Through the Distant Universe

In a half-dream, I sense something scraping beyond the door—a dry, lingering sound, like claws dragging across metal, a memory of pain seared into my skin. I seize the knife instinctively, the motion automatic, a spasm born of a hunted animal's reflex. Then… silence. Only a faint hum and rustle within my skull. Perhaps it's merely my fevered mind. Perhaps something was there. It doesn't matter. I'm too exhausted to distinguish reality from delirium.

I place the knife beside me, its handle turned toward me, a sole emblem of control amidst this chaos. I try to relax, forcing myself to breathe quietly, inconspicuously. A cough rises, muffled, wet, and wrenching; I clamp my hand over my mouth, stifling it as if my life depends on it. My forehead burns, sticky sweat trickles down my temples, leaving salty trails. The painkiller dulls the physical agony, but not the anxiety gnawing at my core.

I awaken to absolute silence, as if reality itself holds its breath to avoid stirring death. The trembling persists, embedded in every cell of my body. My eyelids are heavy, yet my body feels slightly lighter, as if relieved of a few pounds of rusted metal. The calm is illusory, but it's something. I run my fingers across my cheek—grime, sweat, and crusted blood. Wiping my hand on the cloak only deepens the disgust. My thoughts leap: water, warmth, cleanliness… the luxury of my parents' home, where a hot shower was always waiting.

How long have I been here? I don't know. Morning never comes. The light filtering through the hull's breaches remains unchanged, as if this world is devoid of time itself.

I rise slowly, my body feeling alien, a poorly assembled construct. My ribs protest, a dull, spreading pain blooming in my side, like a foreign shrapnel grenade lodged there, yet to detonate. It's less sharp than before, but constant—either the painkiller lingers or I'm growing accustomed to the ache. My ankle throbs dully, a vile pulse. Each movement seems to whisper, Where do you think you're going? Stay put. To hell with it. Limping is better than waiting for death.

I reach for the canteen, wetting my lips. A metallic bitterness spreads across my tongue like rusted tape. Still, I take a greedy gulp, a final act of mercy. It's vile—cursed, foul, dead water—but here, it's as fine as wine from my old life. I choke but drink. Even filth is a luxury in this world.

Enough lying here.

I change. My old shirt is a rag, soaked with sweat, blood, and fear, reeking of something that sickens not just my stomach but my soul. I don the reinforced pants I found; they fit heavily, as if resisting. The gloves are sticky but intact. The balaclava is stifling, smelling of ancient dust. The goggles are fogged but better than squinting blindly in the toxic haze. The new shirt is oversized but holds together—a small victory.

I leave the coat. The fever still grips me, sweat sliding down my back, tickling unpleasantly. Overheating could bring me down again, and I'm still standing. For now.

Before leaving, I check the trap: the metal plates at the entrance are undisturbed. No one touched them—or worse, someone did, too cunningly for me to notice. The thought tightens my chest. I fold the cloak, hesitating—should I wear it? No, too soon. Into the rucksack it goes. In the corner, I spot a rusted valve, fused into the wall like a festering tooth in rotting gums. I pull. A screech, then a burst of air—dead, noxious, like the breath of a decaying swamp, reeking of poison and rotten flesh. My eyes water; I release the handle, nearly retching. Damn it. How I long to turn a tap and drink.

I grab the knife, check the flashlight, and prepare. The door creaks as I slip into the corridor like a beast. Each step is deliberate—heel, toe. I breathe through my nose, slow, almost whispering. This is no place for the loud.

I must move. I navigate by faint outlines: a broad walkway linking sections, then a narrow transport tunnel lined with cargo bins. The corridors twist, descending and rising at odd angles, each stretch distinct, as if I'm traversing not a ship but a heap of shattered worlds.

A fork. Faded letters above one passage: "CREW…" Crew quarters, perhaps. Something might remain. I enter.

The stench of death seeps into every pore. The cabin bears scars of combat: beds shoved together, a makeshift barricade. Walls are streaked with dark, nearly black stains—dried, congealed. I don't ask whose they are.

Amid this decay, this utter loneliness, a question rises, heavy as rusted steel. Would I save someone else here? Wounded, choking, hunted—would I find the strength to carry another? Or would I step past, like over another twisted pipe? No answer comes, and that makes it worse.

Then—a find. A container.

A sealed packet at its side. A ration. I pierce the film, hope flickering. Then, recoil. A wave of rot hits, nearly turning my stomach. The packet bursts, spilling a decomposed mass that was once food. I toss it aside. Starvation doesn't kill in five minutes. Poison does.

Nearby, a box labeled "Flare." I lift it like a trophy. Inside, two flares. Now I have four.

I leave. The air is thick, cloying, like spoiled honey. Ahead, a wide corridor. My side burns, as if molten iron is embedded there. Each step hammers my insides. Pain and dizziness blur my focus, distorting reality. Yet I walk.

I press on, each step pulsing with agony, as if a red-hot blade pierces my ribs. The floor gives way in places, forcing me to balance on one leg, grasping rusted debris for support. Metal grates under my boots, each sound freezing me, heart pounding like a trapped bird. I brace for the creatures prowling this ship, but only oppressive silence follows.

I move forward, driven by stubbornness and fear, knotted tightly within.

At a turn, a grim sight: a gaping breach in the hull. Torn plating juts at unnatural angles, a cold draft carrying the suffocating reek of rot, oil, and something indescribable, nauseating. That's where I entered, fleeing those clawed, frenzied eyes. I shudder. I won't go back. They're there—I feel it.

I search for another path. My gaze catches a dark gap in the floor—a staircase, its rusted steps descending into the ship's bowels. Beams, thick with rust, lead down, an unstable frame. Perhaps a way to lower decks, deeper into the darkness.

I take a step. The metal groans under my weight, bending, threatening collapse. The knife in my hand is an extension of my will to live, cold and solid. I descend slowly, almost crawling, fingers clutching rusted edges to avoid plummeting. My mouth is dry, bitterness rising. I take a greedy gulp from the dented canteen. The liquid sears my throat, but I drink, saving a little. You never know when more will come.

The corridor below is low, forcing me to duck. It feels like the ship's technical section—charred wires, torn insulation, warped panels. A fire raged here, or an explosion. The stench of burnt metal mingles with the ship's rotting miasma.

Ahead, the corridor ends at massive gates, crumpled but with a narrow gap between. A storage or repair bay, perhaps. My heart races—hope. I advance, senses straining for any sound, any sign of monsters. The silence is unnerving.

I wedge my knife into the gap, prying. Rusted metal screeches, crumbling. I squeeze through.

Inside, a sprawling room littered with tools—wrenches, screwdrivers, strange devices, all rusted, many broken. In the center, fragments of a large, complex structure—machinery, perhaps. I check crates: the opened ones are looted, the intact ones hold only tangled wires, corroded circuits, and useless metal sheets. The ship's age and ruin are staggering. How long has it lain here, a ghastly crypt?

Disappointed and weary, I turn to leave, but my eyes catch a massive structure in the corner—a heavy chest, its lock surprisingly intact. Something about it draws me, like a call.

Limping, I approach but trip over a protruding beam. Pain shoots through my leg, and I barely stay upright. A curse slips through clenched teeth, but I bite it back, listening. No footsteps follow.

Gritting through the pain, I reach the chest. The lock is formidable but rusted. I jam a nearby metal pipe into the keyhole and push. A loud crack, and the lid creaks open. I aim the flashlight inside.

Clothing? No, heavier, with metal inserts. A closer look reveals a ruined armored suit—fabric crumbling to dust, metal pitted with corrosion. I touch it; it disintegrates, leaving brown powder on my fingers.

Beside it, a well-preserved plastic case. I open it, heart pounding. Inside, vests with inscriptions in an unknown language, "resist-fire" repeated. A flash: I'm in a school lab, testing flame-resistant fabrics, seeing a similar symbol. The memory shatters against the rotting stench. The vests crack like old plastic when touched. Another hope crushed by this rusted ghost ship.

Exhaustion and despair surge. "Just a bit more," I tell myself. "I won't give up." The far wall yields only a niche of rusted debris. Then, a bag, wedged in the wreckage. I yank it free. Inside, two items: a cracked gas mask, its filters seemingly intact, and a respirator mask, mechanism whole but missing filters and with cracked glass. The gas mask is too damaged, but its filters might fix the other. I stow them, noting I'll need tools.

Digging further, I find a strange device—a cutter, like one from a game about an engineer surviving a monster-infested station, straight out of The Thing. Its power cell is dust, but the frame is intact. My hands tremble as I grab it. This isn't just a find—it's a chance, a game-changer. Instinct tells me it could be a weapon or a tool to pry open doors, maybe even cut through monsters. A spark of hope in this pitch-black void. I must keep going. Pain tears at me, despair chokes me, but I won't die in this cursed metal tomb. I'll escape, whatever it takes.

The room ends. Before backtracking, I spot a gap between wall panels—a passage. I push through, rusted metal scraping my skin. Inside, utter darkness. I flick on the flashlight, its beam piercing the stale air, revealing a chilling sight that steals my breath.