come, join us as we delve deep into the darkness. Into the sleepless hours, when you dare not close your eyes. for the No Sleep Podcast June 16, Chapter 12

Welcome, Sleepless listeners. I'm your host, David Cummings. Let's talk about this storage unit. It weighs on my mind and consumes my time. I drove all the way back to Canada to our storage unit. All the while, voices whispered in my head. Some were warnings. The scream is almost here.

the usual maddening things, and instructions too. Instructions I felt obliged to follow, despite the malevolence I felt in them. I reached the storage unit block. Every single unit had been broken into and vandalized. Every single one, besides hours. Hours sat there, untouched, like a mockery among the devastation. There were no cops, no crime tape even. I entered the scene.

The black cat was sniffing through the rubble of the other units, which had long since been cleaned out of any valuables. I went inside ours. Nothing much had changed. The same musty books and documents. The same strange electricity. But now I could feel a presence, too. Like someone, some thing lurking behind the stacks, just out of eyesight no matter where I explored. For a moment, I wondered if the cat had gotten inside.

So I peaked out the door and, no, the animal's still aimlessly exploring some distance away. I went about my work. I grabbed a small book and slid it into my pocket, although I have little memory of doing so at the time. And then I doused the whole place in gasoline. Can after can, as I'd been instructed to buy on my way here. When I was done, when all the documents were soaked, I made a trail of gas leading out the door, so the flames would pass through a little gap in the brickwork. Then I slammed the door shut for what I hope is one final time.

The lighter flame caught the gas almost immediately. I turned and walked away. I had no idea how or why the whole unit exploded. It was just meant to burn. I kept walking. The cat fleeing past me to safety. I didn't look back. And now I'm here in New Jersey again,

and all I keep hearing when I close my eyes to sleep is a vicious, mocking voice saying, Well done. The following is a recording of the soul book remaining from the storage unit. It's part of a dictionary, although unlike one I've ever seen. The book has a strange alien feel to it. The author is credited as C. Devlin and Jessica McAvoy has helped out by recording the text.

It's called Dictionary for the Apocalypse, Section N. Dictionary for the Apocalypse, Section N. Nuclear Armageddon. Noun. The thing that fucked the world. Might as well start at the beginning. Non-essential, adjective. Describes personnel unnecessary

to keep the shelter operating. For example, someone you could walk up to and say, hey, you're not doing anything important, so we're assigning you to the dictionary project. Have fun doing it in the non-existent amount of free time you've been allotted. Someone who's sorry their doctorate was in lepidoptery and not, oh, structural engineering, perhaps. Someone who's just grateful they were given N

and not S or R or one of the other letters that would take forever. Someone who is still going to half-ass this because little rebellions are all she has left. Neo-capitalism. Noun. The reason why our former government subcontracted out building the shelters to private companies. And the reason why those companies subcontracted out to cheaper companies. And the reason why those companies subcontracted out to even cheaper companies. And so on.

It's the reason why the seal on the main. door doesn't fit quite right and the air scrubbers don't always work and the water filtration system runs dry when you look at it wrong the reason that we're all living a carton a day twelve hours in the tanning bed licking the glowing paint kind of existence nobody noun an absence of people not something you ever experience when you hot rack with two other non-essentials the one with the rest period right before mine has an assignment near the reactor. His hair is falling out. Tufts of it scattered over the pillow whenever I go to lie down. Sometimes I wake up with strands in my mouth or find them itching inside my clothes. I tug at my own

hair now and then to see how much will come out. It's not a lot. Not yet, anyway. I've started going to the main door just for a little time alone. To get there, I have to pass a half-dozen signs, each printed in three languages with a skull and crossbones at the bottom to really get the point across. Step over the fluorescent yellow and black striped line. In nature, bright colors often indicate the presence of poison, but everything here is toxic. All that matters is the dosage. I rest with my back against the smooth concrete wall, facing the colossal door. Breathe in and out. And in, the tension bleeds out of my shoulders and my fists unclench. The little white crescents, my nails left in my palms, flush pink, and then fate. I've always been this way,

always needed a bit more space than other people, from other people, ducked my way out of hugs and handshakes, spent Friday nights working on my thesis. There wasn't enough room in me for anyone else, with one exception. Nation. Noun. This is what we are now. The glorious nation of Rad Shelter 2943. Population, too many.

National Anthem, the first verse of the star-spangled banner, because none of us can remember the rest. National insect, some sort of cockroach that's taken to scuttling over our faces when we sleep. National disease. Brain cancer. This is what the world is now. Lonely little nations playing dress up with mommy's heels and lipstick. Neurotic. When you think you hear something moving on the other side of the main door. I jerked back from where I'd been resting, scrabbling on all fours like an insect over the striped hazard line, breath hissing between my clenched teeth, palms clammy with nervous sweat, prey waiting and listening for a stalking predator. But all was quiet. With each passing

moment of silence, I relaxed a little more. It wouldn't be the first time stress had gotten the better of me. I think back to the first few days when the surprise of having survived curdled into the realization that I would have to live with everything that meant. I used to dream Saf was calling my name, begging me to come back, saying she didn't want to be. go alone. It didn't always stop when I woke up. I cautiously edged towards where I'd been sitting, hoping to get a few more minutes of rest before my next rotation when I heard it. A low, animal moan, ragged and gurgling, as of forcing its way through a blistered throat. There was a muffled thud, something throwing itself against the metal, and then a faint scratching sound. Picture a dog

scrabbling at a door. Picture a cheap knife rasping over concrete. Pathetic and menacing and enough to send me fleeing down the corridor. And now, hours later and levels lower, I can still hear it. Nubile, adjective. Not sure about this one. It's probably got a perfectly legitimate definition, but I can only ever think of it as a porn word. You know, like turgid, or a word. You know, like turgid, or engorged. Along with dictionaries, enough mattresses, and non-dehydrated food, nobody thought to grab a few hard drives of entertainment before we sealed the door. Being the highly educated professionals, most of us are,

we found solutions to the problem. Happy to be alive, sex, turned into distracting one another from the apocalypse sex, turned into aggressively bored sex, which, when the restricted diet and sleep rotations took their toll, turned into no sex. Not that I participated in any of it. Everything was so raw for me back then. It was an unbearable effort to get out of bed, to eat, to talk, to exist. I couldn't imagine wanting to be with anyone again.

And there weren't many options for me if I had. Just one option, really. Just the doctor, and she's no option at all. We used to go to the same evacuation drills, and she would find excuses to stand too close, touching my shoulder or my hair, suggesting we meet up after for coffee, or more than coffee,

always framing it as a joke, like tacking on a just kidding fooled anyone but herself. She didn't even stop when I said I was married. Creep. Nymphality. Noun. Formerly, the largest family of butterflies. Currently, a sizable collection of radioactive ash.

Sophia never forgave me for the tattoo. I got it before we met, I said. It was to celebrate getting accepted into my program, I said. The lower back is a minimally painful area for a first tattoo, I said. She replied that I had no idea how embarrassing it was to have fallen for someone with a butterfly tramp stamp. Vanessa Carduai tramp stamp, I corrected. More commonly known as a painted lady, precision is important, babe. She liked it when I was pedantic. She had entertaining ways of shutting me up. And after, sheets kicked down to the foot of the bed and sweat drying on our

skin, her calloused fingertip tracing gently over the ink lines. Her mocks. Her mocks serious threat to get my name in a heart on her bicep, or misspelled lettering on her knuckles, or some other equally mortifying tattoo to make us even. Her snorting laugh when I hit her in the face with a pillow. I didn't deserve her. I think I knew it even then. Verb. The scratching has been going on for weeks now. That horrible scrape that resonates in my teeth and bones, as if it were me being clawed at and not two feet of reinforced steel. It stays in my ears when I try to sleep, and I wish for a blanket or pillow, anything to hide under for just a moment of stolen comfort. I toss and turn through my whole rest period, soaking the thin mattress with sweat until a woman

shoves me out of it and lies down for her turn. Sleep deprivation was what finally drove me to see the doctor. I had begun to hallucinate little things here and there. Butterflies fluttering gently around the ceiling. My wedding ring back on my finger. I could still see a glint of gold when I raised my hand to knock on the door of the clinic. The doctor put a hand on my shoulder and offered me a chair. Sounds like a simple case of stress, she said when I told her I wasn't sleeping, about the noises and the butterflies and the ring.

Nothing that a mild sedative wouldn't fix. There was something in the cadence of her voice that made me pause. some sub-vocal warning. So it wasn't a surprise when she said that sort of medication was restricted to essential personnel. When she said maybe she could make an exception for me, when she offered a trait. And when I declined, she showed me out with a forced smile.

Nature. Noun. My parents never understood why I chose lepidoptery. But the signs were there if they'd known how to read them. When I was little, I'd put worms in my pocket and forget about them until I reached in and touched the gooey mess. I'd catch dragonflies in the summer, pinching the delicate wings with my thumbs and four fingers, and holding them crucified between my chubby child hands. Once, I caught a butterfly.

Vanessa Cardewi, I know now, but at the time it was just orange and pretty. I stalked it from flower to flower, sneaking closer whenever it perched to rest on a leaf or petal, until I was finally close enough. I'd only meant to hold it like my dragonflies, but I was too excited. Instead of stretching it out for a good look, I tore off one of its wings. Stardled, I dropped the butterfly, and it fell to the dirt, fluttering weakly in an attempt to ride itself. Scales from its wings smeared across my fingertips like, orange Cheeto dust. I started to cry. It wasn't the first time I'd heard something beautiful,

but it was the first time I'd felt bad about it. My mother said I was inconsolable for days. Since then, whenever I forgot to call home on her birthday or return my father's emails, whenever I argued with SAF over something stupid and petty, pressing every button she had because I wanted to win more than I wanted to find a solution. Whenever I did, I did, something thoughtless and cruel. I feel it. The silken rip of a butterfly's wing. Nursery. The overseers gathered us to talk about a breeding program again. They say we need to think about the survival of the species. They say non-essential, viable women might need to make some sacrifices to ensure our collective future, to ensure that humanity survives.

as if what they're proposing wouldn't finish off what little humanity we have left. It's a pointless exercise in cruelty. The shelter won't last another 10 years, 20 and most. Either the air scrubbers will break beyond repair and will all quietly exfixiate, or the water filters will, and will much less quietly die from dehydration. Or if we make it all the way to 20, the food will run out and will have a final flirtation with murder and cannibalism. But then I think of the alternative.

300 years from now, some pallid inbred thing squirming into the sunlight, eyeless and soft, its larval face still bearing the obscene legacy of an overseer's jawline and my mouth.

Humanity reborn. Sometimes I just think about that. Noxious. Adjective. I've been thinking, Talking about the radium girls, young women working at a glow in the dark watch factory, painting the dials with radium. To get the cleanest lines, they needed a sharp tip on the paintbrush. To get a sharp tip, they were told to point the brushes with their lips. Watch after watch,

day after day, they swallowed poison. It hid in their marrow, accumulating with every triumphant production quota. As the radium decayed, it shredded those girls from the inside out. Their hair fell out and tumors boiled under their skin. And when they died, their bones glowed in the dark. History moves in circles. God, Sav, what am I going to do? I should have stayed with you. I think about it all the time. When the sirens went off, we could have just gone back home. We could have just gone back Home, sat down on the couch, and waited. Maybe put on a movie, eat all the ice cream in the fridge. That wouldn't have been such a bad way to go.

I'm a coward. You said it was okay, but I think I would have left even if you hadn't. I've been swallowing poison every day since. Nuter. Verb. When I was approved for the shelter list, They sent me a welcome packet, mostly packing lists and detailed evacuation protocols, but there was also a pamphlet about radiation safety, printed on thick, glossy paper with a little

cartoon man to explain the three types of radiation, alpha, beta, and gamma. Alpha particles can be blocked by as little as a layer of clothing, beta particles by a sheet of metal, gamma rays by several inches of lead or concrete. The main door is at least two feet thick, but it doesn't seal. I stepped over the hazard line, and the scratching grew frenzied, a metal file sawing through the base of my skull, but it became quieter as I continued to approach. Stopped altogether once I lay down, the floor gritty and cold under my cheek, my back against the gap between the door and the wall, closer than I'd ever dared before.

I put a hand over my stomach and picture the tangled worms of my intestines. I picture the little cartoon man and his little cartoon warnings about radiation poisoning. It kills through cellular degeneration, but only in high doses. Before that, you'll experience a buffet of gastrointestinal issues, hair loss, and lesions, seizures, cognitive impairment, cancers, sterility. I hope it won't hurt too much, the pamphlet didn't say. Nostrum, noun. Guess whose hallucinations still don't qualify for medication.

While I was there, the doctor had me fill out paperwork about when my last menstruation cycle was, and if I had ever been pregnant before. Things like that. Breeding questions. I wrote down the least appealing answers I could imagine. Let them think I haven't bled since we were sealed in. Check yes to every inheritable genetic disorder. The doctor looked at the papers for a long time when I gave them back.

Then she smiled and said I could go. It didn't make me feel better. It showed too many teeth. Non-consensual, adjective. I didn't lose my virginity until my junior year of college. Not for lack of desire on my part, but because I flirted entirely by staring at girls I thought were attractive, hoping they would make the first move. By the law of averages, eventually one did.

I don't remember her name, just the bright red of her lipstick, the plunging neckline of her dress. Drunk on three wine coolers and the thrill of finally being wanted, I didn't stop to think if I wanted it too. I did, I think. but I didn't stare so much after. The first time I went home with Saf, she stopped as soon as she got my shirt off. I seemed so nervous, she said. Embarrassed, I sputtered something about her needing to get on with it.

She kissed my forehead, told me it was okay. We ended up watching a nature documentary, wrapped in heavy blankets and each other. She held me close in her sleep. My face tucked into the hollow of her neck, surrounded by the faintly floral scent of her shampoo. In the morning, I rolled her on her back, and we finished what we started. Then there was the doctor.

In the early days when I couldn't move from a mattress, one side of my face glued to the fabric with snot and dried tears. She sat with me, brushed the greasy tangles of hair out of my eyes, told me in a quiet, hoarse little voice that she'd lost people too. She understood what I was feeling, but didn't we deserve to be happy again? Shouldn't we ring every drop of pleasure we still could out of this world? She'd give me anything I wanted. Better food, more sleep, as many pills as it took to make the pain stop, everything.

All I had to do was say yes. I flung an arm over my eyes and waited for her to leave. Negligible. Adjective. I think the radiation is working. The skin around my tattoo is tender and hot to the touch, and I wake up for each work rotation with insistent low-grade nausea in a parody of morning sickness.

Still, I don't know if that's enough. I keep coming to the main door to rest against the cold steel. Behind me, I can hear the desperate scrabbling of some unseen, creature. In front of me, a corridor leads deeper into the shelter, hungry and twisting like the esophagus of some great beast. Between the two, I'd rather take my chances with the thing outside. I imagine it'd be more honest about what it wants from me. If it weren't for the 16-digit code needed to open the door, I might have already indulged my curiosity. This time, the creature made different noises as I went to sit down. Softer. Inviting, almost. When I put my ear to the crack,

I could just barely hear what sounds like a voice, hoarse and broken. Tortured enough, it's only the cadence that makes me think of human speech. It's a hallucination brought on by too much stress and too little sleep, of course. But strangely, it's still better company than I've had in a long time. Naked, adjective. Earlier, the doctor called me into her office. Any hope I might have had for a prescription died when I saw the paperwork on her desk.

A queasy sort of horror twisted my stomach. I just wanted to have a little check-up with you, she said, oozing saccharine concern. Someone with your medical history can't be too careful. Please, take off your clothes and get on the exam table. She had that same smile on her face. I wanted to run. Find some dark niche in the depths of the shelter.

Curl up there with my arms around my knees and scream and scream and scream. Instead, I unzipped my coveralls and shrugged them off my shoulders. The doctor breathed in, surprised. I don't think she really believed I would. would do it. She started with a blood pressure cuff, stethoscope, felt under my jaw, shoved her fingers in my mouth to pin down my tongue and examine the back of my throat, pressed in deep until I choked, coughing up saliva around her gloved hand. The tears were an involuntary physical reaction, but the doctor still stopped when she saw them. You have stage

one radiodermatitis on your lower back, she said, quietly, uncomfortable with what she'd done. You should be on antibiotics. I didn't look at her. She said, I could give you some. I finished pulling on my clothes. Nice tattoo, she added. I have never hated anyone more. Nopshel, adjective.

A PhD was enough. to get me on the shelter list. To populate their arcs and presumably their post-flood world, the assignment boards fell back on the eternal determining factors of wealth, politics, sports, education, and presumed willingness to sleep with members of the assignment boards. Saff was a roofer, and we didn't have the money or influence to buy her a spot. Sometimes exceptions were made for married couples. We'd always planned on it in some hazy, future. your tents, so we just moved up the timeline. Her dress was beautiful. She always kept her hair back in a French braid for work, but she wore it down for the ceremony, jet black and curling

over her shoulders and collarbone. I knew there would never be anyone else for me. Our appeal was denied. Necrophilia. Noun. That voice. Flayed open voice. Hit Sophia. It's Sophia. Negotiate. Verb. I saw the doctor again today. I told her that I was still hearing things, and I couldn't go through that again. Never again.

It would break me. Please, please, please, could she give me something to help me calm down? Look, she said. She understood what I was trying to do, but sanity wasn't a requirement for the breeding program. She put her hand on mine, and the latex glove felt slick and rubbery. It made the touch clinical, antiseptic. How strange the details you cling to sometimes.

The doctor said that she could, however, find me sterile, for a price, that is. Her hand moved a little higher, fingers edging under the cuff of my coveralls. if I got her meaning, thumb stroking the delicate tracery of veins on the inside of my wrist. I said I would have to think about it. She told me that was fine, but not to take too long. The offer has an expiration date. Nauseous. Adjective.

I told the doctor, yes, it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. Nitrogen Narcosis. Noun. A condition. divers can develop, causing a state equivalent to drunkenness. In my case, it's a result of taking considerably more than the recommended dose of anxiety medications. If you don't look too closely, sedation and rest feel pretty similar.

It's only when I surface that I realize how far I've sunk, how much farther there is left to fall. I've been losing time, waking up in unused service corridors or, or, you know, and I'm not or utility closets. Missing check-ins with my overseer that only days before would have landed me a reactor assignment and reduced rations.

I always wake up closer to the main door than I started. The scratching and distorted whimpers are hearted to hear through the drug-induced fog, but still it calls to me. She calls to me. Maybe it's just the medication

keeping me calm, but the thought doesn't scare me anymore. And when I fall asleep, curled up in a ball at the base of the door, I have such vivid dreams. I see Sath out there in the wastes, surrounded by the blackened skeletons of buildings, each footstep kicking up a cloud of radioactive dust. She looks a little different now, without skin or hair. But I know it's her. I know she's been looking for me for so long. Neologism.

The doctor says, darling, sweetheart, baby. Never my name, though she must know it from the medical records. She says, please. It makes me angrier than it probably should that she phrases her demands as requests, expects us both to maintain the polite fiction

that I have a choice in this, that I could refuse. I'm sure if you ask, Asked, she wouldn't say she's a bad person at all. When we finished, she stopped me from getting off the examination table with a hand between my shoulder blades. Her fingers left sticky trails that made me want to boil myself alive in the shower and scrub until I was raw and bleeding. Your radiation burns are looking worse, she said. Stage two at the least.

I nodded, hoping she'd read into it whatever response that was. would allow me to leave. The doctor reached into a drawer for ointment and cotton swaps, cleaned the sores, and covered them with sterile gauze, which, of course, she felt entitled her to more of my gratitude. I left with her saliva cooling on my chest. A bottle of antibiotics clutched in my fist. I threw every single one of them into the incinerator.

I just couldn't bring myself to throw the sedatives in two. Niche. Noun. I found the horticulturist crying in a service corridor, curled into herself, arms locked tight around her knees, trembling with unvoiced soaps. So quiet and small, I almost tripped over her on my way to the door. I caught myself on the railing, sliding down to sit by the opposite wall. The weeping sores on my back burned like acid as they pressed into the unforgettable. giving surface. You fertile? I asked, as if I didn't know the answer. My words came out slurred. I may have drooled a little. She raised her head, and there was a brief moment of connection,

born of shared suffering and circumstances, but only for a moment. Even through the stupor, I saw the calculation in her red-rimmed eyes, trying to decide which of us had it worse. Whether I deserved pity and condescension or bitter envy, I don't remember which she settled on. It doesn't matter. It's not like I could really have comforted her either. We've all been atomized, reduced to designations and functions. Lipidopterous, horticulturist, sterile, fertile, non-essential.

The service corridor was. was so narrow we were almost touching, but there was nothing left to bridge the space between. Nashama. Now, the doctor handed me a light duty slip, saying she was tired of my section leader complaining to her about my laziness, gave me what she must have thought was a fondly exasperated look. Left a pause, she expected me to fill with gratitude, which I did because I needed the slip. Lately, I haven't been able to finish a full work rotation. Halfway through, my legs will give out and I'll stay slumped over on all fours until I find the strength to stand back up. My knees and elbows bruised the color of old blood.

So I thank the doctor, but I know these attempts at kindness are more for her than they are for me. A good deed to balance the scales, an act of contrition for her wrongdoing. This is why the possibility of forgiveness is as much a reason to be a sinner as a saint. Without it, all the evil you've done lives on in you forever, radium and regret, accumulating in your marrow, rotting you from the inside out. I spend my first rotation as a woman of leisure by the main door, the metal cold wherever it presses against my bare, feverish skin. The medication might be making things worse. She talks to me all the time now, words spidering their way through that gap between steel and concrete.

I still love you too. I miss you too. I'd let you in if I could. The overseer wants me to turn in a rough draft of my dictionary section for editing and revision. They'll slice it up and Frankenstein a new story out of the still twitching pieces of mine. One in proper alphabetical order

where effect comes before cause and all my secrets are left naked and vulnerable. Or more likely, they'll toss it into the incinerator and discipline me. This is the outcome I chose from the start. I could have made a regular draft with regular definitions. I could have even made two copies, one to give and one to keep.

But no. a single draft, and I made it honest. Just once more, I wanted to be heard, to be understood. It's human, isn't it? After years of swallowing poison, I so desperately wanted to feel human again. I wonder what they'll do when I finally let them read it. I'm too weak for any punishment detail, too weak to suffer much from reduced, food or sleep. Maybe they'll just lock me in some dusty storage closet and forget, like they do

with the other broken, useless tools. Maybe I would have been okay with that, comforted by knowing that I'd shown there was something in me they could never touch, never control, but not now, not yet, not while my wife is still howling at the door. I don't know if I believe in forgiveness. don't know if I can make things right, but I have to try for her adjective. The doctor has had me sleep in her bed more often, getting the most out of her investment before I become physically incapable. She stopped trying to give me antibiotics, just tapes the burns so they don't stay in her sheets, and feeds me handfuls of pills for the pain. She doesn't know that I know, but she is already looking for a replacement.

Maybe it will be the horticulturist. She's attractive enough, desperate enough. Not interested in women, but I don't think little things like sexual orientation bother the doctor as much as they once did. The exhaustion never leaves me now. When I lie beside her, it would be so easy to close my eyes and wake up a few hours closer to the end. Easier still to not wake up at all. The doctor must be hoping that's what I'll choose. Take the problem off her hands so she can enjoy a newer model with a clean conscience.

She leaves the cabinets unlocked, leaves bottles of medication where a dying woman could reach. Their labels promise a lethal dose, a gentle, painless conclusion. She probably thinks she's being nice. But she doesn't get to define that word. I think about radium and regret, about butterfly wings, about love. With a hand on the bed frame, I drag myself upright. The doctor doesn't stir. She takes more pills than I do.

She could snore through a second apocalypse. Her room is in the overseers' division, not too far from the admin office. The code to the main door is in there, and I will find it. I will haul this body to its feet each night and every night until I do. I will see Sath again. Necrotic. I'm approaching the end of this half-life. For a little while, the burns seemed like they were getting better.

Now, the skin is peeling away, and my cover-all stick to the raw flesh beneath in wet, discolored patches. One of my molars fell out, leaving behind a sunken abscess that fills my mouth with the taste of pus and rot. I keep the tooth in my pocket, but I don't know why. My actions are becoming inexplicable to me. Since yesterday, I haven't been able to swallow more than a couple spoonfuls of reconstituted mash from the cafeteria, and even that I retched back up into my lap as watery, yellow bile.

People watched. Not one of them helped me stagger back to the ducats. dorm. It wasn't my assigned rest period and no mattresses were available. I collapsed onto the floor, too weak to strip off my soiled clothes. Cold with fever and damp with sweat, I lay there in the gloom. The dreams have started coming for me when I'm awake. I see Sophia waiting for me in some restaurant above, sitting at a faded red booth in the corner, sipping on a glass of wine as she glances at her watch. I see her scrabbling at the door with fingertips worn down to ragged shards of bone. Her tongue lulls out of the saw-aged ruin of her mouth, purple and glistening.

Not much longer, Seth. I promise. The cement floor scraped the skin from my knees and palms as I crawled the last few feet to the keypad, now only just out of reach. My nails broke and ripped when I dug them into the wall for purchase, levering myself up to type and leaving behind bloody fingerprints on the numbers to the passcode. As I finished, the panel flashed green and claxons wailed. The door quivered, its locking bolts disengaging, and it began heaving to the side with a groan of machinery in torment. I lost my purchase and fell to the ground, lilacs breeding beneath my skin where I'd hit. I'm not dying.

I know that now. This is my metamorphosis, my redemption. Through the widening gap between the door and the wall, I see the charred ribs of buildings silhouetted against a smoldering dawn. I see Saf. She's faceless and smiling. Her arms are open. Soon, I'll go to her.

I'll slough off this cocoon of skin to be reborn under her hands, and we'll dance together in the ruins, our feet kicking up clouds of butterfly ash. But I'll leave this dictionary for you. Whichever non-essential the overseers forced into a one-way repair run, Because I want you to know, it's okay. Everything is finally okay. I have no words to add to that strange dictionary.

But we'll take a short break before getting back to more horrifying words in audio form. Dictionaries. Are you selling personalized dictionaries? What? No, not at all. I was just referring to the previous story. Why do you ask? Well, I've started selling my own line of photography. I was looking for some advice. What kind of photography? Oh, the usual stuff.

Photos of the bizarre side of nature. Strange plants, diseased toes, festering... Okay, okay, I get the picture. Almost literally. So, what kind of advice do you need? Well, I have the books all printed and ready to ship. I'm just having a hard time keeping up with the orders and getting them shipped quickly enough.

The books are really popular. Seriously? Well, listen, what you need to do is sign up with Ship Station. Can Ship Station help a small potatoes photographer like me? Yes, I also include photos of very small potatoes. They can indeed. They make it easy to manage your orders and get your products out the door, so you can get back to doing what you really love, growing your business.

And in your case, taking creepy, esoteric photos. Alas, I create art in the ways my muse, lead. me. Listen, Shipstation is the number one choice of online sellers. You can import orders from any sales channel, ship with any carrier using ship station's deeply discounted rates, and automate just about any shipping task. That's impressive. No wonder 100,000 plus online sellers choose ship station. No matter how you sell, your own website, Shopify, Etsy, shipstation funnels all your orders into one simple interface that you can manage from anywhere. Even your cell phone.

Ship more in less time for a lot less money. Why, even I have a cell phone. You'll even get access to amazing discounts with major carriers, including UPS, FedEx, and USPS. Easily compare carriers and choose the best solution every time. With ship station, small businesses can now access the same rates usually reserved for Fortune 500 companies without the contracts or commitments. And how would my potatoes and I, or anyone, for that,

matter, sign up for Ship Station. Just use our offer code No Sleep to get a 60-day free trial. That's two months free of no-hassel, stress-free shipping. You mean I'd just go to Shipstation.com, click on the microphone at the top of the page

and type in No Sleep? Yep, that's shipstation.com. Enter offer code, no sleep. That sounds like an easy way to make ship happen. Or in your case, make chips happen. Get it? Because of your small potatoes.

Please don't make fun of my art. Ah, I shan't. Because it's time to return to the show and our next story. It's one you'll fall in love with. Imagine a world where humanity is no longer top of the food chain, but reduced to scavengers and survivors. Hiding from a threat, prey. It would seem like a pretty bleak scenario, right?

But in this tale, shared with us by author, Austin Gragg, we discover that companionship can still be found, however fleeting and tragic. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Kyle Acres, Wafia White, and Atticus Jackson. So plant yourself down and sit back to listen to this tale as we get to the roots of love in the apocalypse. Bell and Tan, unaware of their watcher, Bell and Tan load gun. guns in their rowboat. They drift past the top half of a submerged streetlight as the water grows shallow. Behind them is a sunken city. Skyscraper's wade in water and around them are smaller buildings,

like drowned children. Faces barely covered. HVAC units and rooftop patio spot the horizon. Bell stares at the makeshift tourniquet. Then the bloody cotton-wrapped stump where tan Anne's hand used to be. You can do this. She scoops water out of the boat with a foam cup. It's a slow leak, but enough to make one person rowing a bitch. Tan adjusts the revolver in his lap and fumbles another bullet into the chamber. They'd unwrapped their guns from plastic shopping bags when the rain finally let up.

Tan can't feel his injured arm anymore. The tourniquet is too tight, but he doesn't tell, Bell. There's no reason to. It's only a matter of time for both of them. He knew they wouldn't die right off the bat, and they hadn't. But they'd had friends along the way. They're alone now. He doesn't want to speak for Bell, but he knows he won't last much longer.

It's a tingling feeling in the back of his head, a nagging to close his eyes. You hear me? You're going to be okay. Tan opens his eyes. They both look awful. Bell's shirt is worn thin. His jeans are ripped.

Both are covered in sweat and grime. He forces a smile. I know, love. The boat grinds against concrete as they slow to a stop ashore. Bell tightens the straps of her backpack and looks hard at the vines growing out of the water and up the road. There is thick and pale as Tans' arm. The growths near or around water never attacks. unless provoked.

The dry growths. The ones coming out of soil, those were the ones to worry about. She turns to Tan. Should we run? Tan doesn't bother to look at the road. His eyes drift between the gun and his bandaged stump. I think you can make it. What?

No, I'm not leaving you. You need meds. The infection? Your fever? Everything we need is there. Her black curls Bob as she points to the hospital at the top of the hill. Everything we talked about is there.

Do you see any light spell? He doesn't mean to sneer, but there it is. She looks to the hospital, a long stare, conjuring tears. What if they're keeping the fires out? Lantern's off. She had realized a mile out that this wouldn't be the haven they'd heard of, but Hope kept her from talking. Why, Belle?

Fires keep the growth back. If anyone was here, we'd see them. Like at the camps. Survivors are not. I'm getting what we need for you. You're going to be fine. Come on. He doesn't move.

Bell, I'm not worth it. Shut up! Her expression is stone. He shakes his head. Bell, baby. He blinks back tears. And the only reason it works is because he's too tired to cry. He just wants her to make it.

For him to be wrong. For their friends to be waiting for them like they'd planned. For them all to live on this little hill of safe, undrowned land. There was a grocery store only a few miles back, a safe one they had already cleared, stocked with at least a month or two of canned goods. No growths inside. If they're not here, I'll be able to.

back with supplies, and we'll wait for them. I'm sure they'll be here soon. Your gun loaded? He nods. She's nodding quickly as she kneels beside him and squeezes his hand. He lets go first. Nile. Nile knows he is dead and is convinced his lingering is punishment. He looks out the hospital window at two people who've just arrived by boat. Are they seeking shelter? Supplies? Boe. It must be supplies because the woman, strong-legged with bouncing dark curls, comes alone. She sprints up the driveway over cracked concrete. J jungles of deadly growth line each side of the street. Is she fast enough to make it?

Or is the garden humoring her? It must be. She's still alive. Finally. He wouldn't be seen, but this was another chance to speak with a living. at least to try to speak, to maybe, just maybe find a way to rest. He isn't sure why he thinks speaking to someone will solve his lingering. Maybe it's all the television.

Maybe it's all the paperback urban fantasies and paranormal romances he's read. There's no evidence to support the belief. But maybe she's different. Maybe she'd hear him. He knows his chance is real, as she leaps over the largest pile of creepers in her path. She's so fast, Nile isn't sure they could have got her if they wanted to. This means he also has to be fast. Nile turns from the window and pulls hard for his first step toward the stairs.

His thighs blaze with rigid pain. The sensation of Rigamortus never left. And that's what moving through the afterlife feels like. Stiff, with motion hard to grasp. And once obtained, slippery and hard to stop, a world without traction. He stops and looks back at his room. His momentum continuing to drift him toward the door. His corpse in the bed had bloated and leaked, deflated and shifted from red to green.

The hair and nails are going now. He doesn't think of it as him because it clearly isn't. It's just a slow melting shell. Still holding the get-well card Mara had given him. Mara had painted violets on sepia watercolor cardstocks. Despite spending hours trying to manifest the energy to turn the card over for one last read, he wasn't sure he actually wanted to read it again. If today brings his chance at peace, he won't miss staring at that card every day.

Over time, it's reaching leaves and jutting flies. had developed a certain menace. Tan. Tan cries as Bell sprints up the hill. She's soon out of view, and Tan sinks back against the peeling emerald green of the rowboat. He looks at the stars and feels their weight.

There's nothing to pray to. He can't help Belle if she needs it, and every second is a second he could watch her die. Would it be worse to see it happen? Or not. A growth could catch her ankle. A pile of vines might hold her still, while a giant stalk bows and reveals its killer face to her.

Bell would scream. Then she wouldn't. In the beginning, everyone seemed to have a theory about why people stopped screaming those last few seconds as the bloom descended. Maybe it was their decorative design. Some hypnosis meant to lure and silence prey. When the stalks had first sprouted from the ground, moving like time-lapse videos spilled into reality,

Pan saw a woman entranced by one. A neighbor on the other side of the busy street was approaching a bloom in her yard. It looked like nothing more than a surprise sunflower in a strange purple. The woman had leaned into it, then screamed when it lunged. She'd stumbled back and fell. Even from that distance, Tan could see she was mesmerized in her final moments, entranced. Tan prays to the sky. He might as well, with the gun in his lap weighing him down like Thor's hammer,

all he can do is pray. He prays his friends and family are okay, and that Bell comes back soon. Tan struggles to sit up. He hasn't heard Bell at all, but this far away, would he? His brain feels like a rat's nest of crossed wires. Stuck in should-aves and wood-ofs as a fresh blood of blood grows on his bandaging. How fast would he die if he took it off? Was he brave enough for such a selfish gift? All rounds the corner and finds the hospital entrance. She looks back at the forest of growths on the path behind her. The stalks of the forest grow

everywhere there is soil. The whippers and tendrils grow out of the street's cracks. Like masses of Play-Doh pushed through a spaghetti accessory. None of them had lunged for her on the way in. Were they dead?

Did the growth sleep? She hesitates to call them plants, thinking of what Tan had said adamantly one night around their campfire. They're not of Earth. Just can't be. Bell had disagreed with him. She had.

had an idea about why there was so much rain. There had to be enough to soak deep enough to wake these things up. Bell wasn't sure which theory was worse. Bell prized open the automatic doors. There are some of the few she's seen in the city not smashed or ripped off the tracks. Was this because so few people ran for the hospital? Or was it because the floods and growths had made quick work of the city? She clicks her flashlight on and gets moving. The The hospital is a gutted corpse of a building, the urban antithesis to the lush growing doom outside. Bell walks past flipped waiting chairs and papers scattering the floor. If she has time, she'll collect as much paper as she can for future kindling.

But first, there's tan to attend to. She crosses the mosaic tile foyer and runs up a wide set of stairs, passing a toddler's shoe and a littering of medical gloves. She keeps her eyes on the ground in front of her, a well-earned paranoia. From what she remembers, the last time she was here, she was a child. The second floor held smaller pods of clinics. Hopefully there will be antiseptics and bandages, maybe antibiotics and painkillers. Her hope carries her through the search.

But then she remembers tan and the boat, his arm, his fever. and how hope had left his eyes. Panic sets in just as she finds a trove in a single closet. Rubbing alcohol. Bassetracin. Heavy heating painkillers and more. She opens her backpack and wishes it were bigger. Wishes she could carry the whole closet out with her,

but decides to prioritize wound care and hopes to God they can get back into the building later. On the way out, the top of the stairs. She looks up and freezes. She missed it before. It's the first time she's seen this many. They were large enough outside, lining the walkway and looming over the building. She should have known they'd be inside, too.

The domed ceiling is a roiling ocean. The slick serpentine things writhe over a display meant to look like a starscape. Hundreds of little lights roll through a rainbow of colors behind the vines, illuminating a deadly cosmic sea. Bell backs away slowly. She sees the panel on the far wall controlling the display lights. Three primary colored buttons meant for kids to play with. Was there a generator or backup battery?

A single boa-like growth moves along the buttons. The tendrils above hang and sway within lunging distance. She has to find another way. She was lucky the first time. Nile Nile watches the woman moving away from him, down the hall, her pack is full. He was too slow.

There's nothing he can do to coax her back. He can't move far from his corpse. The limit is the hospital's west exit. The opposite direction. He let his legs give out and slumps against the wall like an old balloon sinks, bouncing gently as he glides to the floor. He's dressed the same way he died.

In a fluffy blue robe, Mara gave him the day he went in for his first treatment. It's huge on him because his weight stayed lost in death. Is Mara still alive? Is she struggling like this woman and her companion in the boat? Would it be better if Mara was dead? Lingering like him? Maybe then, if Nile ever pushes past the barrier keeping him so close to his corpse, If he ever figures out his own unfinished business, he could see her, speak to her.

The woman's footsteps echo down the hall. Each beat crushing Nile's last fragments of hope. But then the footsteps get louder, closer, faster. Nile looks up and sees the woman running toward him. He struggles to lift himself, pushing hard against the unseen veil around him. She blows past him before he's on his knees, flashlight making violent slashes through the darkness. The breeze following her brings hope.

She's heading for the west exit. Tan. Tan's shirt catches hard on the boat's edge as the tendrils pull him. He can't feel the spot where the thin needle vine stuck him. He doesn't feel much of anything in his sleep. As the vine pumps a tepid liquid into him, clogging his sinuses with earthen odors and leaking over his eyes in a chartreuse glaze.

He gags on it. His eyes flutter open and his mind emerges from feverish thoughts. He reaches for his gun. He can feel his fingers still working on a delay, struggling past the influence of the new blood. Bell. There are bodies on the ceiling in the West Lobby.

A young girl in a gown stretches her arms toward the face of a dead woman. Like an oil painting titled The Destruction of Eve. The bodies on the ceiling are a dead giveaway, even before the slap, slap, slap of bare feet on the tile behind her. As she stops, so do the footsteps. Behind her it breathes heavy sodden breaths. Bell's heart plummets and she moves a shaking hand for her gun and prays she's fast enough.

She spins and aims. It pushes out its chest and runs. Dead arms flapping, gnashing its new mouth peeled back like petals. Six rapid shots. The whole revolver. The puppet falls forward and the long, thin vine trailing behind it, moves like a jump rope,

given a flick from where it had inserted itself between the shoulder blades of the corpse. Nile. The woman's hands shake as she stumbles away from the marionette she gunned down. She paces the length of the exit as she reloads her gun. She keeps expectant eyes on the corpse as its forest green blood engulfs the decorative planet Earth set into the tile. A gunshot echoes outside and the woman screams. Nile runs after her, but the veil thickens with each stride until he stuck ten feet away,

from the glass doors, and she's already out on the street. Just as he thought, the land is alive now. The growths bow to feast like floral jesters. This time, the woman doesn't get up to speed. Vines nip at her heels and she goes down. Nile pours everything he has into moving toward the doors. But the spiral world he is bound to has so much gravity. His world is the hogs.

hospital. No matter how much he wants to save her, for her sake or his own, he's near powerless, making progress by inches at a time. Outside, the woman draws a small machete from her hip and starts hacking. She vanishes into the pale flesh of the vines. They start to drag her back to the building like they have with so many others. They'd wrap her tight for later, to be eaten or to be used as a doll. to lure other wanderers inside. Then she gets lucky. The machete hits one of the few larger growths, one of the purple ones,

throbbing like a post-marathon vein. All the plants shriek in unison, that shrill cry Nile couldn't stand when he was living. All the growths around the woman, in the building, and up and down the road, recede. An entire system temporarily stunned. The woman claws at her ears and screams with them as the vines retreat. Her ears bleed as she stands.

It's a war paint cascading down both sides of her face. No, he isn't. He can't be. Not him. I'm back, Tan. I made it. I have supplies. Maybe if...

She rips the vines off Tan's body. There's so much blood. Her lungs draw sharp, uneven breaths. The back of her throat feels ready to leap out of her mouth as her stomach churns, and she chokes out the hard consonants of half curses. Her ears still ring. She knocks the bloody gun off his chest.

Maybe if I get him in the boat. Her hands tremble as they float over his body, up and down, unsure where to touch. If she can touch, if she can touch. She should. She looks for his wedding ring and chokes back a sob when she sees the tourniquet and remembers. She stumbles, ground blurry through her tears as she moves Tans' body toward the boat. With a grimy fist, she wipes her eyes clear to look at his face. Opaic eyes,

mouth agape, all crusted with green. His blood-soaked chest doesn't move. A tundral wraps around TAN's ankle. She curses it and reaches for her blade. But she had dropped it. It's on the ground, out of reach. The growths are coming,

slinking fast down the hill. One after the other, wrapping themselves around tan and pulling. She holds his arm tight. But it isn't enough. She lets go. She falls into the boat and sends it wobbling out

onto the water. And as she drifts away, she screams. And as she screams, the vines draw tan deep into their earthly embrace. Nile. As the flora retreats to tend its wounds, Nile keeps pushing forward inch by inch. The woman's cries echo up the hill. He pushes forward as agony cracks her voice. You? How could you? In her cries, Nile hears Mara's agony. These are words she cried over him when he quit chemo and stopped fighting. He pushes harder and harder against the veil as he hears Mara begging, crying, demanding. Why would you? How could you?

Nile weeps immaterial tears as the words, I'm sorry. fall cold from his lips. He falls forward through the unseen barrier, but the veil tightens around him again, dragging him back. He reaches out to the glass panes, reaches for Mara. He screams his repentance again,

and the veil lifts. Bell and Nile. Each step for Nile gets easier as the veil fades. Each cry for forgiveness, easier to ask. Mara is gone, he knows. And beyond his help, this woman is here and in need. The force binding his lingering to the place of his death is soon gone. It was his grief holding him there. He gains speed with ease as he runs down the hill to the woman in the boat. To his surprise, he slows himself with the same ease as he reaches the water. She's maybe six meters out.

He wades in and finds relief that he doesn't need to remember how to swim. He glides across the water to her, and the boat isn't disturbed by this new ethereal passenger. Nile learns her name is Belle as she curses herself for letting go, for not being strong enough. She lays flat on her back in a few inches of water. Her eyes are shut and her face is tight, as she keens to an indifferent sky. The water carries them away from the hospital's hill. Streetlights sink.

Buildings are submerged, and the horizon flattens into a blue disc, reflecting the masses of greenery coiled around the structures still above water. Silent hours pass. Bell gets up only to bale water with a gas station cup. Nile breaks the silence with the only words he said in a long time, but this time the words are for her.

I'm sorry. She starts and her eyes flick back and forth over the water. Who's there? Tan? Nile's truth shreds on the ragged edges of her grief. This opportunity was his penance, perhaps his salvation. I'm here, and I will never leave you. She breaks down, reaches to where she thinks his voice came from,

and she's not far off. He moves into her outstretched arms, and she shivers. He would give her the full truth later, that he was not her lover. But for now, she needs something more. Something concrete she can hold on to as her world spins away. He gives her a true lie she can cling to. I'm here for you.

Always. We place the letters back in their envelopes. It's time to take our leave for now. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. 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 $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for being ever curious. This audio production is copyright 2021 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, Inc.