The Recovered Logs of Midshipman Gregory Samuels Part 5

Midshipman’s Log Part 95

Gregory Samuels

September 20, 1252 CNS

I can’t really deny it.  It’s getting to me.  It’s been a some time since everything’s gone quiet.  I spent the first few days stalking through the corridors painstakingly in search of unwanted passengers and some sign or signal of the whereabouts or final destination of my comrades, but it’s all just empty; there’s nothing there, not the rattling call of a hoarse throat down a long steel corridor or the paddling reverberation of fleeing or pursuing footfalls, but it’s just empty, as vacuous as the murderer that surrounds these stalwart six walls.

I spent the first day huddled up within the crew quarters; I don’t think I even blinked the whole time, fixated upon the solid-steel door encapsulated within the auspices of Hercules’s ponderous bulkheads.  But eventually I grew hungry, hungry enough to risk murder—or worse things only imagined.  The mess was immaculate.  Not a scratch and certainly not a boom interrupted the seemingly slow preparation of my freeze-dried rations. 
post-it_05 food
Biscuits and gravy—filthy stuff—I don’t know what alligator-besotted backwater concocted it, but hunger, you see, is the finest sauce, even if it is hard to eat with your left hand while your itchy trigger-finger violates the most sacred tenets of firearm discipline.

I couldn’t get over how quiet it was, how still the shadows, how crisp the recycled air.  I didn’t know what to do.  As carefully as I could, I went from storage module to storage module, seeking perhaps something that I’d missed, or perhaps it was merely loneliness; just to observe my duties might make me feel whole again.

I visited Sally again.  Didn’t have the heart to tell her what plagued me, though I’m sure she had an inkling.

I worry I’ll lose track of the days.

I returned to the command module.  We’re on course.  The navigational intelligence demanded the presence of boatswain.  I didn’t know what to say, tried to explain that he was wounded or hurt, and she called my bluff immediately, indicating that the roster still denoted him healthy and hale and presumably on-duty.  I couldn’t help being curious.  I brought up the roster window to see what the administering intelligence thought of our status.  post-it_04 rosterFour green lights accompanied the names of my comrades.  A yellow light presaged my own.  I didn’t know what to say.

I’ve returned to the crew quarters to make this report.  I sealed the bulkhead behind me.  I can’t be sure, but I think someone’s been here, rearranged a few personal items—but none my own, so I can’t be sure.  The sheets are unblemished.  I’m pretty sure I sealed the armory doors behind me.  I’m not sure if it’s just the groaning of an old ship, but I think I hear voices, but I can’t tell what they’re saying; I can’t even tell if they’re addressing me.

It’s hard to sit upright; I’ve a splitting headache—feel like I’m going to fall face-forward onto the metal panels adorning with adornment the subservient floor.  Feel sick.  Fucking biscuits and gravy.  Fucking freeze-dried rubbish.

I’ll sign in again soon.  I’ll get her there safely.  And if I can’t, I promise I won’t let them get her.