I turned the corner approaching medbay. The hatch was open. I slowed involuntarily, not wanting to see whatever was inside. But I did see. I saw it, and I cannot unsee it. The blood, the bodies, the writing in human fluids, eldritch and inhuman, upon the walls above the mutilated corpses. Doctor Peters and Lieutenant Leone were both dead. Leone’s decapitated head sat in his lap, his torso sagging back against the wall. Peters was in the corner, his back mercifully turned. Both were surrounded by huge pools of thick, red fluid. You would not think so much blood could be contained within a human body. Red and thick and viscous, it circled them as if in warning to approach no further. Simply from the amount of blood, I knew Peters must be dead.
I went straight to the comm station. I tried to raise the bridge. Nothing. Engineering next. No response. I knew I could search the recorder from the comm station and see the grisly events unfold. At the same time, I knew duty demanded my presence on the bridge. Whoever was there might be ok. They could still be warned. I could maybe even save some lives. But my curiosity was too much. Morbid, ghastly, and huge, it reigned over me with neither compunction nor mercy. It was a simple enough matter. I saw the murders in reverse, sped up and silent as I scrolled backward over only a few minutes.
Hendricks and Wiseman had done it together. First, they erased the indecipherable, ungodly words from the wall; dipping their fingers in the receding pool of blood around Leone’s corpse. Next, they removed his head from his lap, placed it on his body with surgical tools and returned him, intact and immobile, to his seat on one of the medical tables. Next came a horrible jumble of motions. They lifted Peters from the corner and worked on and around him in a frenzy. They punched him, kicked him, dragged him around the room slamming his body into things. They slashed at him with the same improvised weapons they had used on Leone, bludgeoned him and stabbed him just before they slammed his body through the glass case containing the surgical tools.
Leone had simply sat there. Shock or no shock, it was the most disturbing element of the entire brutal display. He sat upright, staring at the wall while the two killers savaged the doctor. He did not watch, nor did he turn his head out of disgust or fear. He didn’t respond at all. His face appeared almost sanguine. It bore a strange look of satisfaction upon it. It was as if he considered it right and good that these events should finally begin their inevitable conclusion, violent and disgusting as it was.
The recorder continued to work its way backward. Hendricks and Wiseman returned to their beds, assuming the same silently unhinged stance Leone occupied throughout Peter’s death. Peters quickly back-pedalled about the room, all seeming relatively well. Occasionally, he would take some physical measurement from one of the three. He must have been there, working late into the night, searching for that elusive and now obvious diagnosis. None betrayed the slightest hint of what was to come.
I stopped the recorder here, freezing Peters standing in front of Wiseman and shining a light into his eyes. I did not play it back. My curiosity, sick as it was, had been satisfied. I did not need to watch the entire thing at speed. I again tried to raise the bridge, and when no one responded, I did not bother trying engineering. There was no point. I realized then that, in all probability, the only reason I was still alive was that I was in a place the killers had already been. The call to general quarters must have been a ruse. The rooms we slept in locked from the inside. Only the doctor or the captain could order the computer to override the lock. But general quarters was an emergency call. It could be activated from almost anywhere. And it would force all of us to split up. Tasso would go to engineering, the captain and I to the bridge. Most likely, he would arrive first and alone. His quarters were much closer than mine. If he was not dead already, he would be soon. And now, I had little option but to join him.
Half the bloody instruments used to kill Peters were still strewn about the floor around him. I selected something that looked heavy, sharp, and menacing. I carefully wiped the blood from it on a sanitary napkin and went to meet my fate. I walked quickly. There was no point in delaying anything. Perhaps I only wanted to meet death with some small amount of dignity, and not like the coward I proved to be.
When I arrived at the bridge, the hatch was again opened. I stopped short, seeing Wiseman’s diminutive form moving rapidly over something on the far side of the captain’s station. Panic hit me, almost physically striking me. It forced me back a step. Steeling myself, I again moved forward. Wiseman moved around to the other side of the captain’s station, taking another angle on his ghastly deeds. His eyes flashed up and met mine. A look of deep and demented joy filled them.
“Commander!” he barked, happily derailed and beginning to grin. “How lovely of you to join us.” It all seemed so insane, the situation, Wiseman himself. But I did not stop, did not even slow. I raised my weapon thoughtlessly, high near my face where I could perhaps parry as well as strike. As I approached I could see over the controls at the captain’s station. Anderson was strapped to the far side of it somehow. There was blood everywhere. His head raised slightly, his face a mutilated but still moving mess. Before I got any closer, Wiseman was in front of me, grinning maniacally and waving something small that caught the light.
He charged forward. I stepped back, truly terrified now. His foot caught on mine, spilling him to the floor. He fell at my feet, his back to me, weapon clattering to the floor. I stared at the nape of his neck, the heavy surgical tool shaking in my hand. I did not strike. I couldn’t imagine killing him. I couldn’t imagine killing anyone. A moment’s indecision and he was on me, tackling me to the floor and grabbing for my weapon. He pinned me to the deck, striking with his free hand. He hit me in the face, closing my eye, grabbing for my throat. I twisted the long, spike-like object free from his wrist and drove it into his thigh. He only laughed, his hands coming together around my neck. I struck again and again. Nothing. I could hear the gurgling sounds betraying my imminent death coming from my throat. They seemed far away. My eyes were beginning to flutter, the lights somehow dimming and flashing at the same time. I swung my weapon, backhanded and blindly, up at him. It struck him behind his ear. His grip weakened, but only slightly. I hit him again, frantically swinging for his head. The blunt end struck home repeatedly. He finally released me, slipping slowly to the side.
I got to my feet as fast as I could, only to see Hendricks emerge from the other side of the captain. He had been watching, probably enjoying the show. He grinned widely, his bright eyes widening as if to devour me. He was covered in blood and held another sharp, flashing object up in front of him. Wiseman was struggling to his feet next to me.
I ran. I did not think I could defeat them both. Maybe I was right. Maybe it was simple cowardice. But those distinctions came later, long after decisions of life and death were made in an instant. The point is I ran. I ran and I lived.
They were after me immediately. I’d run track in college, 20 years and 15 kilos ago, but I was still fast; faster than them, anyway. And each hatch I closed between us was set on a relay, to prevent decompression from penetrating further into the ship in case of loss of pressure. I reached the first hatch just in time to close it between me and Hendricks. He was still grinning like some evil wolf from a fairy tale. It shut just as he lunged. His body bounced off with a thick, meaty thud. I was off, running unthinkingly to the next hatch, and the next. When I closed the final one I could find, I was in engineering, and had gained only thirty seconds or so before they could catch up. I tore open the hatch’s maintenance panel. I stared at the complex mess of circuits and wiring for a second. I wasn’t sure what to do to disable it, and time was running out. So I simply slammed the huge, heavy medical instrument into the open panel. I bashed the equipment inside to pieces, hoping not to be electrocuted. When I was satisfied it was thoroughly smashed, I stepped back and turned away, still awash in fear. I thought of the captain, strapped down and waiting for his tormentors to return. I’d bought him a few minutes, but for all I knew he’d bled to death
as they pursued me.
I looked at the room around me, realizing where I was. Everything was in disarray, chairs turned over, instruments smashed. There were a few scattered blotches of blood here and there, though not nearly as much as in medbay. It took only a few steps to reveal her body behind some machinery.
Natasha Tasso was dead. She appeared to have been strangled, an improvised ligature still wrapped around her throat. She’d been beaten and slashed as well, but none of the cuts were deep enough to produce another sanguine pool. Her face was caught in an image of pure terror, frozen then as it remains now. I can see just the end of her legs from where I am sitting. I look away. I look away and continue this horrible tale.
The comm was right next to where I was standing. I looked to it just as they arrived. Another meaty slam resounded through engineering, reverberating like sound bouncing around inside an empty tin can. Another soon followed. They would have hit the hatch release first thing. It was sufficiently broken, and they were throwing themselves against the hatch in fury and frustration. A huge, shrill scream penetrated the hatch. He howled again, whichever one of them it was, and I knew I was safe. The mechanism to open the hatch must be hopelessly mangled. Neither of them were engineers. A geologist and our second exobiologist, I prayed they would not have the technical know-how to fix the mechanism. In the state they were in now, I was unsure if they were even coherent enough to try.
I turned back to the comm and again tried to raise the bridge.
“Captain? Captain, are you there?” I said, trepidation filling my voice.
There was a pause, a long pause, pregnant with terror and growing regret. Then he responded.
“Oldham? Oldham are you still alive?”
“Yes, Sir. Sir, it’s just you and me,” I replied, chilled to acknowledge how hopeless things were becoming. “Everyone but you, me, and the two of them are dead.”
“Disconnect the reactor,” he said. It was a simple, direct statement. He was the same Anderson, through it all. For a second I only marveled at his composure, and then it hit me. They had meddled with the reactor somehow. It was going to blow and we were all going to die. After all this, the struggle, the fear and finally my escape, I was still going to die.
“Commander,” he almost shouted, getting my attention back. “They have tampered with the reactor. You have to disconnect it and eject it into space. You can’t shut it down without contamination, and you can’t let it explode. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I managed. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good.”
He gave me the code. The two are required for an emergency ejection of the reactor, mine and his. I started the procedure and entered the codes, my hands shaking as I confirmed my own death sentence. A countdown initiated. All I had to do now was wait. During that time, the frantic attacks upon the hatch had diminished, and then stopped. They were no longer outside engineering.
“Captain, they’re gone. They’ve left engineering.” I did not have to explain the implications. He didn’t say anything for a moment, but finally continued.
“There was nothing you could have done, Commander. You never could have stopped them both.” The two sentences hung heavily in the air. I had no idea what to say back. A plethora of emotions welled up inside me. I wanted to scream and cry and throw things and beg someone, somewhere, for things to be different. But instead, I was silent, and the captain went on. “There was nothing any of us could have done. We signed our death sentences when we entered orbit. It was all over, for all of us.”
“Yes. Yes, Sir.” Those two tiny words were all I could force out. Stifled under cascades of fear and rage, I withdrew further and further into myself. I withdrew and waited for them to reach the bridge.
“I’m going to sign off now. Goodbye, Commander.” And then there was just the dry click of the comm turning off. To think, I had run in fear, and he had the courage to face death alone, just to spare me some small amount of further trauma. And I just accepted it. I sunk slowly to the ground, listening to the countdown, knowing I now had only hours or days to live.
And that brings us back to the present. I sit here, speaking into this tiny device, wondering how all of this could have happened. I wonder too about my memory. Time seems to be moving strangely now. How long ago was Hendricks at the hatch, maniacally beckoning me to come out? What day is this? Have I been recording this now for hours, or for days?
The ship’s batteries have a very specific lifespan. This fact, like many others, was stored in my mind at the beginning of this journey. But now it’s gone, plucked from my head as if for the convenience of this moment being as terrifying and confusing as humanly possible. I know the life of the battery is impossibly less than the time rescue would take to arrive, to save my tiny, insignificant life. All I am is a miniscule speck of dust. A tiny bit of life inside a tiny bit of metal circling a tiny ball of dust in the vastness of space.
And I’m still circling. I feel light. I know the failing gravity is slowly returning us to weightlessness, but it’s not just my body. It’s my head, my mind trying to wrap itself around minute ideas slowly divorcing themselves from me. Did Scott kill himself on the planet? Or was it Leone? I could play the recording back. I know I knew this small datum only minutes ago, or maybe hours.
And I’m not cold anymore. I was freezing, just a moment ago. I remember, or at least I think I do. I remember the look on the captain’s face, tied down to an examination table in medbay. I have not forgotten my cowardice, but I cannot remember who was torturing him. Was it Peters that was killing him? No. Peters was never on the surface. The insanity isn’t catching, or at least it wasn’t back then.
But I’m not afraid anymore. I think I should try to open the door. Maybe they’re dead outside. Maybe whatever rotted their minds may have rotted their bodies and they’re just out there, dead. Soon the gravity will shut off, and they will just float out there, dead. We’ll all float. I’ve waited here, incapacitated by fear, long enough. I’ll leave the recorder here. Hide it somewhere, just in case. If you find this, know that the planet means madness and death. Know … Something moved. Outside the door. Maybe it was Leone, maybe … No. He’s dead. I watched him die.
I watched them all die. The door. I think I can fix the mechanism that opens the door. I think, God, I’m starting to sweat it’s so warm in here. I think I will try to open it up. I want to see what’s outside. I want to see the planet again, that beautiful, soft yellow, one more time before I die.
I want to see it all, all the timeless beauty. I want to be the first man to set foot on the surface. I want to know what it all means. The answers are down there. They’re down there, waiting, waiting just for me. All I have to do is reach out and take them.
The captain was so brave. I know why, now. He’s not really dead. No one really dies here, not ever. They’re all alive, the captain, Peters, Tasso. They’re waiting for me there, waiting to make me alive again like they are. We will live forever, and we will welcome all of those to come. And they will come. The planet, the endlessness, the vastness, the purity. It will call them here, to join us, and we will be waiting for them. We can wait a very, very long time. And they will come. More of them will always come, called to beauty and truth from the depths of space. The education will be joyous, endless, just as mine. Everything will be perfect, beauteous and perfect, just as soon as I open that door.
WE HAVE RULES HERE
MADISON MCSWEENEY
LIEUTENANT COLONEL JOHN HARRIS was irate. He had good reason to be; even as he stomped through the halls of the Department of Defence’s makeshift headquarters in Seattle, what passed for the United States government nowadays was steadily increasing pressure on him for a miracle solution. That very morning he’d spoken on the phone with the secretary of defense. The president was getting impatient, he’d been told. Even worse, he was starting to make suggestions. Why can’t you increase strikes on the hot zones? Airdrop a cure? Why haven’t you found one yet? “The pre
sident wants results,” the secretary had concluded, before hanging up. Harris had barely been able to get a word in.
The acting president was in quite a position to make demands, Harris thought. Holed up in an underground bunker in Nevada, whisked away as soon as domestic security showed signs of cracking. He hadn’t seen the situation on the ground, not the way it was now. Some days it took all their internal resources to keep HQ from being overtaken; a full-scale recovery was no longer within the realm of possibility.
Harris’ men were under strict orders not to use the word “plague.” Not because it was an overstatement, but because it implied a bacterial origin, which had not been proven. “Virus” was also a misnomer for the same reason. The word Harris preferred, which accurately encapsulated the situation, was “pandemic.” Some of his colleagues even shied away from that word; Harris didn’t. That kind of wilful denial was what had allowed the disease to spread so rapidly across the globe; it was not an attitude to foster in the people responsible for containing it.
In his rare unoccupied moments, Harris wondered whether the operations he oversaw were not, in fact, futile. More of a show than anything. He tried to avoid these thoughts, hopelessness being the ultimate enabler of chaos. And as the de facto head of Defense, Harris was the only anchor of hope the country had left.
In the early days, back when the government still had the budget and resources for propaganda, the marketing team had featured Colonel Harris in several of their advertisements. John Harris, bravely and stoically leading the military and scientific campaigns against the New Enemy. John Harris, good Midwestern man, a practical man who had seen combat many times. A pragmatic man. If John Harris could still be seen fighting, the reasoning went, the public would believe the fight was not lost. For a while, Lieutenant Colonel John Harris had been more symbolic of America than Uncle Sam.
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