Hot Survivors Near You
Hot Survivors Near You
Episode 1 - You May Not Die in This One
Hot Survivors Near You is a horror-adventure audio drama about you for you, and voted on by you. Think Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy meets Modern Romance by Aziz Ansari. Give us a listen, after all - You May Not Die in This One.
No matter what happens, you must remember none of it is your fault.
SPEAKER_00:Top Survivors Near You is an audience participation experience sponsored by Lifesave Technology. Lifesave, because death is so boring it hurts. Episode 1, you may not die in this one.
SPEAKER_02:As you limp down the corridor, you see a pastel pink level 12 painted on the cinder block wall. And again, you feel the cold glass of the test tube slipping through your fingers, as it did a minute ago. That biohazard label had to have been a joke. No such thing as BSL-5. Hazards only go up to four. Everyone knows that. Remember the crunch when Pam, the lab tech, stepped on it? The desperate ring of sirens? Pam's eyes boring into yours, intimate and distant at the same time? You will never see her like that again. It had to be an interlab prank. They used to be such tricksters back in Lab 314, before they all stopped breathing. No matter what happens, you must remember, none of this is your fault. You should be to the elevator by now. You can't see the end of the hallway? That can't be true, can it? Anything is possible in the labs at DevCorp. In your darkest dreams, you remember blood seeping from under the door in Lab 305. Every morning, you would call the janitors to clean it. And every morning, it was a little bit farther down the hall than the day before. You imagined all of Lab 305 is a giant heart, pumping and pumping. When you close your eyes, you can hear it. Don't close your eyes. This is no time for existential panic. Get out of the building. Your eyes flicker over every bit of wall and floor, searching out the shine of the reflective elevator doors. Nothing. Do the lights just flicker? That is bad. Everyone told you not to work at DevCorp. They said the health insurance didn't cover hearts. They said the pay was mediocre. They said that the sheep people of 341 had learned to say, kill us, but not please. That the real company moneymaker was black market organs. The slogan should have tipped you off. Immortality forever is sounding worse by the minute. Speaking of sounds, what was that? You try and choke down your terror. Is that Pam? She must have followed you. Her hands are drawn into permanent claws, scratching and scratching and scratching at the walls as she runs down the hall. Her arm fat jiggles at you accusingly. You'd think she'd have stopped when her nails wore off, but no, no. That's Pam for you. What a prankster. When she looks at you with her dead, filmy eyes, you wonder if she remembers asking you out last Thursday. Spaghetti. You were going to eat spaghetti together.
UNKNOWN:What?
SPEAKER_02:That test tube was wobbly at best, you screech as you limp faster. Pam responds with an ear-splitting wail. Who could have predicted she would take rejection so personally? I mean, it's not like you ghosted her. Well... Christ, she never moved that fast when she was alive. You found the elevator. In a fit of wild devotion, you have to stop yourself from licking the metal doors to be sure they are real. Best not, given the time constraints. It has never felt so good to push a button as it does right now. Like every nerve in your body is connected to that index finger, and the slight give as the light turns on and the bell dings. Bliss. You slump into the elevator and push the button for the first floor. Pam is very, very close now. You can see a black dribble down her chin. You instinctively rub your mouth like,"'Something on your face, Pam?' She lunges for the double doors and misses by about six inches. You push the button over and over, even though you know it doesn't speed anything up. And then the doors close at last. Nothing personal, you shout through the doors at Pam. But secretly, you fear she may have taken it very personally after all. It's just another run-of-the-mill disaster, probably limited to lab 314. DevCorp definitely has a plan for something like this. I mean, they had to get permits for the biohazard materials, right? Well, all of that is above your pay grade anyway. You're just a security guard. Those are CEO kind of problems. You think of all of the other disasters you've seen. Videos this year of burning phosphorus raining fire on people's homes, the thundering bombs of a dictator, the mass graves... This is just like that. Nothing new. Just a normal, regular-sized, completely average, absolutely dull disaster. FEMA will come in and clean this up. It's an inconvenience, really. Just remember, none of it is your fault. You're feeling shaken as you drive home after a brutally final day at work. The company didn't have to have your fellow security guards escort you out. You weren't trying to make a scene. Uncalled for. Your supervisor, Frank, kept glancing back at you from the bottom right corner of his eyes, like you were a criminal. They did that out of spite. They even left your security bracelet on. The white, scratchy plastic, a permanent reminder of their hold over you. You didn't find your job particularly rewarding, and part of you was happy it's over. But... That part of you doesn't pay the rent. Try to focus on the road. The afternoon sun shines into your eyes. You blink a few times. Be careful. The road in your subdivision is curvy. Haggard moms with strollers seem to burst from every hedge and dive under your wheels in a flurry of blood mayhem and costly lawsuits. Your mind drifts anyway. Working security for DevCorp was awful on a good day, so you do what you always do when you catch yourself thinking about DevCorp when you aren't getting paid to. You think of Alexis. You see her in your mind, a best-of composition of the many other times you have seen her, wearing a bright red short dress from Christmas with the spiral-curled dark hair from that Monday after the big storm. She smiles at you with her whole face, especially her eyes. Her pupils are like the mouth of a deep cave. You wish you could climb in. You can see something down there, calling out to you from the black, As she trails her clean, unpainted nails down the front of her dress, her fingertips trace the outline of her right breast. Casually, like she doesn't know she's doing it. Your breath catches. Your eyes are glued to her hands. You could spend forever here in the dark of your mind with a woman too beautiful to be real. She is everything you want. Thin and curvy. Short. Friendly, but just with you. Playful, kind, and she has one of those names you like. Not like your roommate's ladies. You start to remove the red dress in your mind. But instead, find yourself standing in the memory of the afternoon you spent with Alexis in her studio apartment. You sat with her on the couch watching kung fu movies. It was like everything in your life had come together to create this perfect moment. All the low pay, bad day, car crashes, depressed as balls, burnt toast mornings were preparing you for this. A sweetness so complete, it washed all the bitter away in an instant. You can't tell her, so you say, this is nice. But you mean, I love you so much I no longer understand the world. You wince because the memory is too bittersweet for today and slip instead into more familiar territory. Her dress slides off easily, dropping on the floor in a red heap. Her skin is a series of increasingly expensive coffee colors. Burnt caramel, Americano, miso cream. She wears black matching bra and panties with red bows on them. She is coy with you now that her dress is off, half covering herself and turning, giving you a better view as she pretends to shy away. There is languidness to her movements that the real Alexis doesn't have. liquid and relaxed, like she has been drinking. In the dark cave of her irises, something comes at you fast. A shadow flashes in front of your car and you slam the brakes, throw it into park and jump out into the glaring light. It's Sage, your roommate. Clutched in his hairy arms, yipping its head off, is Mrs. Gleneth Worthy's Yorkshire Terrier. You almost hit your neighbor Gleneth's dog. The cheap plastic beads at Sage's throat clack as he stoops to smooth its pale brown and white fur. He kisses the top of its pink-ribboned head.
SPEAKER_00:I'm so sorry, Sage. I don't know how checkers got away from me.
SPEAKER_02:Gleneth and checkers are so alike that you often check to make sure the right one is on the leash. Today, you didn't see either of them. They glare at you as one. Sorry, you mutter through the window. It's not like it was your fault. They came out of nowhere. I mean... None of it is your fault. You have never been so happy to see Sage as you are now. It's as though his tall, thin body is surrounded by a halo.
SPEAKER_00:This wound on my hand has been troubling me.
SPEAKER_02:Her voice trembles when she looks at Checkers. Gleneth doesn't look so good. Pale and bubbly somehow.
SPEAKER_01:Bad bubbly. We'll take him for the night, Gleneth. You go on home to bed now,
SPEAKER_02:Sage says, his voice soft and sincere. Gleneth gives him a shallow nod and shambles away. Checkers winds softly after her as she goes and manages to look like an offended queen when Sage tucks her into the passenger side of the car with a smile.
SPEAKER_01:Try not to massacre the neighbors. At least not Checkers. You know I love a Yorkie. I had a bad day at work. Let's go home. You look like shit. To the dog. Who's a sweet pup? Who's getting a fat strip of mung bean jerky when we get home? That's right. You are. You are.
SPEAKER_02:You try not to actively remember and hate every bad vegan thing Sage has subjected you to over the years. Pork-free bacon, hemp milk, beet-bleeding burgers, yeast cheese, avocado carob brownies. Never chicken. Then there is the unending string of low-key dreadful women he parades through the house. Marigold, Jasmine, Flower, Daisy, Eucalyptus, and Sunlight. Sunlight had brought Sage the many joys of primal scream therapy. And if you had a time machine, you would in no way go back and kill baby Hitler and instead absolutely find your way into Sunlight's baby crib to smother her with a particularly bright yellow pillow. Sometimes you think Sage is the worst person in the history of Earth. Then you remember that you exist. Also, you have never seen him knock over anything, least of all a test tube, the smug bastard. Also, he gets women. I mean, they don't smell good, and you would rot in hell before you'd scream sky in ecstasy, but they do exist, which is more than you have been able to achieve lately, dreams of Alexis aside. Sage has been talking all this time you were spaced out at the wheel again.
SPEAKER_01:So you're saying the tyranny of corporate drug testing is over?
SPEAKER_02:Yes,
SPEAKER_01:why? I've got something for my favorite roommate then.
SPEAKER_02:Sage smiles and reaches in his pocket, brushing away the amorous advances of checkers who sniffs for a treat. He hands you a clear plastic bag with something rich dirt brown and crumbly in it. You take it, careful to keep your eyes on the road. You pull into the driveway of the house you share with Sage. The thing in the bag is a weed brownie. On any other day, you would give Sage a talk about the evils of drugs in your car, civil asset forfeiture, legal car theft by the thin blue line. But the memory of the look in Pam the zombie lab tech's eyes already clouds your head like foul smoke. not to mention the horrors of a new job search. You eat it without question, every crumb. You have never done drugs before, but you think today might be the day to start. What is the worst that could happen? Inside of the house you share with Sage, it smells delicious and vegetative. Since when does your house smell like good food? How long were you and Sage and Checkers sitting in that car while he ranted about teriyaki vegan jerky? Before he went for the stroll that saved Checkers, Sage had been cooking vegan quiche. It smells yummy and green like... delicious moss? That can't be right. You've absolutely no idea what could possibly be in vegan quiche, but it must be egg substitute heaven. It smells so good. You are filled with love for Sage's tall, stoner self. You can even forgive him for sunlight. What kind of beautiful, kind-hearted saint of a roommate gives you a pot brownie and cooks your dinner after you are fired? A warm euphoric feeling spreads out from your stomach to the tips of your toes. The room takes on a coppery patina and the table you are sitting at shines silver along the edges. You are having trouble focusing as though the primal core of you has become fixated on the table and your hands and the smell of quiche and is this what love feels like? You watch Sage holding checkers. He is so thin he seems to blip in and out of existence. His smile is wide open and the same silver shine glints along the edges of his teeth. He is a golden, blossoming god. Without a doubt, Sage is the best person in the history of Earth. Checkers isn't looking too bad either, like some kind of terrier angel. Dog love is so easy. One hot meal and her heart is yours forever. If only people love her like that. You're about to ask for quiche when you hear a crash from the opposite end of the house. Sounds like glass shattering, wood splintering, also like music. What was that? It's so hard to think for some reason. You feel like the top of the world, spinning too fast and unwieldy as hell. You sway towards the fireplace with the brownie weighing down in your stomach. It feels like an ineffective anchor. Not quite heavy enough to let you stand up straight, but good to keep you from tumbling all the way onto the floor. You sit down. That quiche smells like food magic. Is there basil in that? Genius! You love the hell out of plant basil. Basil, the girl, not so much. You'll have to ask Sage what that marvelous smell is. Did you maybe forget something? You have that squirming sensation in the back of your brain, like maybe you left the water running in the bathtub all day and now the bathtub is full of infant squid monsters that think that you are mommy and swarm your legs like one terrifying ravenous hive mind mob of suckers with razor teeth. Why did you think that? You've worked at DevCorp too long. You didn't leave anything running, but But there is something you were supposed to remember. What was it? It pushes up against the surface of your mind. It's so hard to think right now. From your spot in the kitchen, you can see down the long, wood-lined hall to the back of the house where Sage's bedroom is separated from the patio by a pair of old sliding glass doors. You like to watch the way the light paints the hallway with sunset colors through the glass, the undulous roll of purple mauves swept away by dirty yellows, then pinks and oranges, one after another after another, tinged in a film of evening gray. You could watch the sweeping shifts of light forever, but movement catches your eye. Brother's sheer white curtains are fluttering in the bedroom. That doesn't make sense. Those curtains aren't over a vent. There's no breeze in the house. You manage to stand up without tipping over. Wonderful. You are a master of balance and coordination. I mean, look at the prefrontal cortex white matter volume on you. You snicker to yourself, then laugh out loud when you realize how uncool laughing at your own joke is. You take a few careful steps down the hallway, using both the walls to keep your balance. On second thought, you go back into the living room by the kitchen. You stop to bend and pick up the black iron poker by the fireplace. It is heavy in your hand. You didn't tip over. That's good. Sage only agreed to move in with you because of that fireplace. He said it had big paleo energy, that everything had gone downhill after man invented fire. You'd ugly giggled at him at the time, but now the idea of serenely burning fluffy marshmallows sounds way better than whatever awaits you in the bedroom. You cast the fireplace a wistful glance over your shoulder as you heft the poker like a baseball bat. Checkers sits on the countertop. She watches you, bright-eyed, and barks an encouraging yip. It's good to have someone on your team. You are halfway to the bedroom when you get a chill up your spine. There was something you were supposed to remember. Something. Not good. Sage, did you leave the patio door open?
SPEAKER_01:What?
SPEAKER_02:Sage answers from the kitchen.
SPEAKER_01:I can't hear you. My ears are full of this quiche. Wait, I mean, my mouth is full. My mouth is full of ears? Ears here, ears here. Have you noticed ears sounds like here? Whatever, I can't hear you, man.
SPEAKER_02:You are at the end of the hall, and Sage's answer sounded farther away than you expected. You place your hand on the door to Sage's bedroom and give it a small shove. Does weed make you hear things? You really, really hope so. Then you see something in Sage's room that drains away every hopeful feeling you have ever had and fills you with a dark, filthy flood of terror. In the middle of the room, standing in a sparkle-sharp shatter of glass, is Gleneth. Well, what used to be Gleneth. I'm just going to call it Bad Gleneth. Bad Gleneth's arm has rotted black up to her shoulder from the point of what must have been a bite on her hand, and her feet are sliced to gooey ribbons by the shards. Her eyes are dead glassed. She is smeared with blood, and bony lumps on her side suggest that her ribcage is trying to escape the confines of her skin. Her usually tightly coiffed hair is a mass of frizzed, bloody, dead bedhead. Bad Gleneth's eyes flick up at you, and her death grimace twists into a grin. She's still holding the leash. No matter what happens, you must remember... None of it is your fault. Except this part. This is the part where you have to make a decision. Will you stay and try to explain to Bad Glyneth that she'll always live on in your memory as sort of an acquaintance with a really cute dog and health problems? You can always use the fire poker to emphasize your points. She doesn't look like she's in a listening mood, but people sometimes surprise you. It's not like her condition is your fault, is it? The result of something you did, perhaps? Something you dropped? Or you can turn your back on her and run out of the room. Something tells me if you run now, you may be running forever. You may find that all you can do is run. You may find that running is all you have ever done. Part of you seems to be running even as you hear these words. Your first decision is a classic one. Fight or flight?
SPEAKER_00:Thank you for listening to Hot Survivors Near You, Episode 1. You may not die in this one. Brought to you by Lifesave Technology. Do you even make your own wool, you lazy, oxygen-greedy, species-centric? Voice over specialist and narration by Joel Schronk. Audio engineering by Brooks Coker with ASPN Audio. Producer Sarah Vose. Community outreach by Eric Thompson. Intro music and recurring themes composed and produced by Travis Tench at Oak Hill Audio. Jackson Parham voicing Sage. Thank you for listening to Hot Survivors Near You. Please catch our next episode soon.