Through the Distant Universe

In another cabin—narrow and half-buried under debris—I begin searching the corners almost mechanically. The dim beam of my flashlight catches ghostly silhouettes. Each step elicits a sickening crunch. The air smells of dampness and something sour and decayed. Near the far wall stands a mangled bed frame. Below it is a sliding compartment. I cautiously pry it open with my knife. With a faint screech, a bundle sealed in cracked, grimy plastic slides out. I bring the flashlight closer: it's clearly not just rags. Carefully tearing away the plastic, which crumbles in my hands, I reveal clothing—intact, not moldy, merely dusty. I pull out the first items and, barely suppressing a cry of joy, realize they are military-grade pants with reinforced patches, heavy but sturdy. Next comes a shirt with reinforced chest panels, a long coat with armored shoulder pads, gloves, protective goggles, and even a balaclava.

"Unbelievable…" I whisper, assessing whether they might fit me.

Apparently, someone had packed this gear in a hermetic bag that tore over time. Fortunately, the fabric has survived. I test the material by squeezing it—durable, likely a dense synthetic. The pants and shirt could protect against cuts and cold, while the coat seems designed for shoulder protection, possibly even against shrapnel. But put them on now? I'm delirious, the space is cramped, and changing would be suicidal. The noise could attract unwanted guests. Besides, the coat's long hem might snag. Too risky. I decide to stuff this "treasure" into my backpack. Grunting and trying not to strain my rib, I cram the clothes in. My side throbs with pain. Emerging from the tiny cabin, I pause at the threshold, checking the bandage on my ankle and fighting dizziness. The backpack is heavier now, its weight digging into my shoulder.

Soon, I move along the corridor again. It twists and branches. I encounter signs of destruction: holes in the walls, as if burned by weapons or energy blasts. I see melted patches and, in places, bizarre diagonal scratches—marks resembling those of enormous claws. The thought sends my heart sinking: I imagine monsters scaling the walls, tearing through metal like foil. Finally, I reach massive doors that look sturdy but are now wrenched open, as if by a giant hand, along with part of the bulkhead. The sheer force required is terrifying. Beyond the threshold lies a spacious compartment—likely a command center or similar. Indeed, in the distance, I see the remains of control panels, broken consoles, and screens.

I take a few steps, and my courage evaporates. Scattered everywhere are remains—not just bodies but dried or gnawed skeletons clad in fragments of armor. Some chest plates are torn open, exposing protruding ribs. The walls are streaked with thick, dark stains—possibly blood, faded and blackened over centuries. I swallow the lump in my throat, battling rising nausea.

I want to run, but I must check for anything useful. Approaching a body in mangled armor, I touch it, and the metal crumbles into rusty flakes, the bones collapsing into dust. I shudder.

"Sorry…" I whisper, recoiling.

A little farther, I spot a corpse in higher-quality armor. A black cloak lies over it, embroidered with an emblem resembling rays radiating from a star. But the head is missing: the helmet lies nearby, along with a jawbone. I force myself to approach and touch the cloak. It seems made of durable fibers woven with metallic thread, insulated inside. It could serve as a warm cape or blanket. This is the first item from this nightmarish world I decide to claim. As if accepting a challenge, I become part of this environment. I quickly pull the cloak off, avoiding the remains as much as possible.

"Sorry," I whisper, averting my gaze, "and thank you…"

I fold the cloak into my backpack. It's getting bulkier, weighing me down, but these items could mean the difference between life and death. I notice a military backpack at the feet of the fallen officer. Opening it, I find rotted explosives—useless. I discard them. But the backpack itself is sturdier than mine, with more pockets. I transfer my scavenged items to it. While doing so, I spot a small rectangular device near the corpse's hand—a "data bank" or "personal terminal." The bones snap as I pry open the cold fingers. The device is intact. Perhaps I can charge it and learn something about the ship.

As I tuck the device into the new backpack, my flashlight catches a knife lying nearby among armor fragments. I pick it up: the blade is black, as if it absorbs light. I test it against a metal bulkhead, and it leaves deep scratches, cutting like butter. Impressive and unsettling. This knife… it's unlike anything from my world. Cold, razor-sharp, it feels almost inhuman. Its weight carries a strange energy.

Touching the blade sends a chill up my arm. This is my first real "weapon." I hope I won't have to use it, but in this place, any defense is vital.

I glance around, and my stomach drops: piles of skeletons, scraps of flesh, severed limbs. One corpse has a chest cavity ripped open, as if clawed from the inside. It's so horrifying my mind struggles to process it. Perhaps this was a final slaughter. Or they were eaten. Or both.

After thoroughly searching the bridge, I find nothing particularly valuable. Weapons have crumbled to dust, ammunition turned to powder, devices destroyed. Only a cylindrical container on the headless officer's belt catches my eye. I open it with a creak and find several injectors and ampoules marked with cryptic symbols: a lightning bolt, a blood drop, a medical cross… Likely a combat kit, from stimulants to hemostatics. A valuable find.

"This could save my life…" I whisper, examining an injector in the flashlight's beam.

I take the entire kit and, struggling to catch my breath, survey the scene: shattered consoles, heaps of debris, black stains on the walls. Everything here is dead. A wave of dread creeps into my heart, as if this compartment has absorbed all hope.

"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 prowl there. I need a safer sector or another exit. I take one last look at this death-soaked command center: it disgusts me, but I can't afford squeamishness—I've taken everything that might help. Fear gnaws at me from within, warning that things will only get worse. But I have no choice. I grip the black knife, adjust the backpack strap, and cautiously step out, carrying the weight of what I've seen. My back feels the empty gazes of the soldiers' skulls.

"I hope you didn't die in vain," I think, crossing the threshold. "These things… they'll help me survive."

I trudge through the corridors on stiff legs: each step sparks searing pain in my ankle, and my cracked rib hinders breathing. I stifle coughs into a clenched fist. At times, I duck through crumpled bulkheads or climb over piles of metal plates. Every shadow seems a threat, and I keep turning, knife at the ready. Small compartments along the corridor yield nothing but rusted junk. When I find an armory, my heart leaps, but it's futile: only useless debris remains, as if it was blown apart.

Finally, the corridor widens and curves into a semicircle. I spot a cabin door to the side, almost untouched by this hellish place's standards. My scratched hands and the throbbing pain in my side remind me: exhaustion is turning me into a wreck. I need shelter and a moment to rest.

Approaching, I see the door is broken but can be propped back up with metal sheets to clatter if someone tries to enter. In the corridor, I pile debris to make noise at any intruder's step—a makeshift alarm. The cabin is tiny: a rotted bunk to the left, a flipped narrow table to the right. The floor is sticky and foul, black-brown—perhaps machine oil or organic remains. Fine cracks run across the ceiling, but no holes lead outside. At least there's no direct passage. The place is grim, but better than the corridor. This is my temporary refuge, my tiny fortress in this vast, rusted wasteland. Here, in this fetid corner, I can briefly imagine no one will find me.

With a weary exhale, I slip back into the corridor to arrange metal scraps before the door. Returning inside, I toss the officer's cloak onto the rusted bunk frame. It smells of stale metal, but it's better than lying on the thoroughly rotted mattress. My throat burns again, a cough clawing its way out. I pull the second water can from my backpack—the one I saved for "later." I take a few sips: the taste is vile, but it slightly eases the thirst. The murky bitterness sears my stomach, and a chill runs through me. My head aches, a fever creeping in. My fingers tremble. My gaze falls on the syringes and ampoules. Fear grips me: what if it's poison? I'm still breathing, so I'll wait.

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 burning my lungs from within. And I'm forced to breathe this suffocating air. I need proper rest, or I'll lose my mind. Feeling my broken rib, I realize it needs urgent stabilization. I tear my shredded shirt into strips.

I bind my chest with the makeshift bandage. Every touch is fire under my skin. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. But the rib is slightly stabilized. Slowly, barely breathing, I lower myself onto the bunk. The metal frame creaks. My ankle burns, but I can stretch my legs. I cover myself with the cloak. My mind swirls with jumbled images: home, parents, friends, university… it all feels so distant, unreal. My eyes sting, tears welling up.

This world, filled with death and grotesque monsters, clashes with my normal life. I grip the knife, feeling its cold weight. This artifact from this new world is my only companion. I press against the wall, instinctively seeking the darkest corner, like a predator nursing wounds. I huddle with the knife in my arms. I lack the strength to flee, so I'd have to fight to the death. The thought of slitting my throat flickers, but I dismiss it instantly. Something creaks in the corridor—maybe the wind, maybe a creature stalking. Each new sound makes my heart race. I press a cloth to my lips to stay silent. It grows cold. I wrap myself tighter in the cloak, clutching the backpack to my chest. A feverish thought: I might have caught an infection. My strength ebbs, sleep pulling me under.

I try to find a position where the rib hurts less and close my eyes. The moment my eyelids shut, images of mutilated corpses, gaping voids, and hideous claws flash in my mind. I try to banish these nightmares, but my sick mind eagerly blends memories of friends and family with scenes of slaughter. In every half-sleep, I slip into visions of home, only to wake in a stifled scream, clutching the knife. Finally, painful apathy and weakness take over. I make a desperate choice: I take an injector marked with a symbol resembling a screaming face—possibly a painkiller. I inject it into my thigh, close my eyes, and wait. My head spins, my chest burns with nausea.

"Don't kill me…" I plead silently.

But after a few minutes, the pain in my side dulls, as if a curtain has been drawn over glowing coals. I surrender.

"Thank you…" I whisper.

I don't know to whom—fate or the dead officer.

Sleep washes over me like a wave, embracing me with icy fingers. I sink into it in fragments, jolting awake from coughs or imagined noises at the door. Deep in my mind, fear lingers: what if a creature tears through the sheets, and I wake to an inhuman screech? But my exhausted body gives in: my eyelids grow heavy, my limbs turn to cotton.

At last, I slip into a deeper, fitful sleep—perhaps for an hour, maybe more. The feverish ache in my body softens. My chest wheezes, but the painkiller does its job. My thoughts blur and slip, but I'm alive, still breathing. All this time, my fingers clutch the knife's handle, my last anchor to reality. I know: if I survive until "tomorrow," I'll have to move on—find food, water, an exit. Maybe I'll locate a generator and activate some ship systems. Just so long as I don't become someone's meal. But that's for later.

In the darkness, accompanied by my own ragged breathing, I finally sink into a deep, painful sleep, which, strangely, brings the long-awaited, if uneasy, oblivion.