Speaker 1: The ocean doesn't care about you. It's not your enemy,
and it's sure as hell isn't your friend. It's just there,
silent and endless, stretching past the horizon. People think they
understand it because they can chart a course, read a tide,
plot a point on a map. They don't. The ocean
keeps its own secrets, and sometimes then lets you see one.
We had planned a trip across the Atlantic. I captained
the Envy Red Saber for almost fifteen years, now, moving
small cargo from one port to another, keeping to tight
schedules and predictable routes. I initially started in the Navy,
but that life was a long way behind me. My
crew is small, just four of us. Fewer men means
fewer castes, but it also means fewer people to rely
on when things go wrong. We were three days out
from Spain. It was the middle of the night, somewhere
past oh two hundred hours, and I was still awake
in my cabin, staring at the same navigational charts. The
radio crackled once, then again. A voice was trying to
push through the static. It came through the colms, a weak,
staticky voice repeating the same sequence, over and over again.
May day, may day, this is the perdition position latitude
thirty five longitude. It cut out again. I sat up
the perdition. That name wasn't familiar, but the way the
signal came in faint and interrupted meant whatever equipment they
were using it was dated. I keep the intercom bridge.
This is the captain, you're picking that up. There was
a pause, then Gallagher answered, eye cap. We thought he
was interference at first, but it's repeating, saying distress code
every thirty seconds, sauce. We're running it through the registry.
Now another pause. I could hear his fingers moving over
the keyboard, the sound of rapid typing, then a brief pause, Er, Captain,
you might want to see this. By the time I
got to the bridge, Gallagher was still staring at the screen,
one hand resting against his chin. His brow was furrowed.
You're gonna want to see this, he muttered. I glanced
at the monitor with distress code was still sited, a
single repeating sequence of numbers and static, as if someone
had been broadcasting it on a loop. Behind us, a
chair creaked. I turned to see Holloway, the youngest of
the crew lingering near the back of the bridge, arms
crossed over his chest. He looked tense. I wasn't sure
if he even realized he was doing it, but his
foot tapped against the floor in a steady rhythm, a
nervous energy he hadn't learned to mask yet. Rodriguez lingered
near the back, standing stiff, watching us all. What am
I looking at? I asked. Gallagher turned the monitor slightly
so I could get a better look. The registry was
pulled up, the distress code logged and matched. The perdition
was listed, but the date next to it stopped me
for a moment. Nineteen twenty one. I frowned, glancing back
at the others. You're telling me we just speak up
a hundred year old distress call. Gallagher didn't answer right away.
He exhaled through his nose, tapping his knuckles against the desk.
Signals coming through clean, no drift, no degradation. This isn't
an old transmission, bouncing back. This is live. That has
to be wrong, I said, it's a malfunction, a glitch.
Behind me, Rodriguez muttered something in Spanish. This is bad luck,
he said. We shouldn't meddle with these things. Rodriguez had
been on the water longer than the rest of us combined.
He wasn't overly superstitious, but he had his traditions and ways.
I'd learn to respect and honor some of them. Gallagher
cleared his throat. I guess it could probably be a mistake, Captain,
some technomally, maybe a freak frequency bounce. The ocean can
be weird like that. I nodded slowly. He was right.
I've seen things like this before, stray signals, old transmissions
getting caught in atmospheric loops, even ancient broadcasts being replayed
by accident. But this was no technomally, as Gallagher had said,
the signal was coming through clean as a whistle. I
looked back at the screen. The coordinates placed the signal
two hundred miles ahead of us. Nothing there but open water,
no islands, no reefs, no known reck sites to mention.
Could be pirates, Holloway said suddenly. His voice was casual,
but I caught the way he swallowed hard afterward, baiting
us in. That was a possibility. It wouldn't be the
first time someone had rigged a fake emergency to lure
and a rescue crew but pirates don't use distress codes
from a century ago. I exhaled slowly, then turned back
to Rodriguez. You think this is bad luck? He nodded once.
As ship disappears and a hundred years later it starts
calling for help. That's not right, Captain, tell me something
about that doesn't sound wrong to you. I turned back
to the rest of the crew. Listen, we're professionals. That's
a distress call and we're obligated to check it out.
We went over this and training people. There's nobody else
around us for this radio into nearby ships from here,
and we take it from there. Could be a hoax,
could be a malfunction, could be something else entirely, but
we won't unless we look. Gallagher hesitated. Captain, I that's final.
I turned back toward the helm, set a course for
the cordinates. No one spoke. The tension in the air shifted. Finally,
Gallagher muttered something under his breath and nodded Aye. Sir.
Rodriguez didn't argue. He just shook his head and walked away.
The fog rolled in a few minutes after we started
heading for the location, and it was getting steadily worse.
The further. We pushed toward the coordinates, the denser it became,
until the ocean and sky blurred into the same endless void.
The radar picked up the ship before we could see it.
The radar was reading a massive ship floating just ahead.
The readings weren't erratic, weren't distorted. Whatever was out there
was solid, so we weren't heading for a shipwreck. Gallagher
adjusted the radio frequency, turning dials with the patience of
a man who had done it a thousand times before.
His jaw was tight, his fingers tapping anxiously against the console.
Still nothing. He muttered, no response. He tried again, This
is the envy red saber responding to an emergency distress
call perdition, Do you read over? The radio remained silent,
just static, a low hans stretching out like a dead signal.
I exhaled, slowly, rubbing my temple, keep trying all the way.
Stood near the bridge window, staring out into the mist,
like he was trying to will something into focus. He
shifted uneasily. If they needed help, shouldn't they be responding?
Galagher shook his head. Even if they're dead in the water,
someone should be hearing us. If the beacon is live,
the comb should be live too. Maybe the radio's busted,
I said, through my teeth. Maybe they lost power. Rodriguez
scoffed under his breath. Maybe. Then the fog thinned and
we saw it. The Perdition emerged from the mist like
a ghost. It loomed before us, intact and untouched, a
merchant vessel from another sentry, dark wood, slick with moisture,
Its sails furled tight, its masts rising into the gray
sky like skeletal remains. There were no signs of damage,
no wreckage, nothing to suggest why a ship like this
had sent out an SOS in the first place. Holloway
took a step closer to the window. Geez Gallagher tapped
a few keys on the radar console, shaking his head. God,
and is one massive ship? Rodriguez remained silent. I straightened
inhaling sharply. We're boarding. We lowered the dinghye and approached slow.
The ladder was still intact, rope and woods swaying gently
against the Perdition's hull. I grabbed hold, testing its weight.
The damp fibers creaked under my grip, but held firm.
I looked back. Holloway and Galagher sat stiff in the dingy.
Rodriguez didn't move, didn't reach for the ladder. His hands
were planted on his knees, fingers tight. You coming, I asked.
A pause. His jaw clenched, then reluctantly he took hold
of the wrongs. Holloway and Gallagher followed. The ship was still.
The lanterns swayed gently from their hooks, but they were unlit.
The ropes were neatly coiled, undisturbed. A layer of dampness
clung to everything, but there was no decay perdition. I shouted,
my voice, cutting through the mist. Anyone aboard. No response.
Gallagher called out next louder. His voice echoed, bouncing off
the sails before fading into nothing silence. Rodriguez muttered something,
glancing around. I turned back to the others. We'll cover
more ground if we split up. Gallagher take the upper decks,
Holloway with me. Rodriguez check below deck. We regroup in
ten minutes. If we don't find anybody, we leave and
report back to land with what we find. Gallagher excelled, sharply,
splitting up. I'll sure there's a good idea cap. You
know in movies they say we're wasting time, they said sternly.
Rodriguez simply turned, disappearing into the shadows below deck without
another word. Holloway and I moved carefully through the dimly
lit corridor. The damp put beneath us, groaning under our weight.
The air here was heavier than it had been outside,
thick with a scent of salt and aged timber. The
lanterns lining the walls were unlit, their glass panes smeared
with condensation. Every door we passed was shut tight, their
brass handles tarnished. At the end of the passage, one
door stood slightly Ajar I pushed it open. Stepping inside,
the captain's quarters was small, but oddly a single cart
against the wall neatly made. The sheets still tugged in tight.
A chest at the foot of the bed latched but
not locked. The desk took up most of the space,
its surface covered in loose papers, maps curled at the edges,
ink bottles tipped over and dried. A leather bound log
box sat in the center, lying open to a page
warped with moisture. Beside it, a lantern, unlit was still
filled with oil. Holloway hesitated in the doorway, nostrils flaring slightly.
You smell that I did not rot, not mildew, just
damp and sour. The scent clung to everything, thick and stale,
the way a house smells when it's been shut up
for months, or a ship has been sailing for decades.
I ran my fingers over the desk. The wood was swollen,
the grain rough beneath my touch. The papers beneath the
log book were stuck together. In places the ink smudged,
but the words beneath my fingers were still legible. I
flipped through the log book carefully. Holloway steps inside, now
staying close to the door, his gaze shifting between scattered
papers and the rest of the room. What does it say?
I squinted at the text, reading aloud. May third, nineteen
twenty one. Northeasterly, wind steady at ten knots, course adjusted westward,
men in good spirits. I skimmed further down. The next
few entries were standard. Nothing how to the ordinary, where
the conditions coarse adjustments, A brief note about rationing. Then
something changed May tenth, A voice below deck last night
Bosen claims he heard it too, but there was no
one there. Crew uneasy. I frowned, flipping further May thirteenth.
The men are restless. I do not believe it was
the wind. Mister Avery refuses to sleep below. The others
are beginning to whisper. Holloway shifted on his feet. You
think they had a stowaway. Maybe I kept reading. The
last entry was written in a hasty scrawl, as if
the writer had barely finished before slamming the books shot
May eighteenth. The sea is speaking. The men are listening.
I am the only one left. I stared at it
for a long moment. The ink smudged and bleeding into
the page. The words rushed uneven. The last page wasn't finished.
Holloway leaned over my shoulder, exhaling sharply man. I closed
the log book, running a thumb along the frayed edges
of the pages. There's no mention of distress before this,
No damage, no sickness, no storm. I gestured at the room,
and this place looks like someone just left. Holloway glanced around,
rubbing his arms. I don't like this cap. This isn't
how a shiplocks after a hundred years. I knelt beside
the chest at the foot of the bed, running a
hand over the latch. It wasn't locked. I lifted the lid. Inside,
neatly folded clothes sat stacked on one side, a pair
of boots placed carefully beside them, a shaving kit, a
pocket watch. Small ordinary things, but clearly untouched for a
very long time. Holloway exhaled through his nose. No personal letters,
no sign of where they went. No. I set the
watch back, my fingers, brushing the fabric of the clothes
beneath it. The material was damp, but still intact, not
eaten away by high more salt. I stood glancing at Holloway.
Where the hell is the crew? And who? And how
do they make a distress cup? Before he could add,
a noise echoed from somewhere outside the room, a deep,
dull thud. Holloway turned sharply toward the doorway. I tensed,
straining to hear past the thick stillness. Then another sound, shuffling, distant,
slow Gallagher's voice carried through the corridor. Rodriguez, I felt
something cold settle in my gut. We stepped out of
the room. The ship was silent again, nothing but the
distant lapping of water against the hall. Gallagher stood near
the helm, looking around, frowning. Have you seen rodriguezes, he asked.
I glanced towards the stairs leading below deck. He should
have been back by now. The ten minutes were up.
He was checking below, I said. Gallagher exhiled through his nose,
rolling his shoulders. He hesitated, then turned his gaze towards
the stairwell. You think he found something. Gallagher led the way,
his flashlights sweeping the stairwell. As we descended into the
lower decks, our boots heavy. The same smell from the
captain's quarters was present here, but stronger. It smelled so wrong.
I gripped the railing, stepping down cautiously. Rodriguez, My voice
came out, tight, you down here, silence. Holloway moved close
behind me, barely a step away, Breathing hard through his nose.
He kept glancing over his shoulder, like he was expecting
something to be there. When he turned back, Gallagher kept
his jaw locked tight, pressing forward, his flashlight bouncing off
old crates and rusty tools. Another few steps, another breath
of damp air, thick with salt. Then we heard it,
a crash, wood splintering, a low, wet gurgling. We turned fast,
Gallagher's light flicking wildly, catching nothing but empty space. But
the sound was still there. A struggle. I moved first,
pushing past the other's heart hammering against my ribs. Rodriguez
no answer, A thud, something heavy hitting the floor. We
stood frozen all the way, clenched his jaws so tight
I thought it might snap. Then finally I stepped forward.
The corridor stretched ahead, damp wood groaning beneath us. I
forced myself to move faster, flash like, gripped tight, I
pulled so loud in my ears, I almost didn't hear
the drip, but it was there, soft rhythmic drip, drip, drip.
Gallagher saw it first. His breath hitched, his steps faltered.
His flashlight beam caught something on the floor ahead, something red,
a trail, a body. Rodriguez. I stopped breathing. The flashlight
shook slightly, my grip, illuminating torn fabric, shredded flesh, broken bones.
His chest had been ripped open, chunks of him were missing.
When I was gone, the socket black and gave it
in his jaw was slack, the muscles of his neck mangled,
as if something had chewed through them. Alloway made a noise, choked, disbelieving.
Gallagher swallowed thickly behind me. He didn't move, None of
us did. Rodriguez hadn't just been attacked. He had been eaten.
I had seen a lot of things at sea, drowning,
suicide accidents. This wasn't any of those. I opened my mouth,
then closed it again. Holloway took a step back from
the corpse, shaking his head. His breathing was erratic, chest
rising and falling too fast, like he was trying not
to hyper ventilate. No, No, we need to go, We
need to go right now. What the hell did this
to him? Gallagher hadn't moved, just kept staring at the
mess that used to be Rodriguez. His face was unreadable,
but I could see his fingers twitching at his side,
like his body was deciding whether to run or shut
down completely. I exhaled, forcing my mind to stay in control.
We can't just leave him here. Holloway snapped his head
up to look at me. His eyes were wild. Are
you are you serious? His voice cracked like you couldn't
believe what he was hearing. Look at him. There's no
bringing him back. He's dead. He's he jested with both hands,
stumbling over his words. He's gone, captain, and if we
don't get the hell off the ship, we'll be next.
I clinched my jaw, kept him a voice even I
know that, do you? He let out a sharp, humorless laugh,
Because I don't think you do. I think you're trying
to make sense of this, trying to be the goddamn
captain when we should already be getting the hell out
of it. We will not leave him here. Holloway went silent.
I forced myself to keep going, even though my stomach
felt like it was trying to turn itself inside out.
We should at least bring him back to his wife
and family, hold a proper funeral. Gallagher exceled, sharply, running
a hand down his face. His shoulders were still stiff,
his posture tense. I swallowed, glancing down at what was
left of Rodriguez. I didn't even know what we'd tell
anyone back on land, and there was something about the
way he had been left there, torn open and abandoned,
that didn't sit right with me. I forced myself to
look back at them. We don't just leave him here
like some animal carcass. We'd take him back. Holloway didn't
say anything, just looked at me, eyes dark and unreadable.
Then finally Gallagher let out a slow breath and nodded.
We didn't argue about it anymore. The smell of blood
was worse now. The motion of dragging him had stirred it,
letting its seep into the wood, thick and warm and unmistakable.
Holloway had his hands hugged under Rodriguez's arms, his face
a combination of something between determination and revulsion. Gallagher and
I took the legs, lifting as best we could. The
ship groaned around us as we moved. Every step was slow, heavy.
The weight of the dead is always different than the
weight of the living. More final. We didn't talk, just moved,
just kept our eyes ahead. We were almost to the
stairwell when Gallagher muttered weight. We stopped. His flashlight flickered
bouncing off something near the far end of the corridor,
and followed his gaze, shifting my own beam to match.
Something was there. At first I thought it was a man. Hey,
are you the person that sent out to distress signal,
who the hell did this to our friend? Who are you?
I shouted? It didn't respond. Instead, it just stood in
the shadows, half lost in the darkness. Then it stepped forward.
Its body was swollen, bloated in places, like it had
been left underwater for too long. The skin was blue gray,
tinged with deep, sickly greens. The texture was hoarse, its
flesh not smooth, but broken up, cracked like dried leather.
Clusters of binnacles hung to its shoulders, its arms, the
side of its neck. It stared at me, and I
stared back. Its mouth hung slightly open. The inside of
its mouth was ragged and torn. The gums were black,
the teeth rotting, but something moved inside, shifting Beneath the teeth,
small thin tendrils stained with moisture, flicked in and out
between them, almost like feelers. It took another step forward,
and it spoke, not words, not anything that should have
been speech, just the wet, gurgling croak. Something pulled from
the depths of rotting lungs. Rodriguez's body hit the floor
with a dull, wet thump. As we let go and ran.
We didn't think, didn't speak, didn't breathe. The thing behind
us lurched forward, its feet dragging across the damp wood,
its movements both too slow and too fast. I could
hear it, the wet, labored wheeze rattling in his chest,
the sickly pop of something shifting under its skin. Gallagher
shoved past me, his flashlight being bouncing wildly. Holloway was
right behind him, his breath coming ragged. Desperate. We made
it to the stairs, our boots slamming against the steps,
but the thing wasn't too far behind us. And then
Holloway slipped. He hit the landing hard, his flashlight skidding
across the floor. He scrambled up onto his hands and knees, gasping.
But the thing behind us was already there, a wet
slap of flesh and wood, a catual croak. I turned,
barely catching a glimpse of it lurching toward Holloway. Its
mouth yawned open, unimaginably deep, a mess of shattered teeth
and writhing slip tendrils. I was so close I didn't think.
I grabbed the first thing I could, a box of
tools to my left head, a crowbar. I grabbed it
so tight my hand ached, then swung. The crack of
impact was sharp, jarring. The thing's head jerked violently to
the side, and something deep inside it made a wet,
sucking sound, like air escaping from a bloated carcass. It staggered.
Gallagher was already moving, hauling Holloway to his feet. I
took another step forward and brought the crowbar down hard,
aiming for its head, its chest, anything that would break.
It didn't bleed. It leaked. Dark brackish water spilled from
the wound, sloshing onto the deck, carrying with it the
wreek of salt and decay. But it didn't stop. He
grabbed at me, his fingers webbed and thick with barnacles,
its nails blackened and splitting. I wrenched away, a breath
coming in short gasps. Gallagher moved next, slamming his boot
into my chest, sending it staggering back. Holloway grad a
rusted pipe from the floor and brought it down on
its skull. This time it collapsed. The final shuddering breath
rattled out from its lungs, but there was no struggle,
no death throes, just the slow, unnatural way. It deflated,
like the sea itself was pulling its insides back down
into the depths. The ship went silent. The three of
us stood there, panting, shaking, dripping sweat. I forced myself
to breathe. My heart was still hammering, my body still
locked in fight or flight, but we weren't being chased
any more, not yet. Gallagher wiped the sweat from his
brow with a shaky hand. Geez. He muttered, what the
hell was it? Holloway didn't answer. I swallowed hard and
stepped forward. My legs shook as adrenaline surge threw me.
The creature's skin was the worst part, pale, almost translucent
in places, bloated with water, the veins underneath bulging, too dark,
too thick. It had been human once, that much was clear,
but it wasn't any more. The barnacles, the jagged nails,
the empty sockets or his eyes should have been. Whatever
had happened to this thing, it had changed then I
really looked at it. It had clothes ragged, torn, but
still there, A heavy wool coat tattered and salt eaten,
A loose undershirt ripped down the front, A pair of
slacks that might have once been navy blue. I knew
these clothes. They weren't just old rags. There were a uniform,
a sailor's uniform. Holloway must have noticed it at the
same time I did, because he let out a short,
shaky breath. I turned slightly, saw his hands clenching at
his side. His face was pale, his lips pressed into
a thin line cap. He said, voice low, How many
I blinked? I Holloway swallowed his Adam's apple, bobbing in
his throat. He didn't take his eyes off the corpse.
How many, he repeated, quieter this time. How many crewmen
would a ship like this have? I stared at him.
Then I looked around us. Big ship, massive, really for
a merchant vessel of this size back in the nineteen twenties.
I clenched my jaw. At least thirty, they said. Holloway
exhiled slowly through his nose. He didn't look away from
the thing on the floor. Let's get out quickly, calling
for help and come back for a drink. The sound
rose from all over the lower decks, from the corridors,
from the darkness behind the crate, A chorus of damp,
shuddering exhales, all breathing in unison. Holloway heard it too,
his face drained of color. Gallagher took a slow step back,
his lights shaking in his grip. They heard us. They
crawled out of the dark, dragging themselves across the damp wood,
climbing from the flooded lower decks. Some staggered upright, their
legs bent at wrong angles. Others moved on all fours,
their limbs elongated, their bloated fingers curling into the boards.
One of them lurched into the light. I could hear
Holloway gagging. I took a step back. The creature's head
snapped toward me, and then it stumbled and ran. At
the same time, Gallagher screamed. The whole ship irrupted into motion.
The creatures swarmed forward, scrambling over each other, crawling, sprinting,
dragging themselves toward us. Go, I shouted, shoving hollow Way
toward the stairs. We ran. Gallagher was ahead of me,
Holloway was right behind him. I could hear the creatures
closing in the sick, with thud of hands and knees
against the wood, the wheezing, the gurgling. Gallagher was the
first to reach the stairs, taking them two at a time,
all the way, stumbled caught himself. I turned my head
just once and saw them dozens, their forms shifting in
the dim light, some missing entire pieces of themselves, but
still coming. One of them leapt forward, its jaw unhinging.
Gallagher reached the railing, but her hand shot out from
the darkness and grabbed his ankle. He hit the stairs hard,
his flashlight clattering against the floor. I lunged forward, trying
to grab his arm, but I was too slow. Something
tall galaghoers screamed, and then he was gone. Holloway kept running.
I had no choice but to follow. I could still
hear Gallagher screaming. Then it turned into gurgling. We burst
onto the deck, gasping for air, lungs burning muscles, screaming.
The floor was wet, and Holloway and I both slipped
and fell, and some of the things gained on us.
Move I shouted, but my voice barely carried over the thick,
suffocating air. Then they hit us. The first one grabbed
my arm, fingers slick and bloated, curling around my wrist.
I whipped around, swung everything I had, my fast cracking
against the thing's skull. It barely reacted. This jaw hung open,
those blackened gums and jagged teeth barely visible in the
dim light. The thing inside his mouth flicked reaching. I
drove my knee into its gut, yank in my arm
free stumbling back. Holloway was next, a pair of them
closing in on him, their movements slow, like they planned
to enjoy themselves. He grabbed a rusted pole from the
deck and swung hard, knocking one of them back. The
other lunged, grabbing his shoulder. I rushed forward, slamming into
the thing, sending both of us sprawling to the deck.
Holloway stumbled back, panting, wiping sweat from his face with
a shaking hand. And then I felt it, fingers around
my ankle. My stomach dropped. I kicked hard, but the
grip was iron. It was dragging me back. I tried
to reach for something, but my fingers only scraped against
the deck, against the damp, rotting wood. And then Holloway
was there. He grabbed my arms, yanking me up. The
things gripped tightened, its rotting nails, trying to dig into
my skin. I barely had time to register the pain
before Holloway ripped a plank off the floor and smashed
it in the thing's face and wet, sickening crunch, the
grip loosened. That was all we needed. We ran Holloway
skiddy to a stop near the railing. He turned to me,
chest heaving. He didn't speak, he didn't need to. We
both knew one option. Jump. I gave him a single nod.
No hesitation, no second guessing, just do it. We turned
together and jumped. The air rushed past my ears, the
cold spray of salt water hitting my skin as we
plummeted toward a black abyss below. I hit the water hard,
the cold like a knife to the chest. My breath vanished,
stolen by the sudden pressure, the darkness, the silence. For
half a second, I was weightless, spinning. The current gripped me,
dragged me downward. I kicked hard, fighting against it, lung screaming,
heart hammering. My fingers reached for the surface, for air,
for anything. Then I broke through, gasping, choking. I wiped
the salt from my eyes, Twisting searching Holloway, I saw
his head bob up a few feet away, sputtering, spitting
sea water, where his voice broke. Horse panicked, we're here,
We're where's the dinghy? I turned, looking frantically through the
fog drenched water. We saw it just a few feet
from where we landed. We pulled ourselves in, slipping and shaking,
and just grabbed the oars and started rowing. As my
adrenaline faded, I could focus my eyes, hear things, see
to row. I had to face the ship, seeing it
slip into the thick fog that surrounded us, and on
the silhouette flat line of the railing, I saw shapes
that broke the perfect linearity of it, lumps vague shapes
wandering to the perimeter of the ship, watching us leave,
bound to the cursed vessel. I was more than ready
to just leave the ship behind, be done with it.
But I heard something, not the slashing of them swimming
towards us, nor the chase of something in the water.
A voice, Captain, come back, please. It was Rodriguez, not
a mimicry wet and gurgled beneath the monster's form. His
voice was clear, like he was perfectly well, like he
hadn't been torn apart in the lower deck. Don't leave
us behind, Come back this time it was Gallagher. I hesitated,
my rowing slowed. Holloway tapped my arm, and when I
looked at his face, he just shook his head. It
wasn't him, it wasn't them. I knew that, but part
of me still wanted to go back act, just to
make sure. I thought back to the log book, the
final entry. The sea is speaking, the men are listening.
In a straight up rawl, one or two we could handle.
A ship of thirty hardened sailors would be able to
handle that level of incursion. But all it would take
is one, one familiar voice, one person you care enough
about to check on to make sure they're okay, and
you can see how quickly things can turn sour. We
eventually reached our vessel. Holloway collapsed behind me, panting, coughing, shaking.
Neither of us spoke. By the time we reached the ship,
the perdition was gone. The fog had swallowed it all
like it had never been there, not all