Through the Distant Universe

It feels as though I have woken up countless times, yet I have never truly slept. I only slip into a painful oblivion, from which I am mercilessly yanked back by either a piercing screech somewhere beyond the wall or the icy metal biting into my cheek. Inside me is a dreadful, crushing emptiness, as if I am dissolving into fragments, turning to dust amidst this endless junkyard. Each breath I take fills me with regret: my ribs on the left side are pierced with pain, as if someone shot me directly in the chest and then twisted a red-hot knife. My throat scratches, and a cough tears its way out, slicing my lungs as though they were filled with shards of broken glass. My eyes water, and the air carries not only the taste of rust and moldy decay but also the sensation of inhaling fine metallic filings that seep into every corner of my body.

I am still here. In this diabolical, foul place. Every minute spent here only confirms: this is reality, not a nightmare.

When my memory begins to clear, fragments resurface, making everything worse. Just yesterday—or was it the day before?—I was celebrating my acceptance to MIT. The warm voices still echo in my mind: my mother, radiant with pride; my father, urging me to "prove to yourself you can stand when the world crumbles." Felicia Green's face, her laughter, our conversations about the future, about where everyone was headed. And then—a flash. That sudden, unbearably white light, like lightning splitting the sky. I remember the deafening sound, the hysterical screams around me, and then—a jolt that ripped through my chest, turning my insides upside down. After that—absolute void. And now, I am here, in this iron hell, alone. Alone against this world, against this pain, against this rotting hope.

Each time I recall that flash, my past, my friends, a wave of overwhelming helplessness washes over me. Yesterday, I was an ordinary guy, making plans for the future, surrounded by family and friends. Today, I am a broken, hunted beast trapped in a cage. The feeling of absolute, cosmic loneliness weighs heavier than the tons of metal around me. I don't know where I am, why I'm here, or how to escape. Nothing remains but myself, this horrific, gnawing pain, and the realization that the world I knew is gone. Perhaps forever.

My ankle has swollen even more, now a dark purple. Even through the fabric of my pants, I can feel the heat radiating from the sprain, with pulsating pain shooting through it. The slightest movement of my foot, even a mere shift in weight, triggers an instant, blinding flash of pain that surges from my ankle up my spine, searing every nerve. I don't want to scream: I'm afraid that even a faint sound might attract someone—or something—from those creatures, and they'll come again. Leaning against the cold steel wall, I carefully shift my weight, trying not to press on the cracked rib. It's definitely broken, or at least severely fractured: every deep breath sends a sharp pain through my left side, echoing with a dull thud in my lungs.

My body feels foreign, clumsy, as if it has betrayed me, leaving me utterly helpless. If only I had painkillers, any kind of medication… I'm no doctor, but my mother, a nurse by training, sometimes explained how to handle rib injuries. Now, those scraps of knowledge are all I have—meager crumbs of information in this vast desert of ignorance.

"Mom… Dad…" The words escape me in a faint, broken whisper, lost in the stench. "Damn it…"

I try not to think that they might have been hurt too. Or worse, killed. Maybe I'm the only one who vanished? Maybe my home is fine, and I was pulled into this insane, deadly world at the last moment? This thought—a strange, irrational hope—clings to my mind like a drowning man to a straw. The moment of the flash replays in my head in vivid detail: I blinked, and then I woke up amidst twisted scrap metal. I hear the echo of those creatures' footsteps again, their metallic scraping. When I first arrived here and climbed out of the pile of debris, those shambling silhouettes attacked me—like animated skeletons clad in rusted flesh. Their empty eyes burned with hunger, and shards of metal protruded from beneath tattered skin. I don't understand how such a thing is even possible. But I saw it with my own eyes, and it was undeniably real.

Since I barricaded myself in this narrow compartment, time seems to have frozen. I may have slipped into oblivion three or four times, but I haven't truly slept. A sharp coughing fit, unbearable pain, or the all-consuming fear that those monsters might return keeps waking me. The air here is so saturated with a revolting stench that I'm nearly constantly nauseous, and my throat burns more intensely, as if being corroded by acid. It's likely a toxic mix of industrial chemicals, rot, and some ancient compounds. My lungs burn as if scorched alive. My head spins, thoughts tangle, and at times it feels like time slows down or speeds up, making reality even more unstable, surreal. One thing is clear: if I stay here forever, I won't last long. I need water, some kind of medicine, and, most importantly, a safer shelter. Through the trembling and pain, I force myself to stand.

I must move. Every cell in my body screams in agony, begging me to stop, to curl up and wait for the end. But a cold, persistent inner voice whispers, "Move. Even if it hurts. If you stop, you die." If I stay here, the poison in the air or an infection from my wounds will finish me faster than the monsters. It's unbearable, but it's my only chance to survive.

Carefully bracing myself with my right hand, I rise, clenching my lips tightly as my left ankle erupts in 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. If someone pushes from the outside, it'll collapse in a second, and I'm done for.

Limping, I take a few steps along the warped steel corridor. The dim light of a keychain flashlight—how did it even end up in my pocket? It must've been a gift from Blake at that fateful party—reveals the grotesque outlines of the walls: everything is rusted, some parts twisted as if torn apart. It resembles a corridor inside a massive ship, reduced to mere sections. Jagged bulkheads protrude from the sides, bent beams stick out, and above, I see warped, rusted frameworks. How I ended up inside some kind of spaceship is beyond comprehension. But I don't have time to theorize. I need to explore. Maybe I'll find a ramp, an exit, or something like supplies, medicine?

I sink to my knees again—my legs give out from pain and weakness. My ears ring, my head feels cottony from dehydration. The thirst is strangling me, every cell in my body screaming for water. I need to find some kind of liquid. Otherwise, it'll all end quickly. Through the haze in my mind, I recall family gatherings, the table always stocked with clean water, apple juice, cola… such trivial things I never realized were so vital—simply having access to clean water. I remember my mother meticulously packing a first-aid kit for a camping trip, explaining the purpose of every vial and bandage. I want to scream at the injustice, but I have to hold back. If there's no water here, I'll die. From thirst. Not from a monster. Not from a bullet. Just from thirst.

Gathering my strength, I try to move forward. My flashlight glides over the metal floor of the corridor. In some places, it's corroded, forming pits that exude cold and decay. I can't gauge their depth—just pure darkness, stirring with ghostly shadows, as if someone is watching from below. I stick to the more intact panels, walking a fine line between salvation and falling into the unknown.

After about fifteen minutes of feeble shuffling, I notice a strange sign on the wall: it's hard to make out through the rust and streaks of paint, but the letters "MED" are clear enough. The symbols are framed by unfamiliar, alien hieroglyphs. My heart pounds, a tiny, almost unreal spark of hope igniting in my chest: I have no idea what kind of ship this is or who it belongs to, but "MED" surely means "medical bay." There might be something useful there—bandages, medicine, water… anything to prolong my agony.

The door, which presumably leads inside, is crumpled like an accordion, its tracks misaligned. I examine it from the side: the edges are coated in rust, and in some places, strange dark crystals have settled, resembling dried mold. I touch the door's seam—my fingers immediately get smeared with grime that makes my teeth ache. I need to try opening it. But it looks immovable, as if the metal is firmly stuck and rusted shut. Looking down, I spot a piece of rebar on the floor, about the length of my forearm. I pick it up. It's heavy, rough, encrusted with rust. But it's better than nothing. I wedge it under the door's bottom edge and start prying, leaning with my back. Every centimeter gained comes at a cost—my chest tightens with pain, and the rebar, coated in rusty dust, slips in my sweaty palms. Each jerk sends a jolt through my cracked rib: I want to scream, but I bite my lips until they bleed and endure. A horrific metallic screech grates my ears, fine rust flakes fall, landing on my face and tongue, the bitter taste of iron amplifying my nausea. My eyes water—whether from pain or dust, I can't tell; it's all merged into one endless torment.

After what feels like an eternity, the door shifts a couple of centimeters, forming a narrow gap. It's barely enough for me to squeeze through sideways, sucking in my stomach. At one point, a sharp metal edge tears my shirt at the shoulder, scratching my skin, and I feel a thin trickle of blood. I hiss in pain but slip inside. The sight beyond the door makes me shut my eyes for a moment: the medical bay looks more like a battlefield or a lab obliterated by a nuclear blast. Everything is warped and dead, as if centuries have passed. Rows of cabinets lie toppled, tangled wires dangle from somewhere, the walls are streaked with dark stains of unknown origin, and overhead, bent structural ribs protrude like gnawed bones. It smells of dampness, rot, and something sharp and chemical, as if vapors are seeping from ancient, long-damaged tanks. I take a cautious, shallow breath, knowing the air here might be even more toxic than in the corridor. For a moment, my head spins from the suffocating odor, and my eyes tear up. 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, dead place.

I move slowly, feeling my way along each surface, trying to discern what's intact, what can be used. I approach the first toppled cabinet, brushing its edge; it sends a handful of shattered glass vials crashing down. Some break underfoot, releasing a new wave of stench: spoiled reagents, congealed into repulsive clumps. I cover my mouth, trying not to inhale the poison, but notice that some vials are intact. They're small, colorful ampoules covered in symbols I can barely read—"paink"? "antib"? It's impossible to tell by sight, and that's terrifying. But I'm too exhausted, too desperate to be picky. I carefully tuck the ampoules into my pocket, trying not to break them. A survival algorithm kicks in: what's vital? Water. What can help with pain and infection? Medicine, antiseptics, bandages. Everything else is dead weight, slowing me down and draining my last strength.

The cabinets along the bay's perimeter are tilted, their paint peeled, and their doors coated in a thick layer of dust resembling gray moss. I spot dubious scraps of rubber on the floor—likely remnants of medical gloves, long rotted away. Everything has decayed from time and moisture. I gingerly push the scraps aside, hoping to find something intact. I come across a shattered capsule storage unit—inside, there's dried slime, remnants of evaporated substances. Once, this might have held medicine; now, only traces of powder remain at the bottom, a reminder of what was. Then my gaze catches two metal cans, less corroded than the rest. A label reads: "H2O Emerg…". A shiver runs down my spine: this is likely an emergency water supply. Maybe it's gone bad over centuries, contaminated, but I'm so desperately thirsty I'd drink from a sewage puddle.

My hands tremble as I pry open the edge of a can with a piece of scrap metal. With a faint, ominous pop, a repulsive, moldy smell escapes, twisting my stomach. I pinch my nose but take a cautious sip of the murky, dark liquid, burning my throat with its bitter, metallic taste. My throat spasms, my body protests, trying to expel the filth, but I force down a second swallow.

"Sorry, Mom," I mutter, the acrid taste of rot and death lingering on my tongue. "I know this is madness… but I have to survive."

The thirst eases slightly, my lips less parched. There's another can—I carefully tuck it into a small backpack I find by the wall. It's probably medical too, once strapped to the wall, but now only mold-covered straps remain. I shake it off and decide it's better than carrying things in my hands.

I rummage through the wall-mounted drawers. Some are so rotted that touching them makes the lids crumble with a soft rustle. But I find something crucial: a few syringes in sealed packaging. The labels have incomprehensible pictograms, but I make out "paink-" (painkiller?), "antibio-" (antibiotic?), and something like "stim-ul…" (stimulator?). It's dubious, terrifying, but I have no choice—I take them. A sudden cramp seizes my side, and I slump against the wall, the pain stabbing my ribs. I desperately need something to dull the pain… but I'm too scared to try unknown chemicals that could be poison. In one cabinet, I find what looks like bandages. The top layers disintegrate into dust at a touch, but deeper inside, there's a denser bundle. With effort, I extract it—likely multilayered dressings, partially intact. If cleaned, they might be usable.

Before leaving, I decide to disinfect my right hand, cut by a rusty plate in the corridor. With shaking hands, I open an ampoule of clear liquid, hoping it's an antiseptic and not something worse. I soak a scrap of fabric and press it to the wound. It burns fiercely, and I nearly drop everything, cursing under my breath through gritted teeth. It smells sharp, like alcohol, but who knows. It's my only option. I quickly plug the cut with a piece of bandage, wrapping it sloppily.

I realize my ankle is a problem too: it's so swollen I can barely stand. Using a scrap of fabric and old bandages, I fashion a makeshift splint over my pant leg. The pain is excruciating, but it might stabilize the joint slightly. Every movement leaves me drenched in sweat, my rib flaring with agony. I sit on 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 in the far corner with a broken lid. Lifting it with the rebar, my heart races: inside are several cylindrical objects in sealed packaging, resembling flares that could provide bright light or a signal.

"Hell yes," I think. "This could be valuable."

I stuff them into the backpack, though a nagging fear warns that light might attract even worse creatures. But it's better to have something than to remain completely helpless.

Finally, I leave the grim infirmary, squeezing back through the crumpled door. In the corridor, the metal creaks and groans under my new, makeshift exoskeleton. There are no signs of living things—just a faint draft stirring rusty dust that settles on my tongue. I move slowly, as every second taxes my battered, tormented body. But, as terrifying as it is, a tiny spark of hope flickers: there's something to find here, even if it's in deplorable condition.

I continue down the corridor into the thickening gloom. I imagine something lurking behind every bulkhead, ready to leap from the shadows, but there are no sounds, no traces.

Yet, the deeper I go, the clearer the signs of battle become. At first, it's just scratches on the walls, as if something heavy was dragged in haste or clawed by talons. Then deeper gouges appear, like marks from claws or sharp blades. On the floor, there are stains—not just rust but dark, dried smears resembling blood. Finally, I stumble upon undeniable evidence: a bulkhead pierced through, the metal around the hole bent outward, with signs of melting from something powerful.

I come across a row of small cabins, all open, either empty or in complete chaos—broken bunks, metal gashes in the floor, remains… In one room, I spot a bare bone protruding from rags—once a human skeleton. My heart sinks, my stomach churns. It's unbearable to look at, fear crashing over me in waves, threatening to drown me entirely.

The deeper I venture into the corridor, the stronger the realization: a battle was fought here. And where there was a fight, there must be… weapons.

Limping and fighting terror, I leave the remnants of the medical bay, like a soldier staggering from a battlefield where I managed to scavenge supplies. One thought dominates my mind: "Don't die. Hold on a little longer. And—find a weapon… find a way to fight back."