The Necropolis serial series is meant for total immersion through combining music, artwork, and written word. Before starting, please click here to start the audio background of Quiet Days On Earth on the album, Miles To Midnight. Once the audio is on and comfortably playing in your headphones, you’re ready to continue.
It’s been miles since your encounter with the Nightfall Monolith. The dark memory it ripped from your soul, a distant thought lost in the haze that slowly released its grasp from the soft sandy floor to hang ominously above your head.
A door closes off on the clay structures to your left, their towering walls of never ending windows cold and vacant, like the gap left within your heart when the Monolith raked your chest for anything vile enough to barbarically pillage. You wonder what it could have possibly taken. Despite having no recollection of what it was, you’re positive you’ll be fine without it. A shell without intestines. A rib cage without a heart.
Ahead of you, several makeshift towers of crudely placed bones over latticed wood planks span on for what seems like miles. At one time, they looked to be used as pyres, their flames fueled by the rotting flesh the bones once used to shield themselves from the sand. Just like the cold space inside you.
Your fingertips graze the skulls of former wanderers, their eyeless sockets watching you as you pass them, leaving them to once again exist without meaning. Patting the last one you pass, you blow out the air from your chest, clearing the chasm inside you as you inhale the particles this place has left within the air. The oxygen feels thinner here. Plus, there’s something else. You can taste it on your tongue. Metallic.
A soft tapping ahead.
The center-most tower houses an old radio antenna at its peak, the base consisting of a lone speaker that still functions after a millennia of broadcasting out into the abyss. Without ears to hear its dying signal, the sound was snatched by the wind and carried off into the hills beyond the miles of bone pyres.
The system has no microphone. You have no way of relaying a message outside of the Necropolis. Who would even care? The only option is to stay and listen to the white noise, hoping for someone to speak. Any words of any language would absorb the solitude that has ravaged this place. Beneath the speaker, the carcasses of a half-dozen wanderers lay against the transmission tower, their ears now blown away into the voracious dust.
The banging off the metal tower stops. The wind has died down.
The silence here is tearing at your eardrums, painfully digging into your temples in order to remind you that even without sound, the silence is grotesque and will not stance for the disobedience of your presence.
The speaker jerks in place, causing grains of sand to sift down onto the forlorn skull of a past wanderer. A soft cry. A moan. Its so hard to tell on a device that appeared to be playing sound without an electrical source to power it.
The whines of the woman on the other end sound painful. The hope gone from the inflection of her voice, you’re positive it’s a ghost of some former resident of the Necropolis. So lost, without a reason to be optimistic about her situation. She has given up, and the soft sounds of her sobbing sound more like her final tears before her body gives up. It’s agonizing to listen to.
You need to go.
Finally allowing the deep breath that’s been held inside your chest to slip out, you turn away to the miles of dead pyres and continue.
This time, with less purpose.
Thank you for reading Necropolis: Final Transmission. You can view more of my writing by following me here on Medium, or checking out my books on Amazon.
Also, please checkout the amazing ambient music of Cryo Chamber. I can’t say enough good things about this channel. The music you heard today was from Quiet Days On Earth on the album, Miles To Midnight. This is a collaborative effort of the artists, Atrium Carceri, Cities Last Broadcast, and God Body Disconnect. It is available on Bandcamp and Spotify.