snz is the bz knz

-

~New recording 171~

The recording starts with a soft shift. A heater hums in the background. He slouches over the desk, weary and warm, his brow shining with sweat. Next to the open book is a steaming mug of ginger tea. 

His gaze falls over the selected text, and he straightens a little, clearing his throat. “*ak’hrrem! grmm!* Hi.” The word comes out flat, and he chuckles dryly, weakly. “I… *grmm!* I dod’t eved kdow, *sddrFh!* if… if by voice is loud edough, *kof, KOF!*” He breaks into an itchy, phlegmy cough, turning his head away from the desk. “…Gosh,” he mutters, his voice cracking. “Sorry. I, uh… *sddrff!* I have a bit of a cold. *hsdrffh!* Oh by goodness, *sDDRFF!*”

He hastily lifts the hanky clutched in his right hand, and folds it over his dripping nose for a long, liquid blow. Afterward, he’s still left sniffling, his voice very nasal but a touch clearer.

“A’d, ub… I thought I’d read a text that has beed… requested, mbultiple tibes… a’d I’b godda- euUGH’CHIEWW!!! heihh! hAED’SSCHIEWWwh!!! Ohh… Excuse be.” He rubs his nose with the hanky, breathing through the soreness aggravated by each desperate sneeze. “Ub… It’s called ‘The Apartbedt Id The Sky,” by Ebily Caroll. *sdrff*”

The dight after your plade took off

I lay alode id the empty loft.

The city below id e’dless *sddrff*… fehhst...tivities…”

The word becomes a breathy whisper, the vibrations of his speech teasing at his sensitive nose. The centre of his face is heavy with congestion. Sniffling adds to the precarious sensation, thick mucus shifting in his itchy, swollen nasal passages.

“…hih? *s-snnrffh* h-heih?? Ehh-“

His chest swells with a huge gasp as the urge to sneeze consumes him, and a wet, bursting expulsion soaks the damp handkerchief. “yYY’AASSCHHIUHHh!!!” Another gasp, and- “AAASSCHHIEWWw!!! -’AAASSCHhiew-!!” He groans softly, snuffling and gently wiping his face. His raw, chapped nostrils twinge against the drenched cloth. With one hand, he lowers the soiled hanky, and reaches for another on the side of the desk.

“S-Sorry-yiEESSCHHIOOO-!!! -g’hh… hihHH-! ieEY’ESSSCHHIEWWwhh!!! *sdrff!* hH’Ohh mby’Y’ESSCHHiuh!!! heihH-! HieEYY’ESSCHHIEWWh!!!”

He sits there for a moment. Breathing carefully, letting a dazed feeling linger and slowly recede. The cloth is soaked through already, and he lowers it, drawing thick, soupy sniffles. The sneezy feeling lingers. Sniffling seems to interrupt it a bit, but his sinuses are aching. He absolutely needs to blow his nose. “Excuse be,” he exhales.

His hand moves toward the last handkerchief. With a sigh, he drops the soiled one in the hamper and folds the fresh one. Again, he blows his swollen, aching nose, making congested honks. He gently wipes his deeply flushed nose and sucks in a few sharp sniffles. 

“So sorry,” he pants, a hoarse utterance. He lifts the corner of the hanky to dry his eyes. “*sngk*…*g’hmb…grmm!~* Where was I…”

“The city below id e’dless festivity, *ahemm!*

Up here I’d brood, a’d thigk of whed you’d visit be.” 

He lifts a curled index finger and pushes his knuckle against his right nostril, as they both flared wide.

“Back whed by deadlides hu’g over- hD’JSCHIEWw-!! *snnnrk!* …by head…

…iehhh… HAAAESSCHHIUHhh!!! … oh…”

The ear-splitting sneeze shreds his throat, dropping his voice by a few decibels.

"Your voice warb id by ear, *ahem!* a’d the thi’gs that you’d said.

By head ablaze, mby speech udsou’d

Each ragged breath dryi’g mby mbouth 

A’d id the hours of peace we’d fou’d

I’d sdeeze so hard I’d shake the grou’d.

But eved whed the hour was late

Sat up id bed, you’d touch by face

… *sdrff!*

A’d all the while, *koF!* I shook with- ESSCHHiuh!! -with ndoise, hihh?? huH’ESSCHHIUE-!! *sddrffh*

Your steady ha’d a’d tender voice…”

The heater hums in the back. A soft pause lingers, and he lifts the damp cloth to blow his nose. He emerges, eyes drooping, his pink nostrils still flexing with thick sniffles.

“*grm!* … *snnff*

A bag of ice to soothe by crowd

A pill and drigk to lay be dowd.”

A wet, phlegmy cough rises in his throat. He winces as a more violent, barking cough does the job of clearing it. 

“The apartbedt sobewhere id the sky

Above the streets, us scrapi’g by.”

His shoulders rise and fall, laboured, as if he’d been journeying uphill on foot. The edges of the wet hanky pinched between his fingers. Still visibly clammy, feeling tempted to forget the text and zone out. Lay his head down on the cool surface of the desk. But only a little bit remained. He could finish it.

“*ah-he-hem!* *sdrfh!*

A bligki’g light to grace the dark

I’d thigk of days lo’g past the spark

A voice like yours to conjure whed

I lay udwell, alode id bed.”

There’s another quiet break at the end of it. He sniffles lightly, soft on the recording. Finally, he gently clears his throat and reaches toward his phone, lying face up on the desk.

-

Something didn’t feel right. No, it hadn’t for a while. The survivor, ill and sweating, sat up against the altar. Strands of her hair stuck to her clammy forehead. The flicker of the candles made the dim hall seem like it was shaking. Each breath felt heavy, dragging through the tightness in her chest. Her face shone with perspiration when the dim light hit it. 

About three feet away from her was the sealed plastic bottle of water that the scavenger had left. A dull pain had been sharpening, carving away inside her skull. She cried out in frustration - in the only way a person as sick and weak as her could. Barely any voice there, the noise fraying with a wheeze that hurt her throat. Still somehow finding a way to echo slightly inside the empty church.

She drew a liquid, whistly sniffle, and exhaled through parted lips. Stuffed in the left pocket of her big black hoodie was the rag that the Danton scavenger had tossed her. Soiled now. Too exhausted and bogged down by headache to move, she’d resorted to snorting, sniffling, and wiping her nose on her sleeve. It was sore and chapped around the rims of her nostrils, running endlessly. As red as the choir gown she’d draped over her shoulders for warmth. There were more pieces of cloth in the bag, which was still where he’d left it - opposite the single bottle of water, unzipped and gaping like a cornucopia. 

Despite the large choir gown cloaked over her hoodie, she was trembling. How, she didn’t understand. She was so warm. But freezing, at the same time. Her nose ached. All the touching and wiping, all the damned sneezing. Each drippy sniffle drew in cold, icy air, and slashed at her sore nasal membranes, triggering a reflex that she was all too fatigued to resist.

“hh-h… hhih! *s-snrff!* heH! eeiY’AASSCHh!!!iuhh… *snnff* -‘ESSCHIUHh-!!”

She heaved some panting breaths, her mouth dry. Grimy. Her eyelids fluttered as a- “-yY’AASCHH!!iuhh-“ -ticklish third hit her, and following a chest-swelling inhale- “hihhH?? ieEEY’AASSCHHIUHhh!!! .. *hsnnrk!* … g’uhh….”

Near her on the ground was the empty bottle of wine on its side. She closed her eyes and drew some thick snuffles, then some longer breaths. When her eyes opened again, they slowly fixed on the sealed bottle of water.

⟣⟣᛭⟢⟢

The pointiest building that the scavenger had seen was the museum in Hellenville, about two hours southwest of Danton. It was at the end of a strip of what were once high end shops, near the university named for the city. He was originally stationed there, until he heard that they were seeking people who could teach reading and writing. The professors that he’d met in the downtown area weren’t keen on moving if they didn’t have to. There was something morbid to him about remaining somewhere he’d moved to for its riches and individuality, only to watch it crumble at the end of the world. In the Danton suburbs, there were ghosts, but he hadn’t known them or dreamed about them. 

He hadn’t taught in a few months, on account of an influx of capable young educators and aging leaders who insisted he was scavenger material. Day to day, it was one purpose after another. There was a certain satisfaction to it. There were rules. When they were lucky, he was given a share, and when they weren’t, it gave him more reason to move and put his body to use.

The museum was a combination of contrasting architectural styles. The eastern facade was built from red brick and concrete. There was a staircase that spanned most of the side facing the street. On the north side of the building was a jagged protrusion that stuck out in an abstract crystal-shaped formation, its window panes in odd quadrilaterals and triangles. Thomas had seen it in all its sun-catching glory pre-virus. When he left to go further north, it was a rigid spiderweb of steel. The building was repurposed for storage. The artifacts - a mixed bag of fates, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He parked the van outside the canteen across the street. He noted that he’d need more than just the layer of his canvas jacket in the next few days, as the temperature continued to drop. The canteen was emptier than he’d remembered it being when he’d last been there. It was too early for lunch. Becca still worked the counter. She was scraping biscuits from a tray into a metal vat, as other savoury-smelling dishes cooked in the ovens.

“Hey there, stranger,” she smiled as he came up to the counter. She had new tattoos added to the patchwork along her left arm, flowers and insects and a two-headed calf. “What brings you back to Hell-ville?”

“Delivering goods,” he leaned on the counter and eyed the freshly baked biscuits. “How have things been around here?”

“Oh, you know,” she sighed, straightening. She grabbed a pair of tongs and put two biscuits on a plate for him. “It’s like before times. Construction everywhere. New ways to get around,” She pushed the scratched dish across the counter to him. “New eye sores to avoid on the way to work for the rest of our lives.”

“Ah, the new cross town,” the scavenger smirked bitterly. “Thank you very much.”

As he lifted a biscuit, Becca leaned her folded arms on the counter. “And not just eye sores. Music, my love. Steel drums to attract the masses, every hour of the day.”

“Oh?” He frowned, chewing a salty mouthful of flour, butter, and milk. It was a sad, homecoming taste. “What happened to walkable cities?”

“Turns out the end of the world is boring.”

The notion of transit being built within quarantine zones was interesting, a bit difficult to believe. Entirely plausible though, given Hellenville’s reputation for a constantly developing transit, but satirically funny to be doing at this point, with the presence of noise-drawn infected. Thomas put the last bite of the first biscuit in his mouth and brushed the crumbs off his hands.

“So,” Becca exhaled, straightening and leaning her hands on the counter’s edge. “You really just here on business?”

He connected her gaze, taking a slow breath. “I, uh, *ahem!*…” He leaned one forearm on the counter. “I hear the city’s expanding the routes?”

“Ah, Mr. Nomad,” Becca’s fingers folded onto her palm, still fanciful without the acrylic nails. “Yeah. They’re saying West York. Northbound as far as Bay… Mackenzie.”

Thomas searched her expression. Becca used to wear a full face of makeup. Today she only wore eyeliner, maybe some smudged grey shadow. 

“Do they have any maps? Or, did they show any?”

“Well,” she frowned thoughtfully. “Nothing posted, but- here.” She pulled a brown bag from under the counter, and the marker attached to the whiteboard on the wall. She uncapped it and started to sketch lines, roadways. “They want to find out who still lives in the area. They’re scouting areas to plant more crops, maybe find possible places to create more residences.” Becca drew lines that were familiar. Thomas narrowed his eyes at them.

“When was this announced?”

“Uhh, around this time last week? Why?”

Thomas picked up the paper bag sketch, and paused, blinking. He let out a breath. “I’ve just been missing out, it seems. Thank you, Becca, it’s always a pleasure seeing you. Cool tattoos,” he started to make his way to the exit.

“Hey wait!” He stopped. She grabbed another paper bag, and threw his uneaten biscuit and a few more into it. She folded it closed and made a toss motion. “Catch.”

He made the Hail Mary. “Thank you. Take care, alright?”

-

Despite the precautions and mandates rolled out during the beginning of the outbreak, Mackenzie was said to have some hot zones. Devastating, quiet in the years after. That was why it had remained more or less untouched. The scavenger had heard of a rebel group called the Roots that took the lives of two Hellenville city workers while they were trying to relocate people for virus precautions. That was years ago. Mackenzie had been left off the routes for all of his time as a scavenger for the city, and he’d had no particular interest in trespassing on Roots’ land.

At the rate the city developments were being made, he wondered how much time he had before they started expanding north. First, they had to scope out the area. They’d take the clusters of chain stores, whether or not they were occupied. They’d take the schools, the churches.

“It’s a new day, Tom,” Charles Baker, his supervisor, sighed, turning in his office chair. “You know how people are dying to find an ounce of control- of normal.”

“Normal?”

“They say it’s about time we pick back up and start mass producing where we can. Crops. Livestock. The space is all there. We can better provide for our people.”

“What about the Roots?”

“Roots?” Charles repeated.

“And the locals. Don’t they still live there, outside of Hellenville? They own the farms.”

“That’s why we’re scouting there next,” Charles’ icy blue eyes stared at Thomas with intent. “We’ve been ordered to find them, ask them if they need help.”

“Right.” As always. “And if they don’t?”

“Thomas,” the older man began lightly. “You sound concerned. I was worried something had happened when you got separated from us on the freeway.”

The scavenger shook his head, suddenly aware of how stiff he felt. “It’s - been a long week.” He met the eyes of his supervisor. “I should go lay down or something,” he said, starting to turn and leave.

“Hey Tom,” Charles called to him casually, making him stop. “Don’t be late tomorrow morning, eh? Work to be done.”

The scavenger nodded. “Right.”

He headed down the hall and down a flight of steps, his feet rushing. The office of his supervisor was located in a large repurposed community centre, which housed a good number of scavengers and defensemen, many of them partnered with children. They’d told him all about Danton before the virus outbreak, treated him like a twenty-something away from home at college. 

He’d still have enough gas in his bike. Perhaps he could nab more supplies. He had to get moving.

⟣⟣᛭⟢⟢

“hiyY’AASSCHIUHhh!! -ohh…. *snnnrgk!* heiHh… hieyY-!! -unh… ughh… *snnnrff!*”

The ill survivor sat a few feet in front of the altar, crosslegged, shoulders hunched and heaving with slow, weak breaths. Her ashy brown hair fell before her eyes, which were bleary and unfocused. Again, she drew a thick sniffle, and slowly lifted her chin. 

“….hehhh? eih’- hihh! hh’EH’-!?” Her whole body tensed, her brow furrowing with desperation, then finally came the exhale before the punching release that- “-ohhh… *snnnrff*” Didn’t come.

The pinch in her brow released again, and she lowered her chin, sniffling thickly. She lifted the cuff of her hoodie, drawing more drippy sniffles, rubbing at her sore, raw nostrils. She rubbed harder, letting the friction sting, letting it add to the pressure and irritation of her fiery hot nose. She stopped, her breath pausing, eyelids fluttering shut.

“ha… ah? h-hehhHh?? HaAH’YESSCHHIUHHhh!!!”

Pain, and echoing ripples of sound. Moisture oozing, trickling down her lips, her chin, and quick efforts to sniffle back the mess. Pounding in her head, a new rawness in her throat. More sniffling. Oh god.

“*sddrff* … *snddrfff~*”

She turned her body, hands balancing beneath her on the floor. Wincing, she gathered the effort to move towards the duffel bag on the other side of the sanctuary. Slowly. “*hsnnnrff* *koF, sndrff*” Pathetically.

Her fingers grabbed at a warm blanket peeking from one side of the open bag, and dragged it out. She hastily laid it over her lap, coughing as her throat itched with phlegm. She then reached for the pile of various cloths- face towels, dish towels, and retrieved a couple. One made of faded blue terry cloth, the other a yellow dish cloth. 

She folded the blue face towel and lifted it to blow her nose. In the middle of it, she winced, and- “aaAAESSCHHIOO-!!!” sneezed violently, so forcefully that it left her sore sinuses aching. A soft groan was muffled by the cloth, followed by some slow breaths as she massaged it against her nose.

The blanket was nice. She stuffed her hoodie pockets with the yellow dish cloth and three other soft rags from the bag. Then, she took a water bottle and slipped it into a pocket on her dress. She gathered the warm blanket with her other hand and carried it as she rose uneasily to her feet. Her free hand came up to rest heavily on the edge of the pulpit. Slowly, she shuffled over behind the altar, and sank to her knees. Shifting, she sat on the floor, on the nest of choir gowns. Her weakened body slumped against the carved wood of the altar. She began to unfold the blanket, spreading it over her legs.

The edges of the water bottle cap were rough under her fingertips. The curved plastic of the bottle was cool to the touch. Her eyelids fell shut, and she sighed. Damn it. Her chest expanded with a wheezy breath, and she glanced down - her brow crumpling. Then glanced up.

Above the Eucharist and the dusty, weathered chairs were the great stained glass windows. At the top, a pointed arch, within the curves in an aster-like arrangement. In the middle of the tall rectangular window sections was a cross with one on either side. Untouched, unlike the other intricate stained glass windows that used to line the cathedral hall, now boarded-up holes. Sharp pieces of the art were now attached to the chandeliers, collected and set aside for practical use. 

The structure had potential for better security. To an escape artist, it seemed to matter less. And that had kept on a steady decline as she’d fallen more ill. A place that was once sacred, and an arrogant, reckless drunk to sharpen everything. 

She touched the dragonfly brooch pinned to her dress, the pocket at her stomach. Some of the rhinestones on its wings were missing. ‘That wasn’t very smart of you’, she could hear Diana’s voice in her head, flat and stern. ‘Go ahead. You’ve done it before. The least you can do is not let these items go to waste.’ A pain seared in her forehead. ‘So be it. Do what you like.’

Eve yanked the bottled water from her pocket. The seal cracked as she twisted the cap, droplets spilling on her hands. She tilted the bottle up, drank thirstily, urgently - and lowered it with a huff. She sniffled thickly, and set the bottle down on the floor. Moisture glinted in her eyes. A tight grimace, and release. The heaviness in her head was slowly lightening. 

She lay down beneath the multicoloured stained glass, in the nest of choir gowns, her fingers pulling the warm blanket over her body. 

Outside, there was a wooden clatter. A clumsy banging. She groaned and shut her eyes, burying her face into rumpled polyester. Bare bones security, but enough, as far as bumbling infected were concerned. Doors and windows boarded up. Ropes and shards. Sharp objects.