I descend into oblivion, yet I do not sleep. This is not rest, but merely the cessation of awareness. The icy metal pressing into my cheek, the piercing screech somewhere beyond the wall—these are what wrench me back into this hell. Within me lies emptiness, a horrific, oppressive void, as if I am slowly decomposing. Each breath is an error, a punishment. Pain shoots through my left ribs like a bullet, followed by the sensation of someone twisting a red-hot knife. A cough lacerates my lungs, as though they have been filled with shattered glass.
I am still here. In this infernal, foul-smelling place. Every second spent here only confirms: this is no nightmare. This is reality.
As my memory clears, fragments of what occurred resurface. Yet they do not coalesce into anything concrete before a flash erupts in my mind. Unbearably white. A deafening sound. Hysterical screams.
And now I am here, in this iron hell, alone. Though one could say I have always been alone.
Each recollection of the past—of deceitful friends, of demanding parents—engulfs me in a wave of all-consuming helplessness. Yesterday, I was merely a convenient tool for others' ambitions. Today, I am a crippled, cornered beast in a trap. The sense of universal solitude weighs heavier than the tons of metal surrounding me. My world, as I knew it, has vanished. Perhaps forever.
My ankle has swollen even more, turning a deep crimson-purple. My ribs are broken. My body feels alien, clumsy.
I must move. If I remain here, the toxins in the air or the infection from my wounds will finish me off faster than any monsters.
Carefully, I brace myself with my right hand to rise, clenching my lips tightly as my left ankle erupts in hellish agony. My "door" is simply a metal beam wedged into a narrow passage. I push it aside, and I am swallowed by the absolute, impenetrable darkness of the corridor.
I fumble through my pockets in search of a flashlight. I check them—nothing.
Wait, why would I even have a flashlight?
Very well, an odd thought.
Limping, I take several steps blindly, extending a trembling hand forward. My fingers touch the cold, slimy wall. I proceed by feel, like a newborn abandoned in a crypt. It resembles a corridor within an enormous ship. Every rustle, every echo of my own breathing, causes my heart to freeze. Thirst now openly chokes me. I must find some liquid. Otherwise, it will end very quickly.
Despair and powerlessness surge anew. The darkness presses down. Pain tears through my body. Memories sear my soul. In this endless corridor, there is nothing but me and my agony. And at some point, rage overcomes weakness.
"ENOUGH!" escapes my lips in a hoarse, fury-filled cry.
I turn and strike the wall beside me with all my might. My knuckles crack, a piercing pain shoots up my arm to my shoulder, but I do not care. I strike again and again, channeling all my hatred for this place, for my helplessness, for my past.
Under another blow, a thin, rusted metal panel gives way. With a deafening crash, it detaches and clangs to the floor.
I freeze immediately. The sound seems incredibly loud in this dead silence. I press against the wall, holding my breath, anticipating footsteps, hissing, inevitable death. My heart pounds so fiercely that it echoes in my temples.
One second. Ten. A minute.
No one comes.
With a trembling hand, I feel the breach in the wall. Behind the fallen panel lies emptiness. I reach deeper and encounter something resembling an electrical panel. My fingers locate several switches and a large, rubber-covered lever. It appears to be a manual dynamo machine, an emergency generator.
Nothing to lose. I grasp the lever. It yields with difficulty, screeching from rusty mechanisms. I push it once, twice, thrice, exerting my last strength. My muscles burn, my injured hand aches, but I persist, driven by mad, irrational hope. Then, by touch, I flip all the switches I can find.
And a miracle occurs.
First, a quiet, high-pitched hum sounds. Then, with a series of clicks, a dim emergency lamp flickers on ahead in the corridor. Then another, and another. The corridor is bathed in a ghostly, deathly white light.
I stand stunned, blinking at the unexpected brightness. The light reveals the grotesque outlines of the walls: everything rusted, warped in places, covered in frozen streaks of some black slime. This dump appears to be centuries old, yet the electricity still functions. How?
But then I smirk, shaking my head. For a guy from the 21st century, hurled into this hell through some spatial rift, to be surprised by an ancient generator working after that—it is simply foolish.
Now, at least, I can see where I am going. And I know what I must do. Explore this place. Find water, medications, and an exit. Survive. At any cost.
After about fifteen minutes of helpless, blind shuffling forward, each step resonating with pulsating agony in my ankle, I notice faint outlines on the wall. It is a strange sign: due to rust and paint streaks, it is hard to make out, but three letters, written in what seems to be the universal Latin alphabet, are clear enough: "MED." The symbols are framed by alien, incomprehensible hieroglyphs.
Hope.
This thought is so foreign and out of place in this hell that I nearly laugh. Hope is a luxury I can no longer afford. But my heart, that foolish, stubborn piece of flesh, begins to beat faster. I have no idea what kind of ship this is or whose, but "MED" surely means "medical bay." There might be something useful: bandages, medicines, water... anything to prolong my agony.
The door, which presumably leads inside, is crumpled like an accordion. This is not mere damage; it is the mark of monstrous, deliberate fury. The rails are skewed. I inspect it from the side: all edges are coated in rust, and in places, strange dark crystals have settled, resembling dried mold. I touch the door seam—my fingers immediately get smeared with grime. I must try to open it. But it appears immovable: the metal seems firmly jammed and rusted solid. I look down—there lies a piece of rebar. I pick it up. Heavy, rough. But better than nothing.
I insert it under the lower edge of the door and begin to pry, arching my back. Each pressed centimeter comes so arduously that my chest tightens with pain. With every jerk, I feel the broken rib grating against the adjacent bone: I want to scream, but I must bite my lips until they bleed. The horrific metallic screech grates on my ears, fine rust flakes off—it flies into my face, lands on my tongue, and the bitterness of rusted iron intensifies the nausea.
After what seems an eternity, the door shifts a couple of centimeters, forming a narrow gap. It is barely enough for me to squeeze through sideways, sucking in my stomach. At one moment, a sharp edge of the metal plate tears my shirt at the shoulder. I hiss in pain but slip inside.
The sight that unfolds beyond the door causes me to freeze. Everything appears mangled and dead. Rows of cabinets lie overturned, walls streaked with dark stains. But the most terrifying are the skeletons. Several desiccated skeletons in remnants of white coats are scattered about the room. One sits slumped against the wall, its skull pierced by something heavy. Another lies face down, bony fingers still clutching the handle of some instrument. They died here, trying to save someone. Or themselves.
The air smells of dampness, rot, and something sharp and chemical. I take a cautious, shallow breath, knowing the air here might be even more poisonous. My head spins from the suffocating odor.
I move slowly, careful not to step on the bones. I approach the first overturned cabinet. Shards of glass vials spill out, raising a new wave of stench: spoiled reagents. I cover my mouth but notice some ampoules are intact. These are small vials of various colors, marked with symbols I cannot read. Taking them is like playing Russian roulette. But I am too exhausted to refuse. I carefully place the ampoules in my pocket. My internal survival algorithm operates at its limit: Water. Medicines. Bandages. Everything else is excess weight.
Suddenly, my gaze catches two metal cans, not as corroded as the rest. On the side, an inscription: "H2O Emerg...". Emergency water supply. Perhaps soured over centuries, contaminated, but I am dying of thirst to such an extent that I am ready to drink from a filthy puddle.
My hands tremble as I pry open the edge of the can. With a quiet, ominous pop, a repugnant, musty smell escapes. I pinch my nose but still take a cautious sip of the murky, dark liquid. My throat spasms, my body protests, but I swallow a second time, forcing myself. The taste of decay and death lingers on my tongue.
"Forgive me, Mother," escapes me in a bitter smirk, devoid of any filial affection. "You would be horrified to see what a worthless thing your brilliant son has become. Drinking some filth to live another hour."
The thirst subsides slightly. There is a second can—I carefully place it in a small backpack I find against the wall. Evidently medical and relatively intact.
Next, I rummage through the wall drawers. I find several syringes in sealed packages. The labels bear incomprehensible pictograms, but I discern "Paink-", "Antib-", "Stim". Dubious, frightening, but no choice—I take them. Pain pierces my rib, and I lean against the wall. How desperately I need some medicine... But for now, I fear trying unknown chemicals. In one cabinet, I discover something like bandages. In the depths, a small, denser bundle remains.
Before leaving, I decide to disinfect my right palm. With shaking hands, I open one ampoule containing a clear liquid. I soak a scrap of cloth and press it to the wound. It burns savagely; I curse under my breath, grinding my teeth. It smells sharp, like alcohol, but who knows. I quickly plug the cut with a piece of bandage.
I realize my ankle is also a problem. I use a scrap of fabric and old bandages to fashion a makeshift splint over my pant leg. The pain is excruciating, but the joint must be immobilized. With each movement, sweat breaks out. I sit on the floor, close my eyes, and simply breathe for a couple of minutes. Then I notice a small steel container in the far corner. Inside are several cylindrical items in sealed packages. They resemble flares.
"Damn, yes," I mutter accidentally, "this could prove valuable."
I stuff them into the backpack. Better to have something than nothing.
Finally, I exit this grim infirmary. In the corridor, metal still creaks. No signs of living beings. A tiny, poisonous spark of hope ignites within me: at least something can be found here.
I proceed further along the corridor. The deeper I go, the more evident the traces of battle become. At first, mere scratches on the walls. Then deep furrows appear. On the floor—dried, dark smears resembling blood. And finally, I encounter a bulkhead pierced through.
I come upon a row of small cabins: all open, either empty or in absolute chaos. In one room, I discern a bare bone protruding amid rags—once a human skeleton. My heart sinks. The deeper I venture into this corridor, the stronger the distinct feeling: battles were fought here. And where there was combat, there should be... weapons.
Thus, limping and overcoming horror, I leave the remnants of the medical bay, as if emerging from a battlefield where I managed to scavenge supplies. In my mind, only one thought remains.
Do not die. Hold on a little longer. And—find a weapon... find a way to fight back.
The corridor twisted like the spine of a dead beast, its steel ribs pierced and mangled. The dim, ghostly light of emergency lamps barely dispelled the gloom, reflecting off damp walls and creating the sensation of being inside the esophagus of some metallic leviathan. Holes in the walls, like festering ulcers, were burned by energy weapons. Beside them were bizarre, slanted furrows deeply etched into the metal, as if giant claws had dragged heavy, still-resisting prey across it. This thought makes my heart sink.
I involuntarily envision the scene: monsters like the one I escaped from crawled along the walls as if they were foil, and in their claws, people thrashed, their screams drowning in this endless labyrinth. The air here was different—added to the familiar scent of rust and mold was a stale odor of ozone and something sweetish, like rotting meat.
Finally, I reach massive doors. Once, they must have been reliable, airtight, likely capable of withstanding an asteroid impact. But now they are wrenched out, as if torn by a gigantic hand, along with part of the bulkhead. Bent sheets of steel protrude in all directions, like broken bones. The mere thought of the force that did this chills the soul.
I freeze at the threshold. Something inside, some primal instinct, screams at me not to enter. It howls that beyond this wound in the ship's body, nothing awaits but answers I do not wish to know. But there is nowhere to retreat. I need a weapon. I need some certainty.
Taking a convulsive breath, from which my cracked rib explodes in pain, I step over the mangled threshold.
And immediately recoil, nearly falling.
The smell. It strikes first, like a sledgehammer. Thick, nauseating, pervasive stench of stale blood, decay, and something else—burned flesh and excrement. It is so dense that it seems tangible. Bile instantly rises to my throat, and I barely suppress the urge to vomit, clamping my mouth with my hand.
Then I raise my eyes to the horrific spectacle.