In my half-sleep, it seems like someone is shuffling outside the door. A dry, dragging sound, like claws scraping on metal, like a memory of pain. I abruptly grab the knife—the movement is automatic, like a spasm. But... silence. Only a faint humming and a rustling inside my skull. Maybe it's just my inflamed consciousness. Maybe someone was actually there.
I place the knife nearby, the handle pointing towards myself, like the only symbol of control. I try to relax again. To breathe quietly, imperceptibly. A cough rises, deep, with a wet catch, I press my palm against my mouth, holding it back as if my life depends on it. My forehead is on fire, the sweat is viscous. The painkiller slightly dulls the pain, but not the anxiety.
Sleep comes like an attack. Disjointed frames: my mother leans over me, explaining Latin terms, her voice is gentle and stern. My father is nearby, handing me a tool, saying, "Look at the structure, not the form." Somewhere—the laughter of friends, the noise of a celebration. And suddenly everything is окрашено in a rusty-bloody color, faces merge, the walls swell with metal, hands reach out from there, covered in blackness. A scream. Real, torn from my throat.
I wake up in absolute silence. As if reality itself has quieted down, so as not to startle death. The trembling doesn't go away. My eyelids are heavy, but my body seems a little lighter. The peace is illusory, but at least it's there.
I run my fingers over my cheek—dirt, sweat, a crust of dried blood. I wipe my hand on my cloak, but it only gets more disgusting. Thoughts race: water, warmth, cleanliness… A luxury suite in my parents' apartment. There was always a hot shower there. Now—rot, and a rusty can, which reeks of death. But I drink—at least a sip, at least an illusion.
How long have I been here? I don't know. Morning doesn't come. The light through the gaps in the plating doesn't change, as if the world is devoid of the very concept of time. I'm not in the world. I'm in a trap, in a snare, where even the laws of nature are forgotten.
I slowly rise, as if my body is not mine, but someone else's, a poorly assembled contraption. My ribs immediately remind me of themselves—a dull, aching pain spreads through my side, as if a foreign fragmentation grenade is stuck there, not yet exploded. Not as sharp as before, but... constant. It doesn't go away. Either the painkiller continues to work, or I've begun to merge with the pain, like with an implant. A new organ. A new rhythm.
My ankle throbs nastily, dully, with a vile pulse. It doesn't hurt—it humiliates. Every time I move, it seems to whisper: "You won't get far. You are broken." But screw it. To limp is to live.
I reach for the can. I moisten my lips. The metallic bitterness spreads through my mouth like a rusty ribbon. The liquid is warm, as if someone left it on a radiator. But still—a greedy gulp, like a final act of mercy. Disgusting. Damned, foul, dead water. But now it's like wine from an old life. I choke, but I drink. Because even filth is a luxury in this world.
Enough of wallowing.
Those who wait don't survive here.
Here, those who wait are eaten.
If I lie here—I'll become a piece of meat. Convenient. Warm. Stupid. I have to move, while I can. To search: for living compartments, for malfunctioning airlocks, for corridors where something still flickers. Old cryo-chambers, ventilation systems, any sign that someone once lived here, and didn't just die.
The main thing is to stay away from those who are moving now.
I get dressed. My old t-shirt is a rag, soaked with sweat, blood, and fear. It reeks of something that makes not only my stomach, but also my soul, want to vomit. I put on the found reinforced pants—they fit heavily, as if resisting. The gloves are sticky, but intact. The balaclava is stuffy. The glasses are fogged, but better than blindly squinting in the toxic haze. The t-shirt from the set is a bit large, but doesn't fall apart at the seams. Already a victory.
I leave the coat. The fever still holds. Sweat runs down my shoulder blades, rolls down, tickles—disgusting. To overheat is to collapse again. And I'm still on my feet. For now.
Before leaving, I inspect the trap: the metal plates installed at the entrance, everything is in place. No one touched them. Or, worse, touched them so skillfully that I didn't notice. That thought makes everything inside clench. I roll up the cloak, thinking—to put it on? No. It's too early. Into the backpack.
I notice an old valve in the corner, grown into the rust like a suppurating tooth into a rotten gum. I pull. A screech. And—a stream bursts out. Air, dead, foul-smelling, like the exhalation of a rotting dam. It smells like a swamp, poison, rotten meat. I release the handle, almost vomiting. My eyes water. Damn. How I just want to open a tap and drink.
I grab the knife. I check the flashlight. I prepare myself.
I open the door and slip into the corridor, like a beast. Every step is under control. Heel. Toe. I breathe through my nose, slowly, as if whispering. This is not a place for loud people.
A fork. Faded letters are guessed above one of the openings: "CREW...". Living quarters. Maybe something is left. I enter.
It smells of death. In the first cabin—traces of a fight. The beds are moved, as if someone tried to build a barricade. On the walls—brown stains. Smears. They are not brown—they are almost black. Dried. I don't ask myself whose they are.
The second one—silence. But not peaceful. Rotten. The mattresses crumble under the gaze. The clothes turn to dust at the slightest touch. No one has lived here for a long time. And no one has even died. Everything here has simply disappeared.
And suddenly—a find. A container, wedged under the lower bunk. Almost no rust. As if someone deliberately left it, sheltering it from time. The lock—cracked, but holding. I pry it open with a knife, a crowbar—a screech, the lid yields with a wheeze, as if exhaling.
Inside—clothes. Clean. Ordinary. Intact. In transparent bags. God. Almost wild relief overwhelms me. This is not a find—this is utopia. I close my eyes. Just to not cry. This is not funny—this is a shock.
I grab thermal underwear, socks. I feel the fabric: dense, dry. Pants with protective inserts—let them lie for now. Into the backpack. It's already like a concrete block, but I carry it. I will carry it until I fall. Or until I kill the one who tries to take it away.
A package on the side. A пайка. Sealed. I pray without words. I pierce the film. And immediately—a rollback. A stench. A wave of deadness. I almost throw up. The film bursts, from the inside—a decomposed mass, once food. I throw it away. No one has ever died of hunger in five minutes. But you can easily die from a toxin.
A box. "Flare". I lift it like a trophy. I open it. Two flares. Now I have four. Light is a weapon. And deception. And hope. When everything collapses—they can become the last word. Or the last blow to the monster's face.
I exit. The air is thick, viscous, like spoiled honey. Ahead—a wide corridor. A highway? A hangar? Or a trap? It doesn't matter. To stand is death. I choose movement. I choose pain. I choose to go.
My side burns, as if a piece of red-hot iron has been implanted there. Every step is a hammer blow to the insides. But I go.
Because the one who doesn't go is already dead.
I decide. I strain from the pain in my side, every step echoes with pulsating agony. It feels like someone is plunging a red-hot knife into my ribs with every movement. In places, the flooring under my feet treacherously collapses, forcing me to balance on one leg, seeking support in the rusty debris. Metal screeches under my boots, and every such sound makes me freeze, my heart pounding in my chest like a trapped bird. I wait for this hellish screech to attract the attention of those creatures that roam the ship. But so far—only a heavy, ominous silence.
And I go on. Stubbornness and fear drive me forward, intertwined in a tight knot inside.
A sinister picture opens at the turn: a gaping breach in the hull. Pieces of plating are torn out by the roots, disheveled, sticking out at an unnatural angle. An icy draft blows from there, saturated with a suffocating mixture of rot, machine oil, and something else, indescribable, but causing nausea. It seems that it was through this hole that I first penetrated the ship, fleeing from the monsters that pursued me. The memory of their clawed paws and insane eyes makes me shudder. No, I won't go back there. They are there, I feel it.
I look around, looking for another way. My gaze clings to a dark gap in the floor. A ladder? Yes, it looks like the remains of rusty steps leading down into the bowels of the ship. Beams, covered with a thick layer of rust, descend there too, creating an unreliable structure. Perhaps this is the path to the lower decks, deeper into the heart of darkness.
I take the first step on the ladder. The metal whines plaintively under my weight, bends, threatening to collapse. The combat knife in my hand becomes an extension of my will to live, cold and hard. I descend slowly, cautiously, almost crawling, clinging with my fingers to the rusty edges, so as not to fall into the abyss. My mouth is dry again, bitterness rises to my throat. I take a greedy sip from the second, already dented, can of water. The liquid burns my parched throat, but I drink greedily, trying to leave a little for later. You never know when you will find another one.
Below, the corridor becomes noticeably lower, forcing me to bend my head. It seems that I have entered the former technical sections of the ship. Burned-out wires, torn pieces of insulation, and twisted distribution panels are visible on the walls. It looks like there was a fire here, or a powerful explosion. The smell of burning and molten metal hangs in the air, mixed with the putrid stench of the ship.
And suddenly, ahead, I notice how the corridor rests against massive gates. They are partially crushed, deformed, but there is a narrow gap between the leaves. It looks like an entrance to a warehouse or repair bay. My heart starts beating faster. I move forward, straining all my senses, trying to catch any rustle, any sign of the presence of monsters. But a frightening silence still reigns around.
I pry the gap between the gate leaves with the blade of my knife, trying to widen it. The rusty metal yields with a squeal, crumbling into crumbs. Finally, with difficulty, I squeeze inside.
I find myself in a spacious room cluttered with scattered tools. Wrenches, screwdrivers, some incomprehensible devices—everything is covered with a thick layer of rust, many are broken or deformed. In the middle of the room lie the fragments of something large, of complex construction—maybe parts of a mechanism, or maybe something else. I see several large boxes, some open and looted, others—surprisingly, intact. I approach one of the undamaged ones and try to open it. The lock, of course, is rusted through and breaks under the pressure of my knife. Inside—only a tangled tangle of wires, rusty boards, some broken sensors. Useless junk.
The second box contains a pile of metal sheets and some parts. Their condition is not much better than the contents of the first box—rust and rot. I am amazed at the antiquity and degree of destruction of this ship. How many years has it wandered in the void, turning into this eerie crypt?
The third box turns out to be quite large. I break the lock with growing hope. My heart pounds in my chest: suddenly I'll find cartridges here? Or at least some food? But no, inside there are only rows of boxes with some incomprehensible technical means. Symbols and inscriptions that cannot be deciphered are stamped on them. Alas, another failure…
When I'm about to leave, disappointed and exhausted, my gaze clings to the far corner of the room. There, by the wall itself, stands a massive structure resembling an "industrial chest". A huge lid, thick walls, the lock looks surprisingly strong, especially compared to everything else I've seen on this ship. Something in this chest attracts me, as if calling.
Trying not to limp, I head towards it, but halfway there I stumble over an iron beam protruding from the floor. Sharp pain pierces my leg, and I barely manage to stay on my feet so as not to fall. A curse escapes through my clenched teeth, but I bite my tongue in time so as not to attract attention. I look around, listen. It seems that no one is running to the noise.
Overcoming the pain, I reach the chest. I examine the lock. It looks very impressive, a complex structure, but, unfortunately, it is covered with a thick layer of rust. I insert a piece of metal pipe found nearby into the keyhole and start pressing. A loud crack is heard, and the lid opens with difficulty. I direct the beam of my flashlight inside.
Inside—something similar to clothes? But denser, heavier, with some inserts made of metal. Upon closer examination, it turns out that these are elements of a pressure suit. But it looks hopelessly damaged—the fabric crumbles into dust in places, and the metal inserts are covered with deep corrosion. I touch the fabric—it crumbles in my hands, leaving a brown dust on my fingers.
Next to the pressure suit, in the same chest, lies a small plastic case. It is surprisingly well preserved, neatly closed. I open it with a sinking heart. Inside… several vests with inscriptions written in an incomprehensible language, but one word is repeated several times: "resist-fire" (it seems?). But, alas, touching them, I realize that the material of the vests is also hopelessly damaged—it cracks and breaks like old plastic. Sadly. Another hope was shattered against the rusty reality of this ghost ship.
I feel the strength leaving me. Disappointment and fatigue roll over me in a wave. But I force myself not to give up. "A little more," I say to myself. "We need to inspect everything."
I inspect the far wall—there is only an empty niche and a pile of rusty metal debris. Nothing interesting.
Suddenly, in a gap in the wall, my attention is drawn to some kind of bag. It is stuck between the debris, and I pull it out with difficulty. And almost immediately I notice two objects inside, which, at first glance, may be useful. One is a gas mask. It looks quite reliable, but its connecting mechanism is broken. However, the filters seem to be intact. The second item is a respirator mask. Its mechanism is intact, but there are no filters, the mounts for them are broken, and the glass is cracked. I examine the finds more closely. Yes, my assumptions are confirmed. The respirator is almost completely destroyed, but some of its elements can be used to repair the mask. I put both finds in my already heavy backpack, noting in my head that now I need to get tools at all costs.
Further, rummaging through the debris in the niche, I come across a strange tool. It looks like… a cutter? Yes, it looks very similar to that thing from… a game about an engineer surviving on an abandoned station teeming with monsters, as if they crawled out of the movie "The Thing". But its power unit is completely decayed, having turned into dust, but the design itself seems to be intact. I grab the cutter. Instinct suggests that it might come in handy. Maybe I can fix it.
Now I have at least something that can be turned into a weapon or used to break down doors. This gives me new hope, a tiny spark in this pitch darkness. We need to move on. Let the pain tear my body apart, let hopelessness squeeze my throat in a death grip—I'm still not going to die in this damned metal tomb. I will get out of here. Whatever it costs.
I understand: there is no point in going further, the room ends. However, before returning back to the ladder, I notice another gap between the wall slabs, as if there is a passage to a separate section. I push my way there carefully, feeling the rusty metal scratching my skin. Inside—absolute darkness. I turn on the flashlight, and a beam of light pierces the musty air, snatching from the darkness an eerie picture that takes my breath away.
This is not just a compartment. This is a battlefield, an arena of titans, where the last, desperate battle took place.
In the middle of an improvised repair hangar, littered with debris and twisted metal, directly opposite a soot-covered technical installation, lie two dead giants. One is a combat suit, a colossus of metal and rage, the embodiment of power and destruction. The other is something that came from the depths of an alien nightmare, flesh and bone, intertwined with monstrous, unnatural mechanics.
The monster towers over the battlefield even in death, its huge carcass occupies almost half of the hangar. Its height is not less than five meters, maybe even more. Its body is a rough mess of intertwined, like ropes, muscle bundles, covered with chitinous growths, gleaming in the light of the фонаря, and shiny, pulsating biomechanical inserts, like living implants. Two powerful legs ending in clawed paws, capable, it seems, of tearing metal, and four arms, each armed with razor-sharp claws. And two long, segmented tails ending in bony spikes, one of which is broken at an unnatural angle, like a broken whip. One arm is missing from the shoulder, as if torn off by an explosion of monstrous power, the second—pierced the thick armor of the combat suit and plunged deep into the flesh of the dead pilot, holding him as if in a deadly embrace. The third is pressed to the floor, as if the creature was trying to hold on in the last moments of life, издавая a last, dying roar. The fourth—crushed the pilot's helmet, turning it into a bloody mess of metal and flesh.
But the creature paid a terrible price for its victory.
Its torn body is riddled with ragged holes, as if swarms of bullets from large-caliber machine guns had gnawed into it, leaving gaping wounds, and plasma shells had burned through, burning flesh to the bone. There is nothing left from the neck up. Instead of a head, there is a charred crater, as if burned out from the inside, going deep into the hangar wall, where there is a huge hole the size of a door, through which the pitch darkness is visible. Judging by the trajectory of the shot and the debris of armor scattered around, the combat suit fired last, in agony, gathering all the remaining strength. Too late to save the pilot from imminent death, but enough to tear off the damned creature's head… if it had a head in the usual sense of the word.
And the suit…
This is not just an exoskeleton. It is a walking artillery platform, a titan of war, clad in multi-layered armor capable of withstanding monstrous blows. The inscription, barely discernible on the burnt and twisted hull, reads: MK.V A symbol of power and unstoppable rage.
Almost three meters high, covered with smoky and melted armor plates, it seems to have been born from the very womb of war, forged in the fire of battle. The right arm is a monstrous weapon, a massive cannon resembling a field howitzer, with a complex system of stabilizers, thick, like snakes, intertwined cables, and ominous cooling fins that once emitted steam. It seems that she could have demolished not only the head, but also the building behind her, turning it into dust. The left one has three rotating barrels of a hellish machine-gun unit, capable of spewing thousands of bullets per minute, powered by wide ammunition belts, now lifelessly hanging, like a broken limb, devoid of life.
The legs are powerful, ending in something like manipulators, capable, it seems, of pushing through any surface. Complex hinges, hydraulic drives, stabilization rails, providing stability even on the most uneven surface. An ordinary person could not wear such a suit. Only something much larger, genetically modified or cybernetically enhanced. Or more deeply integrated with the machine, a symbiosis of flesh and metal, where the line between the living and the dead is blurred beyond recognition.
The helmet visor is pierced by the titanic paw of the monster, which went through the helmet and the pilot's head. The reactor unit on the back of the suit is burnt out and charred, as if struck by lightning, one of the thick cooling channels is jammed, the twisted metal sticks out like torn flesh. The pilot is missing his left arm—torn off along with part of his shoulder, it lies nearby, unnaturally twisted, like a broken doll, reminiscent of the cruelty of this battle. The armor on the torso is crushed and torn, like a tin can, where the clawed limb of the monster passed, leaving a deep mark not only in the metal, but also in the flesh, splashing the inside of the cabin with blood and mucus.
They killed each other. One fired in mortal agony, putting all his rage and despair into the last shot, the other—broke through the defense, driven by the instinct to kill. None survived.
This was not a battle. It was a ritual. An exchange of death, an offering to the gods of war, a bloody dance of steel and flesh.
I stand, barely breathing, leaning my back against the cold, damp wall. My legs are shaking, and my stomach is twisting into a tight, painful knot. This is not just a battlefield. This is a warning, carved in blood and metal, a reminder of the fragility of life and the inevitability of death.
I step back, backing away, unable to take my eyes off this silent monument to senseless war and rage. Instinct screams—run, survive at any cost, suddenly this creature will come to life now. But I see how death has already passed here, leaving behind only piles of twisted metal and steel, saturated with pain, despair and dying cries.
…Now it's definitely time to leave. I need to run away from this damned place before it takes me too.
But still, before finally leaving this cursed place, I approach the remains of the combat suit, as if fascinated by its destroyed power. Trying to see if there is anything useful left that could help me survive in this nightmare. The helmet is pierced, the control units are dead and melted, the armor is melted and deformed in places, as if it had been in the mouth of a volcano. It would seem that everything is hopeless. But when I'm about to turn around and leave, my gaze clings to a strange pictogram on the body of the right gun—a stylized lightning bolt, like a symbol of some long-forgotten military corporation or cult. Below is a narrow slot, covered by a deformed panel, through which the insides of a complex mechanism are visible.
With difficulty I pull myself up, leaning on the twisted armor of the suit, climb onto the burnt-out frame, feeling the fragments of metal and bones crunch under my feet. It smells of ancient burning, machine oil, ozone and old, dried blood, causing nausea. I raise my knife, pry open the deformed metal panel with it, feeling my fingers slide over the rusty metal. With a crunch, it gives way, opening access to the insides—a complex web of burnt-out electronics, burnt-out modules, melted bundles of wires and torn hydraulic hoses... But among all these charred remains I notice several rectangular blocks, neatly built into a special slot, protected by dampers.
I pull one out. With difficulty. Heavy, as if cast from a solid piece of metal. To the touch—a smooth metal case with ribbed heat sinks, emitting a faint heat, and tactile contacts. It looks like a powerful battery or energy module. I check the connector—it seems to be intact and undamaged. It fits the socket on the very cutter that I found earlier. My heart shrinks with hope, as if an icy hand has squeezed it. If I'm lucky, the cutter will work, and I'll have at least some chance to survive in this metal hell. I take out the second block, feeling a faint spark of hope ignite inside. The rest are burnt, they cannot even be pulled out of the molten sockets, they are firmly welded to the body. One of them crumbles in my fingers, turning into a pile of metal dust, like ash.
I go down to the other side, bypassing the twisted remains of the monster, trying not to look at its torn flesh. The left gun of the suit lies separately, torn off by an explosion of monstrous force. I examine it: a similar compartment for power units, but already damaged. But the lid is badly deformed and jammed. Neither a piece of pipe, nor a knife, nor even a crowbar helps. I try again and again, from different sides, wasting precious time, but to no avail. With annoyance I spit on the futile attempts and retreat, feeling fatigue and disappointment shackling my body. And so I found more than I expected, and this is already luck.
Before finally leaving, I take out one of the surviving batteries and take out the cutter from my backpack. My hands are shaking with tension and anticipation, as if I'm holding not just a tool, but fate itself. My heart is pounding in my chest, tapping out a tap dance on my ribs. I insert the power element into the connector on the cutter body and freeze in anticipation, holding my breath. A couple of long seconds—nothing happens. Only silence and tension. And then… a short electrical impulse runs through the body, making it vibrate slightly in my hands. Something clicks quietly inside, a faint mechanical sound is heard, and a barely noticeable LED lights up, blinking with a dim light, like a faint spark of life. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the shivers running through my body: so, the power is on. I carefully press the main trigger, feeling my fingers slide over the cold metal. I hear the starting mechanism start inside, accelerating with a quiet, growing buzz, like a waking beast. And in the next moment there is a sharp activation sound, like a short crack of lightning, piercing the silence of the hangar.
A thin, trembling beam extends from the front block of the cutter, resembling a line of bluish-white light, like a miniature lightning bolt that has broken free. It hums, emitting a tangible tension and heat. I jerk my hand away sharply, feeling a slight tingling on my skin: warm, but not deadly. I carefully run the beam over a piece of metal lying nearby. It instantly melts on a tangent, leaving a thin, glowing trail, as if someone had drawn it with a white-hot razor, leaving behind a thin haze.
I press the second trigger, fixing the beam and stabilizing it. Now it's not just a weapon for self-defense. This is a tool. A cutter. Real. Powerful. Dangerous. Capable of cutting metal like butter. I barely hold back a triumphant laugh, feeling a hot wave of triumph and relief spreading inside: it works. I'm alive. And I have a chance to get out.
Trying to conserve power, I turn off the cutter, feeling the beam extinguish, leaving behind only a faint smell of ozone. One charged battery is a chance for survival, a faint hope in this bleak place. Two is already a serious tool that can help me get out of this cursed tomb, cutting my way through metal and darkness. Now I am definitely not unarmed. Now I have a chance.
I realize: there's no point in going further, the room ends. I return back to the ladder. I take a couple of steps, and suddenly freeze, my whole body tensing: did it seem to me, or did I actually hear a faint, barely audible rustling? The sound was strange, muffled, as if someone had carelessly pulled on a long metal beam, and it had touched the neighboring structures.
Instinctively, I freeze, gripping the handle of the knife tighter in my sweaty palm. My heart is pounding in my chest with such force that it seems like it's about to burst out. I slowly turn off the flashlight, plunging myself into a thick twilight, trying to make out at least something in this oppressive darkness. Every nerve is on edge. A few long, agonizing moments of absolute, ringing silence hang in the air. Maybe it's just a trick of my imagination? Hallucinations caused by fever and exhaustion? Or did I accidentally touch something when I passed by?
I wait for half a minute, holding my breath, ready at any moment to take off, run, or engage in a desperate fight. But no one appears. No sounds. I have to exhale with difficulty, trying to calm the trembling, and slowly, cautiously continue on my way. Maybe it really did just seem like something? Or is this damned poisoning starting to play tricks on me, slipping me deceptive sounds and visions?
With the utmost caution, I climb back up the creaking ladder, every step echoing with a loud groan of rusty metal. The thought obsessively pulsates in my head: "If those creatures hear this hellish noise, I'm done for. They'll come, sensing prey, like predators." But there is no choice. I have to move forward, despite the fear. And finally, I'm at the top, in a relatively familiar corridor. With relief, I turn around and head back to that very ill-fated turn from where I descended into this cursed lower section.
At some point, I begin to notice that it is unbearably difficult to breathe. The air seems to thicken around me, enveloping me in a dense, suffocating shroud. I am catastrophically short of oxygen, my lungs are burning with fire. Maybe some sections of this ghost ship are more or less ventilated, but here, in the depths, poisonous gases accumulate? An icy wave of panic washes over me. Yes, it's poisoning. And it's progressing with every minute. My head is spinning, everything is floating before my eyes, the cough is becoming more and more violent and painful, tearing my chest from the inside.
With hands trembling from weakness, I barely manage to find one of the ampoules with an illegible marking, vaguely resembling "anti..." in my pocket (or is it still in my backpack?). Maybe it's an antidote? An antidote to one of the countless toxic substances that permeate this cursed place? I don't have time to think and guess now. It certainly won't get any worse, I think. Either inject it, or suffocate in agony. With trembling fingers, I extract a strange syringe from the ampoule, peering at its body. Some incomprehensible inscriptions-pictograms, crossed bones... Or is it a warning of danger? Or maybe it's a sign indicating that the contents are intended to combat toxins?
"Whatever happens, happens..." I whisper with my lips, trying to give myself courage, and with a sharp movement I inject the contents of the ampoule into my forearm.
For a couple of seconds I feel only a stabbing pain at the injection site, then a cold sweat slightly breaks through, covering my skin with a sticky sweat. My whole body is tense to the limit. I'm on edge, ready for any turn of events. But a minute, maybe two, passes, and I begin to notice strange changes. The cough seems to calm down a bit, ceases to be so racking, and my head stops spinning so wildly, allowing me to focus my gaze at least a little. Maybe it worked. Maybe I snatched a few more minutes or hours of life from fate. I feel a strange, mixed gratitude and anxiety. Of course, I may later discover some terrible side effect, but now it has become a little easier to breathe, and that's the main thing.
From the experienced tension and the struggle for every breath, I am completely exhausted. I feel like I've run a marathon without sleeping for several days. Staggering, I try to return to the cabin that I chose as a temporary shelter, walking through the already familiar corridors. I navigate by my own marks left on the walls. Yes, I didn't bother and scratched the rusty plating in some places along the way with a knife, so as not to get lost in this labyrinth.
While I was wandering through these gloomy corridors, the thought of that strange "data bank" that I found came up again in my head. Maybe it's worth studying it? A spark of curiosity is born inside, flaring up stronger and stronger. But common sense and fatigue prevail. Now I need to lie down and try to regain my strength. Tomorrow will be a new day, full of dangers and unknowns.
Here, finally, I reached the familiar corridor and with relief recognized the door I needed. Gritting my teeth from pain, I lean on the rusty wall, trying not to lose consciousness. And suddenly I notice a strange detail. My "ringing traps", a primitive alarm system that I installed at the entrance to the cabin, are slightly shifted. How?! Did someone or something rummage here while I was gone? While I was away? A wave of sticky, paralyzing fear instantly overwhelms me, poisoning the already meager remnants of my strength.
I listen, straining my hearing to the limit. But a sinister silence still reigns around. Maybe I accidentally touched them myself when I left? Or a gust of wind wandering through the ghost ship? I can't remember exactly, my memory is poisoned by pain and fatigue. But, it seems, the door is not broken, and there are no signs of intrusion. Gathering the remnants of my courage, I still cautiously enter inside, holding the knife in front of me as a last resort. It's empty inside. The flashlight slides over the walls, snatching familiar outlines of objects from the darkness. Everything seems to be in place, nothing has been touched.
Just in case, I knock on the doorframe several times with my knife, checking if any of the monsters have hidden behind the nearest corner or in a dark corner. Silence. Phew. I guess I'm starting to get paranoid. But it's better to be safe than sorry. I go inside, put down my already battered backpack again, and cover the entrance with improvised means, blocking it with the found iron plates.
"Okay," I whisper to myself with my lips, trying to cheer myself up. "I've lasted a little longer... And that's already a small victory."
I glance at my damaged ankle. It is badly swollen, taking on a threatening bluish tint. Damn. It seems I seriously injured it. Maybe I should apply something cold to it to reduce the inflammation. But where will I get cold in this cursed metal crypt? Bad. Very bad. On top of that, my ribs are still echoing with hellish agony with every movement, although the painkiller from the syringe has dulled the pain a bit.
A sharp, all-consuming fatigue rolls over me. The whole world narrows to the size of this cabin. I shoot my eyes around the room, trying to make sure that I am alone here. It seems like no one is here. With relief, I lean against the cold wall, slowly sliding down until I am on the floor. I fold my dusty cloak under my head, instead of a pillow, and settle down as comfortably as possible on this hard metal floor. I decide that I need to try to study this damn "data bank". Maybe there is some useful information there. Gathering my strength, I sit up straighter and take the device in my hands. It seems to have a small screen (a black rectangular panel) and several touch zones located around it. I try to press in several places at random. Nothing happens. The screen remains dead. No power? Maybe it needs a special battery to work?
I try to open the back cover of the device, hoping to find a power compartment. It doesn't give in easily, as if welded to the body. But I don't give up. With a knife, I pry open the edge and tear it off with force. Oh, I see a cell inside for a small cylindrical power source. Empty. Then I remember that I don't have anything like this available, and attempts to connect this device to a larger battery will most likely lead to its final breakdown. With a sigh of longing, I set the "data bank" aside. So, I need to find a suitable power element. Maybe someday... If I ever get out of here.
Okay, now is not the time for that. I set the device aside. I take out my trusty knife and a couple of found flares, and put them next to me, within arm's reach. I take out my last two syringes with an incomprehensible liquid from my backpack, wondering if I should risk and inject them. There is no strength to guess what it is. The risk is too great. I close my eyes, desperately dreaming of normal sleep, a soft bed, and silence.
I realize that this day (or cycle?) has flown by with frightening speed. It seems like I just woke up, and I'm already going to spend the night again in this cursed place. But perhaps I lost track of time, wandering through these endless corridors, losing consciousness and fighting for my life. My internal clock is completely broken, turning into a chaotic set of impulses.
I start to suffocate again from a painful cough, covering my mouth with a piece of dirty rag to at least muffle it a little. It seems that the poison has not completely left my body, or the air in this cursed place is poisonous in itself, and the "antidote" only temporarily alleviated my suffering. I must find a source of fresh air, try to fix this damn mask, or somehow get out of this metal trap. But I am too weak now. Too exhausted.
From pain and exhaustion, my eyes begin to double, the world blurs, losing clear outlines. With difficulty, I take a small sip of water from the dented can, cursing its disgusting, metallic taste. I once again scroll through my plans for tomorrow in my head. "Tomorrow—further, look for an alternative exit. I need to find the airlocks, or maybe a hangar, to try to determine where we are and if there is any chance of salvation."
With these thoughts, I put my head on my backpack, instead of a pillow, and pull my cloak over myself, trying to wrap my legs and chest to at least warm myself in this cursed cold. I hope that I won't freeze to death tonight, and that no one will break in here to finish me off in my sleep.
My breathing becomes heavy and intermittent. My chest is stabbing, as if someone is driving red-hot needles into it, my throat is sore and burning with fire. I climb deeper under the cloak, trying to hide from the cold and fear, tightly clutching a knife in my hand, ready to stir at the first alarming sound. I don't know how much longer I have to live in this cursed place. But I will cling to every second, to every opportunity to survive. Only this way.
My eyes are closing from fatigue and exhaustion. I hear a dull groan of metal beyond this room, as if the ship itself is moaning in pain. Somewhere in the distance, drip-drip-drip... the monotonous sound of dripping water can be heard. A hum, maybe it's the howling of the wind in the twisted corridors. I repeat to myself, like a mantra, fragments of phrases from my past life:
"I will manage. I will not die here. I will get out."
I grind my teeth from impotent rage, mentally addressing my parents, my father and mother, left somewhere far away, in another world:
"Dad, Mom... I will do everything possible to survive. I will find a way to get out of this cursed place. I promise you."
And imperceptibly I plunge into the muddy abyss of restless slumber, embracing my black knife as my only friend and protector, ready to stir at the first alarming sound. Yes, I am in the dark, almost a hostage to my own despair and horror. But as long as my heart is still beating, I am still here. I'm still alive.
I don't know who sent me to this cursed place and why. I don't know if I will ever be able to find a way out of this labyrinth of steel and darkness. But I want to believe that as long as I am able to step over fear and move on, I have a tiny chance of salvation.
I will definitely try. I just can't do otherwise. This is all I have left.
With this thought, curled up on the hard floor, trying to muffle the painful cough, I fall asleep for real for the second time in this rusty hell. And even though hopelessness and despair reign around me, I hope that tomorrow I can step even further along these cursed corridors... And something, finally, will change.