crackling

An upbeat sort of jazz crackled through a radio, fighting through the sputtering and hacking coming from the floor. There weren't any beds. Just bodies. And blankets enough to cover up the most grotesque -- any attempt to provide warmth was agreed a futile one. Room was scarce, with all sick and little dying, that those seeming closest to death -- enough to rationalize the conscience of their undertakers -- were taken out back and thrown onto pyres, sounds of pained gasps and cries agreed upon to be the crackling of wood. Space was made, and then taken up, and space was made again. The procession of it now gone from ghastly to routine. A doctor, young and embittered, tip-toed amongst them, barely looking at the bodies -- for bodies they were to his mind, not more -- only touching enough to stick needles into arms before wiping them from his hands onto a makeshift coat and moving on. Avoiding gazes, avoiding contact, avoiding sounds. There was a debate, one finally settled when somebody's hands opened a window. Burned flesh now wafted in, carried from the pyres, competing with the stench of fluids and disease, overtaking it.

And, from somewhere in the room, the jazz crackled louder.