The first thing I had to do was force myself to stop staring around and think.
My hand pressed itself against my stomach—where the flashlight had been tucked into a fold of tarpaulin. My fingers found only coarse fabric. Dropped it somewhere—on the stairs, or when I'd thrown myself against the hatch. A dull metallic clang surfaced in my memory, one I'd mistaken for the screech of hinges at the time.
Fine. It wasn't working anyway.
I had to go somewhere. Options were few.
Glancing back, I assessed the way behind me. The hatch I'd just climbed through. The broken pipe jamming the lid still jutted from the bracket. I remembered the wet slapping sound on the stairs, and how it had stopped after the clang of metal on metal. Whatever that was—it was still down there.
No going back.
To the left—a wooden sailing ship, pressed into the hull so tightly it seemed to have fused with it. Above the collision line, its deck was visible. Sagging in an arc, boards blackened and swollen with moisture. Gaping holes in several places revealed the level below. The single surviving mast leaned at an angle, its broken end propped against a neighboring vessel. Rotten wood would never hold a person's weight—obvious even from here.
To the right and above loomed an enormous steel ship, rows of round portholes in its riveted hull. A breach gaped black in the plating—ragged, edges bent inward. A broken stub of thick metal beam protruded from it. Jump, grab hold, somehow climb up—probably possible. But I didn't want to. Beyond the breach stood pitch darkness, breathing out a heavy, stagnant dampness—like a cellar that hadn't been opened in decades.
My gaze slid downward.
There, one level below and slightly farther off, sat a third ship. White. Or rather, once white. The paint had peeled, yellowed, worn down to bare metal in places—but this was neither an ancient wreck nor a rusted black hulk. If anything could be found anywhere, it would be there. A faded life ring still hung on its side, and next to it—some kind of placard, too far away to read.
The only problem was how to get there.
I'd have to descend about three meters down the sheer hull, clinging to anything that stuck out. Then walk along a narrow strip of crumpled metal formed at the junction of two hulls. Five meters at least. And at the end—climb through a breach.
My palms—red, raw, covered in small cuts from rust—didn't inspire much confidence. But there were no other options.
If I fell—no one would even know. But staying here meant certain death.
At the edge, I had to crouch down. The metal underfoot was ice-cold and slick. Turning around, I carefully lowered one leg, feeling for a foothold. First attempt—nothing. Only empty air. Eyes squeezed shut for a second, teeth clenched, I tried again.
The descent went slowly, nearly blind. No looking down—only at the wall in front of my face. First a foot would find a ledge, weight would shift, and only then would hands move. Halfway down, my left foot slid sideways. The jolt downward was so sudden that my chest slammed hard against the hull. By some miracle I didn't cry out. Fingers clawed frantically at a ridge, nails scraping across metal. For an instant there was no support at all. Then the right boot found a hold.
When both feet finally stood firm on the crushed metal between the hulls, all I wanted was to close my eyes and press my forehead against the cold plating. My knees trembled so badly that standing upright was a struggle.
But standing still wasn't an option. Peeling myself from the metal, I forced my eyes open. The strip of crumpled steel I had to cross looked even worse from here—torn, warped. Between the two hulls, a dark gap breathed graveyard chill.
Giving myself time to think was dangerous. Just step forward.
I had to move sideways, sliding my palm along the rough hull. One step. Another. Midway, the sheet under my feet groaned plaintively and sagged. My stomach clenched in an icy spasm. Somewhere below, in the gap between the hulls, water splashed softly. A second's hesitation, then—clench the teeth and keep moving, trying to step faster but without sudden motions.
The breach in the white hull looked even more terrifying up close. The torn steel had been thinned by rust, bristling with razor-sharp barbs. The lower edge jutted high, and beneath it yawned blackness.
Almost no strength left. A deep breath, a lunge for a protruding flap of plating—the metal bit into my palms immediately. My elbow slipped. My body slammed ribs-first into the edge of the breach, driving the last air from my lungs, but my knee caught hold. Nearly sobbing with effort, I swung the other leg over and tumbled inside with all my weight.
Shoulder striking the floor, sliding across something wet... Several seconds passed in complete stillness. Cheek pressed against cold decking, I wanted only one thing—to breathe as quietly as possible.
The air in here was different—stale, motionless, with a chemical aftertaste. Somewhere far off came a steady, barely audible sound of dripping water. Pale light seeped in, just enough to make out the essentials: a narrow corridor, peeling white paint, pipes along the ceiling, and a row of closed doors.
I stood up, and my ribs answered with a dull, aching pain—a greeting from the edge of the breach. But at least there was no wind here. After being outside, it felt almost warm.
The light ended a few meters ahead. Beyond—only gloom, cut by rare pale patches bleeding through invisible cracks in the hull.
My ears caught only the steady, monotonous drip of water somewhere deep inside the ship. Nothing else.
The first door was three steps away. The handle gave easily; dampness and something sour, stagnant drifted out at once. The corridor light was enough to make out the outline of a bunk bed and the dark silhouette of a locker against the wall.
I didn't want to step past the threshold. My hand reached for the locker. Its door hung on a single hinge and swung open without effort, but inside was empty.
On the way out, my foot caught something on the floor. A plastic container flew into the darkness with such a crash that my body flinched on its own.
My breath caught. I froze in the doorway, listening as the sound traveled farther and farther away. It seemed no one heard.
The next door appeared after a couple of meters of darkness. I had to move nearly blind, palm trailing along the wall, until my fingers met a doorframe.
This one was harder to open. Under the pressure of my shoulder it grudgingly gave way, scraping against something on the floor. The smell of machine oil hit my nose. The space resembled a utility closet. Almost no light.
I crouched down, and my hands began groping across the floor. My fingers met junk: bits of plastic, wet paper, scraps of fabric, cold iron. All of it was pushed aside with utmost care, though every rustle in the silence felt deafening.
Then my palm struck something hard and heavy.
Fingers closed around it and dragged it toward the strip of light. A boot.
A work boot. Heavy, thick-soled, with a scuffed toe.
The second turned up a few seconds later—it had rolled under a low shelf by the wall. The leather was stiff from damp, one lace snapped, but the soles looked intact. A size too big, but that didn't matter in the slightest.
The stiff leather was pulled onto my feet immediately. Cold and damp inside, the material rubbing unpleasantly against my skin, but the moment I stood up, everything became incomparably easier. The floor no longer burned with cold, and the fear of slicing a foot on a rusty nail retreated.
Back into the corridor.
Now my footsteps sounded different—heavier, duller. The boots struck the floor with an unpleasant metallic resonance. Before, I'd managed to move almost silently, but now every step seemed to announce the presence of a living person in the darkness.
The next door wouldn't budge—jammed solid, no matter how hard I pushed. The one after that—same. On the third, the handle just spun uselessly.
The corridor curved gently. Around the bend, it grew slightly brighter. A round porthole appeared in the wall, cracked down the middle but still holding in its frame. Through the murky glass seeped a pale glow, and in its light another door appeared.
Wider than the rest. A round window at face level. The glass cloudy, nearly opaque, but behind it the shapes of shelves or cabinets could be made out.
Under my palm the door barely gave, but it opened.
Inside was a room with shelving along the walls. To the right—a sink and a metal countertop buried in debris. On the floor—broken plastic, crushed cans, overturned containers. One of the shelves had torn loose and hung at an angle, its contents spilled into a murky puddle.
A storeroom. Or something like a pantry.
The air here was heavier still. Humid, laced with old food and metal. A single breath left a sour taste in my mouth.
At first, nothing. Only trash, empty bottles, and soggy, reeking muck I didn't want to dig through. I was already beginning to think that coming in here had been a mistake when my fingers struck something rectangular, firm, and wrapped in plastic.
The find went straight to the light.
A packet of hardtack. Or dry crackers. The wrapper cloudy but intact.
Prying the edge with my nails didn't work. Had to tear it with my teeth. The plastic cracked with an unpleasant crunch. Inside lay flat, pale squares, dry to the hardness of stone.
The first cracker nearly went down whole. It sucked all moisture from my mouth instantly; crumbs jammed under my tongue and into my throat, and I had to struggle through the cardboard-like mass, swallowing almost dry. Still, it was the best food since waking up.
A bottle turned up there too. Water sloshed inside. The cap didn't give right away. The smell—stale, plasticky, but at least not rot. After the first sip, the water lingered in my mouth for a second, waiting for a catch, and only then went down.
It took an effort of will to stop after the second sip. The cap was screwed back on, and the bottle disappeared under the tarpaulin before greed could make me drink it all at once.
On the floor, under the crooked shelf, I found a can of preserves. Heavy, its label half-worn away. Trying to pry the lid with a fingernail was a bad idea—the metal didn't budge, just scraped off skin.
Several seconds passed in silence. Only after eating did I realize just how depleted my body was.
The weakness hit suddenly, as though until now my muscles had been running on sheer spite and adrenaline, and someone had simply pulled the core out of them. My knees turned to jelly. My palm settled on the edge of the shelving on its own, just to keep from toppling sideways. My head grew heavy, and a dull pounding started in my temples.
I forced myself to take one more sip of water and exhale slowly.
I needed to keep going. Get out of here, find something better than a pantry, find an exit. But the moment my hand left the shelf, the floor lurched.
No.
I wouldn't get far like this.
The thought was sickeningly simple, and all the more vile for it. If I stumbled out into the corridor and collapsed ten steps later in the dark, I wouldn't get back up. No matter how badly I wanted to.
I needed to find a place where I could at least sit down safely. Just a few minutes' rest—then back on the move.
The first door in the corridor was locked. The handle jerked and stuck.
The second opened, but behind it lay some large space completely flooded with water. Not that.
Pulling the door shut, there was nothing to do but press forward.
A few meters on, the corridor plunged back into darkness. I had to walk by feel, counting steps, never letting go of the wall.
The next door swung open so suddenly that my body nearly fell in with it.
The space was tiny. So small there was barely room for one person. It looked like a closet or a cramped utility nook. Light from the corridor fell only on the threshold and a narrow strip of floor. Beyond that, everything drowned in blackness.
Good enough.
One step inside, pull the door shut... It closed with a dull metallic clang, sealing off the corridor.
My back pressed against the saving metal at once, as if that barrier alone was keeping me from collapsing. Cold steel dug between my shoulder blades. A few seconds went to nothing but heavy breathing, feeling my knees shake.
Then my legs finally began to give.
My body slid slowly down the door until it reached the floor. One leg tucked in, the other stretched out. Head tipped back, eyes closed.
Just for a minute. Then I'll keep going.
My breathing gradually steadied. My hands still trembled, but not as badly. The silence pressed in, but after everything, it felt almost like a mercy.
Under the tarpaulin, my fingers found the bottle. A small sip—and it pressed back against my stomach. The can dug into my side, but I had no strength to pull it out.
And then the air simply ran out.
My chest clenched; the breath wouldn't come. My mouth opened, tried to draw in oxygen—couldn't. Again. Same.
My shoulders hitched. Then again. Tears came on their own, from nowhere—suddenly wet, hot, my face crumpling, twisting, and there was no stopping it.
And only one thing hammered in my head:
What for?
I didn't do anything.
I just lived. Studied. Went to classes. Slept in my room.
So why am I here?
What did I do wrong?
"Wh... what for?.." squeezed out of my throat, thin, raspy, not my own voice at all. "What did I d... what did I..."
The words wouldn't come. My throat seized, and all that escaped was a strangled, pathetic sound. Both palms pressed against my face, my body curling as if trying to fold into a ball. Everything shook. I could only breathe in short, ragged gulps, each one burning my throat.
I wanted someone to explain.
Anyone.
Anything.
Just to say: this is why. This is what for.
But there was no one.
"Please..."—an exhale into my palms, not even clear to whom. "I don't... I don't understand... I didn't do anything..."
The voice was alien. Thin. Pathetic.
No one answered.
Of course no one answered.
Fingers dug into my hair. My body froze, hunched over, forehead pressed to my knees. The sobs came one after another, each worse than the last—quieter, more helpless, more like whimpering than crying.
I wanted to go home.
Not even to the dorm. Just home. Somewhere with walls, light, a normal floor, and a door without darkness behind it.
"Home..."—the last word tore loose. "I just want to go home..."
After that, there were no more words.
All that was left was to sit by the door, quietly, wheezingly drawing in air, until the sobs began to fade on their own. Not because it got better. My body had simply run out of everything.
Tremors still passed through me in short, infrequent waves for a long time. Fingers still tangled in my hair, forehead pressed hard against my knees. There were feeble attempts to raise my head, to listen, to remember that the rest was only supposed to last a minute... but thoughts kept unraveling and couldn't hold on to anything.
The darkness behind closed eyelids was almost indistinguishable from the darkness around me.
At some point I lost track of whether I was still crying or not.
And then I simply blacked out.