Midshipman’s Log Part 100
October 12, 1252 CNS
First, I’d like to apologize, extend my apologies, get on my hands and knees in thorough prostration. Last night was just a very bad night, like none I’ve ever had before, even before I joined this little merchant marine. I would have begun this log earlier, but my morning and much of my mid-day had been utterly wiped clean. I didn’t get a lick of sleep, you see; the pounding had continued throughout the evening, and I’d been worried through the lot of it that the bulkhead was going to become undone from its very hinges; how the door remained firm is utterly beyond me. Whatever it was on the other side of that door was monstrously strong, many times removed from even the most athletic of strongmen. The door, as I had said, had indeed held firm, but with the cessation of the endless pounding, thorough racket skittering like a cockroach across the wrinkles of my mind, I eventually found the courage to test the door, see what was on the other side. I didn’t much fancy the idea of remaining you see, for reasons I’ve yet to mention. In any case, the door was completely and utterly jammed, and I didn’t have a lot of tools or materials to work with. If I ever wanted to get another bite, if I wanted to resupply my military arms, if I wanted to make sure the ship was to continue to run, I had to make a break for it. As it was, I made creative use of a crowbar, a bare thimble of thermite gel stolen from Donnelly’s locker, and a spare cooking torch to free the lock, by which I eventually was permitted just the bare necessary narrowness to strain to the exterior hallways. What a fucking mess. Place was covered in shit, scorch marks everywhere. I can only imagine what cyclopean horror had battered down the hallways.
I tried to get some sleep earlier—that night—despite the incessant pounding obliterating what remaining senses I still possessed, any facsimile of my mental wherewithal. I’m not sure I still did. Still do. I saw them between the flashes of the overhead looming lights activated between the echoing blasts of monstrous potential. My crew-mates. Casting devilish aspersions from across the room, closing the distance in the red-light, green-light of the sudden and intermittent dark—they were only dispelled with the discharge of my firearm, but they somehow always returned bearing the grim countenance of some fattened feline for a wounded and struggling mouse leaking out the crimson profusions of the very end of life. I hid under my bed. But they found me. I only had one bullet left. I closed my eyes, sobbing, and poised the muzzle against the crook of my chin, waiting for them lay their hands upon me.
My eyes are red and worn and bruised.
I’m going to the command module to check our progress, see if any vessel’s picked up our emergency, but first I’ve got to access the armory. Wish me luck.