It feels like I'm waking up for the umpteenth time, though I haven't truly slept once. A grating screech somewhere beyond the wall, cold metal against my cheek, and a ghastly emptiness inside, as if I'm melting into pieces in this endless junkyard. The moment I inhale, I regret it: a sharp pain shoots through the ribs on my left side, as though someone fired a bullet straight into my chest. My throat scratches, a cough rips its way out, slicing my lungs like they're filled with shards of glass. My eyes water, and the air takes on an almost tangible taste of rust and moldy decay.
I'm still here.
In this diabolical place.
When my memory clears even slightly, I recall fragments that only make it worse: the recent evening, the warm living room at home, Mom's face glowing with pride, Dad's words about "proving to yourself you can stand when the world crumbles." Then the party at Felicia Green's, our chatter about college acceptances… and the flash. That sudden, white burst, like lightning splitting the sky. How we all screamed, how I felt a jolt pierce my chest. Then—nothingness. And now I'm here, in an iron hell, alone.
Every time I think of that flash and my friends, a wave of helplessness crashes over me. Just yesterday—or was it the day before?—I was celebrating my acceptance to MIT, seeing my parents' joyful faces, laughing with Blake, Felicia, and the others. And then it all collapsed, as if someone yanked reality out from under me.
Now I don't know where I am, why I'm here, or how to get out.
My ankle has swollen even more. Even through the fabric of my pants, I can feel the heat radiating from the sprain. The slightest twist of my foot sends a flash of pain shooting up my spine. I don't want to scream—I'm terrified that someone (or something) might hear and come back.
Leaning against the cold steel wall, I carefully shift my weight to avoid pressing on my cracked rib. It's likely broken, or at least badly fractured: every deep breath stabs my left side with sharp agony. If only I had painkillers, any kind of medicine… I'm no doctor, but Mom sometimes told me how to handle rib injuries. Now, those scraps of knowledge are all I have.
— Mom, Dad… — I whisper faintly, not even noticing I've spoken aloud. — Damn it…
I try not to think about the possibility that they might be hurt too. Maybe it's just me who vanished? Maybe my home is fine, and I was snatched into this insane world at the last second? It's strange that I still cling to hope. My mind replays the moment of the flash in vivid detail: I blinked—and woke up amid twisted metal wreckage.
I hear the echo of those creatures' footsteps in my head again. When I first landed here and climbed out of the debris pile, those shambling silhouettes attacked me—like living skeletons draped in rusted flesh. Their hollow eyes burned with hunger, and shards of metal protruded from beneath tattered skin. I don't understand how such things can exist. But I saw them with my own eyes.
Since I barricaded myself in this narrow compartment, time seems to have frozen. I might have drifted into oblivion three or four times, but I haven't truly slept. A cough, pain, or the fear that those monsters would return kept jolting me awake. The air here is steeped in such a vile stench that I'm nearly constantly nauseous, and my throat grows rawer by the minute. It's like a toxic blend of industrial poisons, rot, and ancient chemicals. My lungs burn as if scorched.
One thing is clear: if I stay here forever, I won't last long. I need water, some kind of medicine, and a sturdier shelter. Through the trembling and pain, I force myself to stand.
I cautiously brace my right hand to push myself up, clamping my lips shut as my left ankle flares with hellish pain. God, I just hope I don't scream—there's no telling who or what might be lurking nearby. My "door" is just a metal beam wedged into the narrow passage, hastily propped up. A single push from outside, and it'd fall in a second.
Limping, I take a few steps along the crooked steel corridor. The dim light of the keychain flashlight (how did it even end up in my pocket? I think it was Blake's gift from the party…) picks out the grotesque outlines of the walls: everything's rusted, some parts warped as if torn apart. It looks like a corridor inside a massive ship, reduced to scattered sections. Broken bulkheads jut out from the sides, bent beams protrude, and above, twisted, corroded frames loom.
How I ended up inside some kind of spaceship is beyond comprehension. But I don't have time to ponder. I need to explore. Maybe I'll find a ramp, an exit, or something like supplies or medicine?
I sink back into a crouch—my legs can't hold me up from the pain and weakness. My ears ring, my head feels stuffed with cotton from dehydration. Yes, thirst is outright choking me now. I need to find some kind of liquid, or it'll all end very soon.
Through the haze in my mind, I recall family holidays, the table always set with water, apple juice, cola… such a trivial thing, and I never realized how vital clean water is. I want to scream at the unfairness, but I hold back.
Gathering my strength, I try to move forward. My flashlight glides over the corridor's metal flooring. In places, it's burned through, forming pits. I can't gauge their depth—just pure darkness, shifting with ghostly shadows. I stick to where the plates seem mostly intact.
After about fifteen minutes of helpless shuffling, I spot a strange sign on the wall: rust and paint streaks make it hard to read, but the letters "MED" stand out clearly. The symbols are framed by unfamiliar, alien hieroglyphs. My heart pounds: I have no idea what this ship is or who it belonged to, but "MED" surely means "medical bay." There might be something useful—bandages, medicine, water…
The door that presumably led inside is crumpled like an accordion, its tracks skewed. I examine it from the side: the edges are coated in rust, and odd dark crystals, like dried mold, have settled in spots. I touch the door's seam—my fingers come away smeared with grime. I need to try opening it. But it looks completely stuck, as if the metal is fused shut.
I glance down—a piece of rebar lies at my feet, about the length of my forearm. I pick it up. It's heavy, rough, encrusted with flakes of rust. But it's better than nothing. I wedge it under the door's lower edge and start prying, arching my back. Every inch gained comes at such a cost that my chest tightens with pain, and the rust-dusted handle slips in my sweaty palms. Each jerk sends a jolt through my cracked rib—I want to scream, but I bite my lips and endure.
A hideous metallic screech grates my ears, fine rust flakes shower down—some get in my face, onto my tongue, and the bitter taste of corroded iron intensifies my nausea. My eyes water: from pain or dust, I can't tell anymore. After what feels like an eternity, the door finally shifts a couple of inches, forming a gap. It's enough for me to suck in my stomach, squeeze sideways, and slip through. At one point, a sharp metal edge tears my shirt at the shoulder, scratching my skin. I hiss in pain but make it inside.
The sight beyond the door makes me squeeze my eyes shut for a moment: the medical bay looks more like a battlefield or an exploded lab. Everything is warped and dead, as if centuries have passed here. Rows of cabinets lie toppled, tangled wires snake out from somewhere, the walls are streaked with dark stains, and overhead, the bent ribs of the structure dangle. It smells of dampness, rot, and a sharp chemical tang, as if fumes are seeping from ancient, long-damaged tanks.
I take a cautious breath, knowing the air here might be even more toxic than in the corridor. For a second, my head spins from the suffocating stench. I cover my nose and mouth with my sleeve, trying not to cough. The last thing I need is to choke on my own cough in this godforsaken place.
I approach the first overturned cabinet, brushing its edge; it slides and dumps a handful of broken glass vials onto me. Some shatter underfoot, releasing a fresh wave of stench: rancid reagents clumped together. I clamp my mouth shut, trying not to breathe it in, but notice that some ampoules are intact. Small vials of various colors, covered in symbols I can barely read. I catch glimpses of letters vaguely resembling Latin—maybe "antibio"? Maybe "analg"? It's impossible to tell by sight. But I'm too exhausted to be picky about what might help. I carefully tuck the ampoules into my pocket, mindful not to break them.
The cabinets lining the bay are tilted, their paint peeled off, doors caked with thick dust. I spot dubious scraps of rubber on the floor—likely remnants of medical gloves. Everything's rotted from time and moisture. I nudge the scraps aside, hoping to find something intact. I stumble on a smashed capsule storage unit—inside, there's dry slime, the contents long evaporated. Once, it seems, there were medicines here; now, just traces of powder remain at the bottom.
Suddenly, my gaze catches two metal cans, less corroded than the rest. On the side, I make out: "H2O Emerg…". A shiver runs down my spine: this is likely an emergency water supply. Maybe it's gone bad over centuries, but I'm so desperate with thirst I'd drink from a filthy puddle. My hands tremble as I pry the edge open with a metal shard. With a faint pop, a repellent, stale smell escapes. I pinch my nose but take a cautious sip of the murky liquid, wincing at the bitter, metallic taste. My throat spasms, my body protests, but I force down a second gulp.
— Sorry, Mom, — slips out as the acrid taste of rot lingers on my tongue. — I know this is insane…
But the thirst eases slightly, my lips less parched. There's another can—I stash it in a small backpack I find by the wall. It's medical too, once strapped to the wall, now just moldy straps remain. I shake it off and decide it's still better than carrying things in my hands.
I rummage through the wall drawers next. Some are so rotted that a touch makes the lid cave in. But I find something vital: a few syringes in sealed packs. The labels show cryptic pictograms, but I can guess—"analg-" (painkiller?), "antibio-" (antibiotic?), and some "stim-ul…". Dubious, but I have no choice—I take them. A sudden cramp seizes my side, and I slump against the wall. I need something to dull this pain so badly… but I'm scared to try unknown chemicals yet.
In one cabinet, I find what looks like bandages. The top layers crumble to dust at my touch, but deeper inside, there's a denser bundle. I struggle to separate it—seems like multilayered dressings, partially preserved. If I could clean them, they might work.
Before leaving, I decide to disinfect my right palm, cut by a rusty plate in the corridor. With shaking hands, I break open an ampoule of clear liquid, hoping it's an antiseptic and not something worse. I soak a scrap of cloth and press it to the wound. It stings fiercely—I nearly drop everything, cursing under my breath. It smells sharp, like alcohol, but who knows. There's no other option. I quickly plug the cut with a bit of bandage, wrapping it sloppily.
I realize my ankle's a problem too: it's so swollen I can't stand properly. Using a rag and old bandages, I fashion a makeshift splint over my pant leg. The pain is excruciating, but it might stabilize the joint a little. Sweat beads on my forehead with every move, and my rib flares with agony. I sink to the floor, close my eyes, and breathe for a couple of minutes, fighting waves of nausea and dizziness.
Then I notice a small steel container with a broken lid in the far corner. I lift it with the rebar, and my heart leaps: inside are several cylindrical objects in sealed packs. They look like flares, capable of bright light or signaling. — Hell yes, — flashes through my mind, — this could be valuable. I stuff them into the backpack, though a nagging worry lingers: light might attract worse creatures. But better to have something than nothing.
Finally, I exit this grim infirmary, squeezing back through the crumpled door. The corridor still creaks, metal crunching underfoot, no signs of life. Just a faint draft stirs rust dust. I move slowly, every second taxing my worn-out body. But, as eerie as it is, a tiny spark of hope flickers: there's something to find here, even if it's in awful shape.
I trudge onward through the thickening gloom. It feels like something's hiding behind every bulkhead, but there's no sound, no tracks. I pass a row of small cabins: all open, either empty or chaotic—broken beds, metal pits in the floor, remains… In one room, I spot a bare bone jutting from rags—once a human (?) skeleton. My heart sinks. It's unbearable to look at; fear crashes over me in waves. But I grit my teeth and press on, repeating to myself: — I won't give up. I'll find a way out. Or it's over.
So, limping and battling terror, I leave the medical bay's remnants, like a soldier stumbling from a battlefield where I scavenged some supplies. One thought drives me: — Don't die. Hold on a little longer. And—find an exit…
In another cabin—narrow and half-buried in debris—I start searching the corners almost mechanically. The flashlight's dim beam picks out ghostly shapes in the dark piles, each step crunching disgustingly: either tiny fragments or broken fixtures scattered across the floor. It smells of dampness, dust, and something sour and stale, like moisture long trapped here.
Near the far wall, I spot a metal bedframe, twisted and bent. Below it, something protrudes—a drawer or container. I carefully pry it open with the knife's edge, expecting another pile of junk to spill out—or worse, some abomination to crawl free. Instead, a faint scrape sounds, and a bundle slides out, sealed in cracked, filthy plastic.
I angle the flashlight closer and hold my breath: it's clearly not just rags inside. I tear at the plastic, which crumbles like old cobwebs in my hands. And there it is—clothing. Not rotted or mold-ridden, just dusty and intact. I pull out the first pieces and nearly cry out with joy: military pants with reinforced patches, heavy but sturdy. Then tops: a shirt with chest reinforcements, a long coat with armored shoulder pads, gloves, goggles, and even a balaclava.
— No way… — I whisper, gauging if it might fit me. Someone must have sealed their gear in a airtight bag long ago, but the bag tore over time. Luckily, the fabric survived—no mold, no major damage, just dust.
I squeeze the material—tough, feels like dense synthetics. The pants and shirt could shield me from cuts and cold, while the coat seems designed for shoulder protection, maybe even shrapnel. But put it all on now? I'm half-delirious, and the space is tight—lingering here to change is suicide. The more I rustle and move, the greater the risk of drawing unwanted attention.
Plus, the coat's long hem would snag on every corner, and I've already hit sharp protrusions and gaps. Too dangerous. After a moment's thought, I decide to pack this "treasure" into my backpack. It's already overloaded, but tossing such a find is madness. I stuff the clothes in, grunting and trying not to strain my rib. My side throbs in protest.
Crawling out of the tiny cabin, I pause at the threshold, checking my ankle wrap and fighting dizziness. The backpack's heavier now, digging into my shoulder, but I've got a shot at not freezing to death if the temperature drops. Soon, I'm moving down the corridor again. It twists, branches off. Signs of destruction appear: holes in the walls, as if burned by weapons or energy blasts. I find melted patches, and in places, odd diagonal scratches—like massive claws raked the metal. My heart sinks at the thought: I picture monsters scaling the walls, shredding steel like foil.
Finally, I reach massive doors that look sturdy—but they're torn open, as if by a giant hand, along with part of the bulkhead. The sheer force it took is horrifying. Beyond lies a spacious compartment: logically, a command center or bridge. Sure enough, I see remnants of control panels, broken consoles, screens…
I take a few steps, and my courage evaporates. Remains are everywhere. Not just bodies—dried or gnawed skeletons in shattered armor. Some chest plates are ripped open, exposing jutting ribs. Dark, thick stains coat the walls—blood, perhaps, faded and blackened over centuries. I swallow hard, battling nausea.
I want to run, but I need to check for anything useful. Weapons, ammo, batteries, maybe. I approach a body in mangled armor. A touch, and the metal flakes off in rust, bones crumbling to dust. I shudder. — Sorry… — I whisper inwardly and pull back.
A little farther, I spot a corpse in better-preserved armor: a black cloak lies over it, embroidered with what looks like radiating sunrays. But the head's gone—the helmet and jawbone lie nearby. Ugh… I force myself to approach and touch the cloak. It feels like tough fibers, woven with metallic thread, lined with thin insulation. It could work as a warm wrap or blanket. I quickly strip it off, avoiding the remains as much as possible.
— Sorry, — I whisper, looking away, — and thank you…
I fold the cloak into my backpack. It's bulging now, weighing me down, but these items could mean life or death. Then I notice a military pack at the dead officer's feet. I open it: rotted explosives inside, useless and risky to carry. I toss them. But the pack itself is sturdier than mine, with more pockets. I transfer everything into it. As I do, I spot a small rectangular device by the corpse's hand—a "data bank" or "personal terminal," maybe. The bones snap as I pry it from cold fingers. I try not to dwell on it. The device is intact, its surface smooth, uncracked. If I can charge it, I might learn something about the ship.
Just as I tuck it into the new pack, my flashlight catches a knife lying nearby amid armor fragments. I pick it up: the blade is black, almost light-absorbing. I drag it across a bulkhead—it leaves deep scratches, like cutting butter. Impressive and unnerving. This might be my first real "weapon." I hope I never have to test it on anything, but in this place, any defense is vital.
I glance around, and my stomach chills: piles of skeletons, flesh scraps, severed limbs. One body has a chest cavity torn open, as if claws ripped it from inside. It's so horrifying my brain refuses to process it. Maybe this was a last stand—someone fought back, but they were slaughtered. Or bitten?
After scouring the bridge, I find little of value. Weapons have crumbled to dust, ammo turned to powder, instruments wrecked. Only a cylindrical container on the headless officer's belt catches my eye. I open it with a creak—inside are sh syringes with cryptic symbols: a lightning bolt, a blood drop, a medical cross… Looks like a combat injector kit, from stimulants to hemostatics. A precious find.
— This could save my life… — I whisper, turning one syringe in the flashlight's glow.
I take the set and, catching my breath with effort, survey the scene: shattered consoles, heaps of debris, black stains on the walls. Everything's dead here. A warm dread creeps into my heart, as if this place has soaked up despair.
— Enough, — I mutter, — time to go…
The creatures outside haunt my thoughts: what if they've caught my scent? I try not to make noise, slipping back to the doorway. Glancing at the corridor, I realize returning to the breach I entered through is risky—monsters roam there. But what choice do I have? I need a safer ship section or another exit.
I cast a final look at this death-soaked command post: it repulses me, but I can't afford squeamishness—I've taken what I could. Fear gnaws at me from within, warning that it'll only get harder. No choice. I grip the black knife, adjust my pack's strap, and step out cautiously, carrying the weight of what I've seen. My back feels the empty sockets of those soldiers watching.
— I hope you didn't die for nothing, — I say mentally, crossing the threshold. — These things you left… they'll help me survive.
I trudge through corridors on stiff legs: each step flares hot pain in my ankle, and my cracked rib hampers breathing. I stifle coughs into a clenched fist, though every ragged breath scrapes my throat like sandpaper. Sometimes I duck through crumpled bulkheads; other times, I climb over metal plates that clang hollowly underfoot. Every shadow seems a threat—I keep turning, knife ready.
Small compartments along the corridor yield nothing but rusted junk. Tools, wires, batteries—all decayed. I find an armory, heart leaping, but it's pointless: just a pile of time-eaten trash.
At last, the corridor widens and curves into a semicircle. I spot a cabin door to the side, almost untouched—by this hellhole's standards. My scratched hands and throbbing side ache: exhaustion is breaking me down. I need shelter and a chance to rest.
I approach and see the door's been forced open. Comforting, though—I can prop it back with metal sheets to clatter if someone tries to enter. In the corridor, I gather debris and stack it to ring out at any stranger's step. A makeshift alarm.
The cabin's tiny: a rotted cot on the left, an upturned narrow table on the right. The floor's sticky and foul, black-brown—maybe machine oil or organic remains. Fine cracks spider the ceiling, but no holes break through. At least there's no open passage. It's grim, but better than the corridor.
With a weary exhale, I slip back to the corridor and drag metal chunks inside, arranging them before the door. They'll make noise if anything tries to get in. Back inside, I toss the officer's cloak onto the rusted cot frame. It reeks of stale metal and mustiness, but it beats lying on the thoroughly rotted mattress fabric.
My throat burns again, a cough clawing free. I fish the second water can from my pack—the one I'd saved "for later." I take a couple of sips: the taste is revolting, but it softens the thirst a bit. The murky bitterness stings my stomach, a chill creeping over me. My head throbs, fever setting in. My fingers tremble, as if I'm shivering.
My gaze falls on the syringes and ampoules I scavenged—maybe there's an antibiotic or stimulant. But fear holds me back: what if it's poison or worse? I'm still breathing, so I'll wait. If it gets unbearable, then I'll risk it.
With effort, I lean against the wall to shed the backpack. Sharp pain stabs my side, my leg pulses. The cough feels like it's incinerating my lungs from within. And I'm forced to breathe this stifling air, laced with rust and decay particles, it seems. I need real rest, or I'll lose my mind. But the thought of monsters prowling nearby keeps me on edge.
I probe my broken rib and realize it needs fixing fast. I strip off my torn shirt, ripping it into strips. A short breath: — Easy, Adam, — I force myself not to panic. I bind my chest with the makeshift bandage. Every touch is fire under my skin, an ache in my bones like twisted nerves. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood's metallic tang. But the rib's somewhat stabilized—hopefully, it won't pierce a lung.
Slowly, barely breathing, I lower myself onto the cot. The metal frame creaks. My ankle blazes, but I can stretch my legs at least. I drape the cloak over me, trying not to inhale its foul stench. My head swims with chaotic images: home, parents, friends, university… all so distant and unreal now. My eyes sting, tears welling up.
— How did I end up here… — I whisper, voice trembling. Salty trails streak my cheeks. This world of death and grotesque monsters doesn't mesh with the life I had yesterday, a dream that felt within reach.
I clutch the knife from the bridge. Its blade is light but razor-sharp. It seems my only chance if those horrors break in. I've no strength to flee—only to fight to the death or…—the thought cuts off: in despair, I whisper half-aloud, would it be easier to slit my own throat? But I shove the idea away, even as fear and hopelessness surge stronger.
Something creaks in the corridor—maybe just wind swaying the hull, or a beast creeping closer. Each new sound sends my heart racing. I press a cloth to my lips to muffle a cough if it hits.
Gradually, I grow cold: either my body temperature's dropping, or this place chills to the bone. I huddle under the cloak, clutching the backpack to my chest. A feverish thought pounds: maybe I caught something from that rancid water or the poison-laced air. My strength ebbs, sleep tugging at me.
Suddenly, my mind dredges up a memory: I'm a child, lying with a high fever, and Mom strokes my forehead, saying, — Breathe, dear, it'll pass. Her hands soothed any pain then, her calm certainty healing wounds on its own. Now, I'm alone, no medicine, no loving embrace. Yet her words calm me slightly: — Breathe, Adam… breathe…
I try to find a position where my rib hurts less, closing my eyes. The moment my lids shut, images flare: dismembered corpses, gaping eye sockets, vile claws. I try to banish the nightmares, but my sick mind gleefully blends memories of friends and parents with slaughter scenes. Each half-sleep, I dip into visions of home, then wake with a stifled scream, clutching the knife.
Finally, painful apathy and weakness win. I opt for a desperate move: I pull out an ampoule with a symbol like a screaming face—maybe a painkiller. I drip some "antiseptic" on the needle, inject it into my thigh, close my eyes, and freeze, waiting. My head spins, my chest burns with nausea. — Don't kill me… — I plead silently. But after a couple of minutes, the pain in my side dulls, like a curtain over smoldering coals. It works.
— Thank you… — I whisper. I don't even know to whom—fate, or the dead man I took these syringes from.
Sleep rolls in like a wave, its icy fingers embracing me. I sink into it in fragments, jolting awake from coughs or imagined noises at the door. Deep in my mind, fear spins: what if a creature tears through the corridor sheets, and I wake to inhuman shrieks? But my exhausted body gives in: my eyelids grow heavy, limbs turn to cotton.
My dreams mix horrors with bright memories. I see familiar rooms, talk with Dad about college, feel Mom set a bowl of hot soup before me… Then the scene rips apart, and I'm in a blood-drenched corridor, skeletons reaching for me. I thrash in sticky terror, unable to move…
I wake repeatedly in cold sweat. My heart pounds, the knife trembles in my hand. I gulp air convulsively, cough, slip back into murky half-sleep. Somewhere on consciousness's edge, I vaguely note no monster has appeared. Maybe luck, or maybe they're distracted elsewhere.
At some point, I sink deeper—maybe an hour, maybe more. The hot ache in my body isn't as sharp. My chest wheezes, but the painkiller does its job. Thoughts tangle, slide, but I'm alive, still breathing. All the while, my fingers clutch the knife's handle like a final anchor to reality.
I know: if I survive to "tomorrow," I'll have to move on—find food, water, an exit. Maybe I can locate a generator and power some ship systems. Just don't become someone's meal. But that's for later.
For now, I lie under the cloak, backpack pressed to my chest, my mind teetering between delirium and sleep. I see Dad's face, recall his steady, — You'll manage, Adam. It sparks a faint glimmer of hope.
Yes, Dad. I'll try.
In the dark, to the rhythm of my ragged breathing, I finally slip into a deep, pained sleep that, oddly, brings the long-awaited, if uneasy, oblivion.