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Authors: Austin Quinn
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around us as falling plaster turned the tub water into a milky white soup.
I don‘t know how long it was before the gunfire stopped, but it felt like hours. My ears were still ringing when Finn peeked over the top of the tub. He made sure to keep me from doing the same. I could still hear the sound of the helicopter, but it seemed further away. Finn slowly lifted himself out of the tub and walked toward the bathroom door. It looked like a piece of burnt Swiss cheese as he peered through one of the holes.
“I don’t see anything,” he said. “I think they‘ve moved on.”
“For now,” I mumbled as I raised myself out of the tub. Water dripped from my clothes as I stepped across the tiled floor.
“If they’re willing to murder people that are just near the ship, just imagine what their plans are for the people on it. My guess is they’re trying to contain the infection. So that means a distress signal was probably sent out, but instead of rescuing the ship, they’re quarantining it.”
As Finn spoke, the hope I‘d felt earlier seemed a million miles away; all that remained was anger and fear. My hands started to tremble as I thought about the people in the news chopper.
“So much for a rescue.” I said solemnly. “What should we do now?”
“We need to sit tight for a moment,” Finn replied, “just in case that helicopter or any of the others are waiting to see if we’re still alive. The gunfire probably drew a lot of those corpses our way, too. I think the best thing to do now is be patient, and quiet. Very quiet.”
My journal was sitting on the countertop next to the sink. I’d put it there earlier when I was checking to see if the water was still working. Other than a few chunks of plaster I had to brush off, it was still in one piece.
I’m so thankful it survived the onslaught of bullets. It has given me something to do while we wait, almost like an escape from the nightmare. The dread that’s engulfed the whole of this ship somehow can’t reach me when I write, and I’m learning to savor every moment of it. The hard part is looking up from the pages and realizing what I’m writing isn’t fiction.
The sight of Finn low crawling out of the bathroom probably would’ve been hilarious if we weren’t scared of being killed at any moment. He came back after a few minutes with a pile of clothes. I slipped on some dry jeans and a blue tank top as Finn put some jeans and a t-shirt on. One of his pant legs had black stuff all over it.
“Is that what I think it is?” I asked, pointing to his jeans.
“It’s not from the corpses. It’s gun powder from the bullets I think. A lot of our clothes are covered in it, along with most of the cabin.”
“Speaking of the cabin, the door is still holding,” he whispered, “but just barely. One of the hinges didn’t survive the gunfire, and there are several large holes in the door itself. If those things try to get inside, it probably won’t hold for long.”
I didn’t respond. Instead I just stared vacantly at the busted remains of the bathroom door. We were so exposed and vulnerable. Only now we didn’t just have reanimated corpses to worry about, but helicopters with machine guns hovering over us as well.
We spent the remainder of the day hiding in the bathroom. Finn laid a few of the towels that weren’t singed too badly on the floor for us to lie on. It still wasn’t very comfortable, but I didn’t say anything.
The cabin is getting dark, and unless the power magically comes back on my writing will dwindle with the fading sunlight.
Finn and I will think of what to do tomorrow. There has to be a better option than holding up in a destroyed bathroom, waiting to be shot, or eaten…
Service Without A Smile
August 22 nd
Let me start off by saying that we are no longer in our bathroom, or our cabin for that matter. With that being said,
I don‘t know how long it was before the gunfire stopped, but it felt like hours. My ears were still ringing when Finn peeked over the top of the tub. He made sure to keep me from doing the same. I could still hear the sound of the helicopter, but it seemed further away. Finn slowly lifted himself out of the tub and walked toward the bathroom door. It looked like a piece of burnt Swiss cheese as he peered through one of the holes.
“I don’t see anything,” he said. “I think they‘ve moved on.”
“For now,” I mumbled as I raised myself out of the tub. Water dripped from my clothes as I stepped across the tiled floor.
“If they’re willing to murder people that are just near the ship, just imagine what their plans are for the people on it. My guess is they’re trying to contain the infection. So that means a distress signal was probably sent out, but instead of rescuing the ship, they’re quarantining it.”
As Finn spoke, the hope I‘d felt earlier seemed a million miles away; all that remained was anger and fear. My hands started to tremble as I thought about the people in the news chopper.
“So much for a rescue.” I said solemnly. “What should we do now?”
“We need to sit tight for a moment,” Finn replied, “just in case that helicopter or any of the others are waiting to see if we’re still alive. The gunfire probably drew a lot of those corpses our way, too. I think the best thing to do now is be patient, and quiet. Very quiet.”
My journal was sitting on the countertop next to the sink. I’d put it there earlier when I was checking to see if the water was still working. Other than a few chunks of plaster I had to brush off, it was still in one piece.
I’m so thankful it survived the onslaught of bullets. It has given me something to do while we wait, almost like an escape from the nightmare. The dread that’s engulfed the whole of this ship somehow can’t reach me when I write, and I’m learning to savor every moment of it. The hard part is looking up from the pages and realizing what I’m writing isn’t fiction.
The sight of Finn low crawling out of the bathroom probably would’ve been hilarious if we weren’t scared of being killed at any moment. He came back after a few minutes with a pile of clothes. I slipped on some dry jeans and a blue tank top as Finn put some jeans and a t-shirt on. One of his pant legs had black stuff all over it.
“Is that what I think it is?” I asked, pointing to his jeans.
“It’s not from the corpses. It’s gun powder from the bullets I think. A lot of our clothes are covered in it, along with most of the cabin.”
“Speaking of the cabin, the door is still holding,” he whispered, “but just barely. One of the hinges didn’t survive the gunfire, and there are several large holes in the door itself. If those things try to get inside, it probably won’t hold for long.”
I didn’t respond. Instead I just stared vacantly at the busted remains of the bathroom door. We were so exposed and vulnerable. Only now we didn’t just have reanimated corpses to worry about, but helicopters with machine guns hovering over us as well.
We spent the remainder of the day hiding in the bathroom. Finn laid a few of the towels that weren’t singed too badly on the floor for us to lie on. It still wasn’t very comfortable, but I didn’t say anything.
The cabin is getting dark, and unless the power magically comes back on my writing will dwindle with the fading sunlight.
Finn and I will think of what to do tomorrow. There has to be a better option than holding up in a destroyed bathroom, waiting to be shot, or eaten…
Service Without A Smile
August 22 nd
Let me start off by saying that we are no longer in our bathroom, or our cabin for that matter. With that being said,
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