Feb 19, 2024
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Sound 6
The Sound rippled through the building, first rattling the windows in the apartment at the end of the hall, through a wall starting Mrs. Zheng’s ratty little dog yapping, then bringing a wave of terracotta clinking from Dean’s purple-lit weed plants lined up on shelves jammed under the pipe’s metal curve, until it reached the center, Nadia felt like a documentarian recording some rarely scheduled natural phenomenon as the vibration and wet growl came through the east wall and out the west, slowly receding until it left the building.
The Sound was carried by a pipe, two feet in diameter, that crossed the back of the room, about six inches below the ceiling. Nadia had no idea what the pipe carried. She was sure of only a couple of things about her studio and the other apartments on the building:
The row of one room apartments had been installed in a hallway of what once was an office building.
The Pipe hadn’t always been there. Sometime before she moved in a team of workmen had come along, cut holes in each wall and suddenly there was a pipe through the whole row of apartments.
A part of the Pipe emerging near the elevator revealed a faint and nearly faded stencil: “…LIVER UTILITY CO. CALL (555)32…”
The Sound crossed East to West once every 1 hour and 13 minutes.
The pipe was usually cold, but warmed slightly as the Sound passed.
When she called her parents - once a day or according to Mother Jean they would both have a heart attack - she often assured them that she liked the Sound. It was so regular she could tell the time from it. For example, she told Mama Rubio, she knew to leave for work after the third noise since she woke up. No need to mention to either Mama Rubio or Mother Jean that the first of those was why she woke up.
To her work-mates she complained a little more, mimicking the wet thumping rush she lived with. Every. Hour. And. Thirteen. Minutes.
But rent was cheap she would sigh. And Dean sold her weed whenever she needed it.
After two months in her studio Nadia was talking to the Pipe. Greeting the wet thumping like it was a passing neighbor. Fine- she didn’t greet her neighbors, she scurried past them with her shoulders hunched to avoid small talk. But if she was the sort to greet neighbors she might greet them like she did the Sound.
It was a good thing Nadia was so short. Unlike Dean next door, she could stand under it without ducking and happily set up her futon and her small table and chair underneath. The rest of the space were given over to the bathroom, kitchen (if a microwave and sink really counted), two shelves crammed with books, and a bean bag and PC on the floor, monitor raised on a stack of old text books (most expensive computer stand ever, she joked to the pipe.)
Four months after moving in she met Violeta. She had hunched up and nearly scurried past like she did for all of her neighbors, but Violeta had stopped her. To her surprise she didn’t mind, Violeta had a face that would’ve been welcome on Mana Rubio’s block, dark hair brown eyes and skin mirroring Nadia’s own.
A week later Nadia got to see Violeta’s rooms, situated in the most coveted spot: the windowed end of the hall. The apartment’s front wall had been installed awkwardly over the original window panes, cutting them roughly in half. Violeta had stuffed old t-shorts in the gap to keep drafts down. For some reason, even as they lay back of Violeta’s bed and shared a joint, Nadia would find herself staring out the dusty glass at the Pipe.
Violeta’s room smelled like Mama’s kitchen, cumin and chili and candles—The Pipe was held up by square scaffolding jutting from the building’s wall—The Virgin stood arms out within a woven sheet tacked up to the wall. In its approach to their block it bent upwards sharply making a steep climb and snapping back to the horizontal aiming for Violeta’s ceiling—dvds and Blu-ray’s of anime from the last decade were poked into the narrow gap above the Pipe, a slightly ashamed stash—at the wall it was ringed by a flared collar, fringed with bolts thicker than Nadia’s wrist—the weed and chili swirled around Nadia’s body as pigeons came and went from the window sill—a sloppy cut from some forgotten power tool made a scar slanting from the collar, as if the Pipe had been installed violently.
It had been four months in the “new building,” that Nadia no longer called new. It wasn’t home- never would be- but it was “her place.” A flea market filling the nearby subway stop had provided odd bits of art for her walls. A wool blanket Mother Jean had knitted hung as a screen from the Pipe enclosing her futon. It was too scratchy to sleep with—not that Mom would ever hear that complaint. Every morning between the second and third Sound of her day, Nadia sat eyes squeezed shut with a scavenger sun lamp blazing over her face. Mamá had joked that she was going pale.
Violeta had stopped inviting over. Nadia felt sick like a high school heartbreak. Shed stood outside the door at the far end of the hall in silence willing herself to knock. The familiar rattle and slosh of the Pipe led her back to her spot in the middle.
Five months.
Six months. Nadia’s observations had evolved. The slight differences of each Sound filled a logbook. November 7th, Sound 4,
a scrapping quality. November 9th, Sound 12, a single metallic clang as it passed out of the studio.
November 10th, Sound 1, Mrs. Zheng’s dog didn’t bark. The lack had startled Nadia awake, panting as if she hadn’t breathed in all night. Her stomach felt tight as she padded barefoot down the hall. Mrs. Zheng’s unit usually had a little charm tied to the handle. That morning it was on the floor. Bending Nadia picked it up, cradling the intricately folded paper in her hands. It was deformed, a trickle of water had wet one end. Nadia stood still listening, willing her heart to stop beating. Only barely over the throbbing in her chest could she hear an irregular drip from behind the door.
She didn’t knock on Mrs. Zheng’s. Instead she went to the next door on, Violeta would know of Mrs. Zheng had moved out. If Violeta hasn’t moved out herself. Nadia hadn’t seen her since— they sent each other memes once a month. A window into the way someone else saw her. Why did Violeta think Nadia found that meme funny?
The door opened slowly. Violeta was in grey pajamas, a toothbrush in her mouth. She didn’t seem to see Nadia in front of her, eyes unfocused and staring through Nadia’s head. The air didn’t fill with that chili/cumin/weed/home smell. It smelled like bleach. The room was brighter behind Violeta too, peering around her shoulders Nadia saw that the walls had been white washed. The Virgin Mary hadn’t even been moved. It looked like the statuette had been sunk into the wall.
“¿Que paso?” Nadia asked a blank Violeta face.
“Nothing. Had a leak fixed.”
Eight months
January 25, Sound 8, very wet, occasional thumps like mud clods hitting the sides. She hadn’t been back to her mothers’ place for Xmas. It used to be her favorite holiday. Mrs. Zheng’s dog still hadn’t barked, as if it was standing in there, waiting for the right Sound.
Nadia worries that she’d miss the moment every time she left the building.
Dean sold her a marijuana plant and a light, plus the last bag of his stock. He was quitting he said, Nadia would believe it when she saw it.
That evening as she microwaved ramen and wrote: “January 25, sound 12, sharp taps like broken glass sliding along metal,” Mother’s wool blanket suddenly unhitched from the Pipe, dragging her pillows from her bed, in a soft quiet avalanche. For the rest of her time in the studio Nadia wouldn’t touch the blanket, nor the pillows. Stepping around them like a cop at a crime scene.
Her neck hurt everyday. Too much time on the PC—too much stress at work—she begged off daily home calls. Mom wouldn’t drop dead of shock if she didn’t get to hear Nadia’s voice more than once a week. Or even a month.
With Mrs. Zheng and her dog silently waiting, and Dean’s pots in the dumpster, Nadia no longer had warning of the Sound. When it came she could breath again. Each hour and thirteen minutes both incredibly familiar and yet stretching into an infinity if waiting. Mamá didn’t understand, saying she should look for a new place. Nadia looked pale, tired. Needed sun. Nadia needed peace and quiet. Tomorrow she’d talk her boss into letting her work from home for the rest of the week.
Nine months. Sound 4. Gurgle with two thumps, slight grinding sound. Dean had moved out. The odd Christian youth pastor podcasts he’d been listening to every night stopped. That part she certainly didn’t mind. Her attempt at keeping the weed shrub healthy failed miserably as the leaves dried up and curled inwards one by one. By the end of February it collapsed in a puff of dust, each stem crumbling into brittle flakes.
Coughing Nadia chucked the entire pot into the hall, the thump of its roll swelled as Sound 5 went past. Very smooth, high speed. She closed the door and sunk back to the floor. She clipped her toe nails into a basket and stared blankly at the wall until— Sound I 6.
Sacrificial Elemets
Stewart already hated his job. But he hated it even more as he blinked at the tiny screen flashing the words: YOU WILL DIE IN 18 MINUTES. Shaking his head he jabbed at the round button underneath the screen, forcing it back to displaying the directory , showing one apartment resident’s name at a time. He peered back at the delivery app on the phone and jabbed at the button again. And again. This delivery was going to the 22nd floor. “Fucking technology” he muttered as he jabbed past the Ms, then the Ns and Os.
After the doors deafening buzzer quieted Stewart stomped into the building’s main hall. A door with the label “Building Manager” swung open as if it too was buzzer operated. The widest man Stewart had ever seen leaned out. He was wearing a greasy wife beater which only served to make him look more rectangular. But incredibly his balding head was tiny with no chin to differentiate it from a neck. Like an earth worm emerging from an apple. He’d grown some seal like whiskers under his thin lips as if it might provide a border for his face.
A jolt of annoyance flooded Stewart. He wanted to be done with this. He wanted this ugly man to be as put out as he was. He turned, already past the rectangle’s door and stated in a monotone, “Your call screen-thingy is busted.”
The building manager grunted and looked in the direction of the door, as if he’d be able to see the problem from here.
Stewart rolled his eyes and headed further in, looking around for an elevator. Fuck if he was going to take the stairs. If Mr. 22nd wanted his chow mein he better live in an apartment building with a fucking elevator. The dingy tiles led him around a corner into a little foyer. It didn’t really seem like a foyer. Foyers were supposed to be big and grand and inviting. This was dingy and small, but it had a wall of mailboxes, a door with a diagram of a stickman descending steps, and blessedly two elevator doors. And there was a reedy looking guy fumbling around one of the mail boxes.
The thin guy muttered something, as if expecting Stewart to be someone he knew. “Fuck you,” Stewart muttered under his breath jabbing his finger bluntly into the up button.
The elevator took its sweet time. Of course it did. Stewart eyed the guy as he waited, noting a very out fashioned knit sweater, like a granny might wear, and very worn out corduroy pants. The word “fuddy-duddy” appeared in his head.
He stifled a jump when the elevator dinged and he surged for the door and the “close door” button but he wasn’t fast enough. The silver doors jolted to a stop letting the fuddy-duddy slide in. Already seething with a long cold night of ghost kitchens and impatient idiots, Stewart stared through the guy’s head, and with a lean once again jabbed a button. 22. The thin man swiveled and pressed the button for 13. Stewart noticed the guy didn’t have any mail on him. What the fuck was he doing in the mail box then?
“It’s not as old as it looks,” the thin man offered out of nowhere.
“What.” Stewart tried to sound boring while screaming “DON’T TALK TO ME,” in his head.
“The building,” the guy went on, “I mean. This place was the height of high tech when they built it.” He chuckled like this was the funniest pun he’d ever heard. “Only eleven years old. You know.”
It wasn’t a question. Stewart fought the urge to beat the guy to death with every awkward pause.
“It has a twin. You know.” Stewart pictured what the mirror might do if the guy’s face was pushed through it. “Sensors. Everywhere. All the walls, every door and window. Pipes. Wires. Everything. And all that data goes to a model. A twin living on a computer. A model that can predict everything that happens. Everything that might happen. Even.”
Great. Not only was he stuck in the elevator with a weird guy for another- Stewart’s eyes flicked up at the display- five floors, the guy really was batshit.
“Crazy.” Stewart offered, hoping the guy would get the clue.
Nope. “It is. Isn’t it.” Fucking pauses. “They used to have a team of maintenance guys who would show up and replace things just before they’d break. It was almost. Supernatural. Living here at that point. But you know what.”
Three more floors.
“Guess how many years new buildings are under warranty?”
Two more.
“Five years. All those sensors to keep it all going. And only five years.”
One more.
“They used special materials in all parts of the building. So they could be replaced easier. Those things could break and be replaced.”
Stewart nearly fist pumped when the doors slid open.
The guy stepped out into the dim hallway. Turning suddenly he stuck his hand in the way of the closing doors.
“Know what they called those things.” He stared at Stewart for far too long.
“What things?” Stewart huffed out. Was this guy really going to hold him here to finish his conspiracy rant?
“The stuff they meant to break. Break and replace.” The guy’s other hand roved around pointing, as if Stewart should recognize these “things” in the surrounding walls and ceiling. “Like these panels. On the wall. When it breaks the sensors know. Then the maintenance guys came. But only for five years. Know what they called those?”
“What.”Stewart’s teeth grated together.
“Sacrificial parts!” The guy clapped once like an overly excited kid. Stewart’s hand shot out and hit the “close door” button and the freed doors slid closed. “Sacrificial parts. Sacrificial,” the voice faded out as the elevator began rising again.
He couldn’t help but feel like he’d climbed those 22 floors after all. What was wrong with some people? He glanced at his watch. 2:15am. Eight more minutes until he’d die, according to the door display.
Stewart rolled his eyes and checked the delivery app on the phone again. It still had one order of chow mein for apartment 22-06, 22nd floor.
The elevator suddenly shuddered and felt like it accelerated, putting more pressure on Stewart’s body. He reached for the railing to steady himself, bouncing the take away bag into the wall. As the last few numbers flicked by Stewart had a sudden burst of fear, freezing through his anger. 21… 22!
Something screeched above the elevator and it jolted to a stop, actually throwing him into the air. The sudden lack of solid ground made him stumble forwards, squeezing the railing hard before jumping out of the open doors. He panted hard leaning over for a moment, before surveying the hallway.
Next to a map of the floor with faded colored escape routes was the door to the stairs, stickman climbing up the steps. The door was half-open, and Stewart could feel a stale and stifling heat blowing from the concrete walled well.
Odds? Evens? Right side is evens. His mind oriented itself automatically through long established habit.
Shrugging he started down the hallway, scuffing his leather shoes in the worn out carpet. He couldn’t help but picture a set of workers in jump suits pulling up the old carpet, and removing wall panels to put in new versions. Did they replace them with new colors? Or was it always the same? Faded and stained orange one day. Bright orange the next?
Stewart smacked his forehead to banish this stupid question and refocused on the numbers. 22-10… 22-08… Ah, there it was. 22-06. He looked down at the bag and with a quick assessment decided he hadn’t done too much damage to the styrofoam encased noodles in his elevator assisted air time.
This guy better tip, he thought as he tugged his phone out of his pocket. The overly bright app display hurt his eyes as he flicked down to the scan box, snapped a photo of the receipt stapled to the bag, and as the app froze behind a spinning circle reached out and banged on the door.
He knew there would be no tip as soon as he saw Mr. Chow mein at 2am. Socialist cuck, his mind provided ironically.
He smirked as the long haired kid grabbed the bag. “Sorry bro,” he sounded stoned. Was definitely stoned. “I can’t tip. All I got was just enough for my noodles bro.” Yeah, sure buddy. Stewart was pleased to be getting angry again. Maybe it could keep him warm on the next delivery. “Bro. You know the app is screwing you too, right bro?” Stewart nodded, trying to keep this to a five star interaction. Fucker. “All those ads about expressing your individuality. It’s all a screw job bro. Interchangeable.”
“What?” Stewart felt like he might crack a tooth. He was getting very tired of asking weirdos what the fuck they were talking about.
“Interchangeable. Bro. That’s what you are. To the app. Screwing you. Burn you out. Then they replace you ay-sap.” The stoner looked pleased with himself, like he’d just blown Stewart away with a perfect rhetorical argument followed by a pithy French quote. ASAP for fuck’s sake.
“Yeah. Bro.” Stewart managed, wondering if a punch would lose him one star? Two?
“Screwed bro. You’re screwed.” A timer of some sort began to shrill in the depths of the stoner’s room. Still muttering he scooped up the take-away bag and shuffled away letting the door swing shut behind him.
Whirling around Stewart stomped back in the direction of the elevator. He hadn’t noticed but the hall had gotten cold while the idiot in 22-06 had rambled at him. Streams of icy air hit him from vents in the ceiling, making it feel like he was striding through a line of ghosts.
Fucking sensors must not be working he thought to himself, allowing himself a sarcastic sneer. Should be monitoring everything. Keeping the building warm. He finally reached the elevators. For a moment he considered the stairs, a beckoning waft of heat hitting him in a stream. Even though his breath was nearly forming clouds in the icy air conditioning he shook his head at the climbing stickman and pushed the call button once again.
The doors opened immediately, it hadn’t left since he’d got here. Stepping in he pulled his phone out. 2:22. One minute to go. No texts. His last one had been read… On instinct he jabbed the “close door” button at the same time as “1”, and freed from a bag leaned against the back wall. He flicked around on his phone for a moment until the silence suddenly overwhelmed him. Some red LED was flashing in the upper corner of the elevator and the floor counter flashed 22 a couple of times before going black.
Stewart straightened up, cursing his night, and poked at the buttons ineffectually. Fuck me, he thought trying the “open door” button for once. There was an audible clunk and a long shrill scream like some horrible phantom was descending from above. Stewart yanked his finger back guiltily, as if his button pressing had caused this. The next moment he was in free fall. His shoulder painfully impacted the bar around the walls. Then, all at once he was pressed into the floor. His wrist was bent at an angle underneath him. Groaning he pushed himself up and went for the emergency button.
The red button clicked and a sequence of tones played.
Cradling his wrist, Stewart banged his shoulder on the door. Maybe one of the weirdos in this building would hear him.
The emergency phone finally clicked. A beat of silence was followed by a woman’s voice: “You’ve reached the offices of Maxim and Maxim’s Maintenance department.”
“Fucking help me! I’m stuck in an elevator! It fell!” Stewart yelled as he tried to work his one good hand between the doors.
“We’re very sorry to announce that your building is no longer part of our service. If you’d like to renew press one. If you’d like-“
Fuck.
2:24 am
The building logged the time of failure, updating the predictive model’s calculations accordingly. A one minute difference between the predictions and real events caused a series of changes, blooming out in a growing list of failures, pipe ruptures, electrical faults, cracks in the window shades, worn out flooring, and briefly the system attempted to connect to the Maxim and Maxim server, in order to report these latest alerts. Like the last set of predictions, where Stewart still lives for eighteen minutes until elevator two’s cable snapped, the building’s computer system found no active connection to the server, and the alerts were cached.