CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I work as part of a research team in Greenland. We think we've found Noah's Ark" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 30, 2020

Learn about this discovery with me. CREEPYPASTA STORY- by ChristianWallis: ►https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...►https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...►https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Pascal Quidault: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/r3rxLSUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

You can understand why we weren't exactly expecting this. Dr. Grieves had been talking for hours, but I'd barely been listening. I was fixated on the wind-swept Arctic plain beneath me. The turbulence this low down was rough, and the inside of the plane was closed to freezing. But the view it offered was astonishing. It was like looking down on an alien world, an infinite white sheet, and broken by gargantuan clumps of black volcanic rock. Most of the team down there are geologists and meteorologists,

so for the longest time they never really consider the possibility that we'd need an archaeologist, he said. The ice sheet is miles thick and over firm bedrock and the team's primary concern. Well, up until a week ago, was to investigate the effect of global warming this far in land. The doctor's breath turned to mist with each excited word. He was smiling, even as his nose turned blue.

What did you think it was? I asked. Well, Sonos showed it was hollow, but parts of it were clearly wooden metal, but the size of the thing. I guess the simple answer, Dr. Rallet, is that we didn't know. We aren't keen on making guesses. As you know, it can lead to bias. But I think if it wasn't for the fissure, we would never have even guessed the full truth. Current samples of the trapped air are over 85,000 years old. a ship like this rewrites everything we know about our history.

Quite a bit of luck, I said. Well, the doctor replied, if you work here for long, you'll quickly learn that the ice sheet is degrading faster with each year. The warmer it gets, the more liquid water there is to weather out old caves and expand them, or even to create new ones. It was exactly that process,

and are looking for it, that led us to the discovery. The effect is the same, though, I said. A new cave system opened up within days of your discovery and it led you right to it, as if the original find wasn't bizarre enough. Well, yes, Dr. Hargreave said. It is a miracle.

That's what I've been trying to get at. Chances like this aren't just once in a lifetime, Dr. Rosette. They're once in an epoch. It makes winning the lottery look mundane. I couldn't quite stimmy a chuckle, and I had to shake my head, apologetically to the doctor when he took offence. I believe you, I said.

I do. It's just that exact same luck has landed you in a rather strange position. Everyone thinks it's a hoax, Dr. Greaves cried, slumping back into his seat like a scolded boy. They've sent three different researchers

from my own university and even after they've all confirmed the find I'm still being treated like a fraud. Proof is in the pudding, I said. You know, the truth. See, the doctor said, cheered slightly by my words, if anyone would understand, it's you. I was saved from the need to reply further when a light chimed overhead and the captain's

words rang out over the speaker. The doctor straightened his chair and Ryan, my assistant PhD student, finally woke up. I returned to the window and watched, breath held as we finally made our descent, sinking into the fine white mists below. Base camp was filled with busy students shuffling back and forth. In the distance, two young men argued over a half-de-ssembled ice drill, while nearby three people worked to feed a small pack of sled dogs. In the centre of it all was a small table where two men, around Hargreaves' age, assembled various picks and other tools.

I had made my way towards them, dodging half a dozen people carrying boxes along the way. Everyone looked exhausted and utterly disinterested in my arrival And it was only when Dr. Greaves caught up with me And called out the two men in the centre That they looked up and paid attention Ah, Dr. Razor, the oldest called out Fat and Plump with red cheeks like Santa Good to see you, bloody tough going, isn't it?

But you've never flown anywhere like this before It's certainly something answered as he took my hand and shook it I am Dr. Whittle. This is Dr. Shirley. He pointed to the whip-court thin man beside him, who looked very much like the classic ideal of an aged adventurer. And obviously you're acquainted with Dr. Greaves.

The mustachioed man beside me smiled and gave me a small nod. Now, we've had a few of the staff put aside what data we've managed to collect so far and put it in your tent, which you'll find hopefully to your liking just over there. He pointed to some far corner of the camp and smiled as if that was all the introduction he needed. I ignored him, instead paying close attention to the rope called around his shoulder,

his spiked ice boots and the bundle of tools both men carried at their back. I'd like to see it, I said. I'll gear up now and join you. Oh, well, we sort of hoped you'd... No need to worry about my schedule, gentlemen. I smiled. That's my job.

I'll be with you shortly. I picked up my things and marched towards my tent, taking only brief notice of the small cotton heater I'd been provided. I hadn't arrived unprepared, and, despite what Mr. Whittle might have thought, I spent years working in the Arctic Circle, I was just as well equipped to deal with the climate as the best of them. By the time I was unpacked and ready, barely half an hour had passed.

And yet, when I left my tent, I saw that the three doctors were nowhere to be found. I pulled aside a young woman, Megan away passed, and asked if she'd seen where they went, and she told me they'd announced their descent just after I'd entered my tent. I was seething at the news, and had her show me the entrance to the phoeia.

Sure enough, there was fresh rigging buried into the ice, slack rope hanging loose over the edge. Thank you, I muttered, and attached my own safety line to the rigging. accepting that I'd be travelling solo the girl tried to talk me out of it but I was already a metre down before she could finish her plea

I can't say exactly why I did it except that I've been pulled into this venture at the very last possible minute and I wasn't very happy about it from Dr. Haggre's behaviour in the plane I thought perhaps that the researchers on site would be friendly enough but it seems they've figured out what I'd known

right from the beginning I'd been brought in by the university to harm the project's credit, not bolster it. I was a black enough sheep that from time to time my name will be stapled onto risky papers, willingly or not, to help ensure they sank in unfavourable journals. I'd learned to accept my fringe status years ago, but to researchers, only just learning about the death of their career, I was about as welcome as a leper in a hot tub. Thankfully, the vertical drop wasn't all that severe

and the journey down was short. The fissure penetrated a small cave system below the surface and, after a dozen feet, I landed on flat ground. I had previously worked in ice caves close to the edge of the Canadian coast and most of them have floor made of bedrock. But in Greenland, the ice sheet can be three kilometres in thickness and there was nothing but water worn ice for my feet to find purchase. I felt a kind of vertigo, imagining myself hovering two miles over the earth.

It was like another whirl down there. Fine moats of snow drifted lazily down from the breach above, and the gale force wind, ever present on the surface, had been whittled down to a distant whistle. It was not dark, as you might expect, because the crystal blue walls turned any torch into a dazzling light display. The effect was one of insulating warmth and uncanny beauty, but it made me feel small.

too small to be mucking around in a continent-sized lump of ice where even the minutest shift in material would leave me crushed like a gnat. I pushed on regardless, and the cave system opened up after a few dozen metres, but the vast empty spaces only doubled that feeling of insignificance. Thank God there were clearly marked guidelines to clip into. I must have fallen half a dozen times, and one of them brought me frighteningly close to time. into a bottomless chasm.

Without those safety lines, I would have slid right on over the sloped edge and died. But if those three adults could manage it, I knew I could too. It was just a matter of following the trail and staying clipped on. By the time I arrived, I was red-faced and sweaty

and had more than a few bruises hidden by my thick coat. The three men couldn't see any of those, but they raised an eyebrow at my breast. Deathless state, and I'm sure I heard Dr. Whittle make some snide comment beneath his breath. I was getting ready to start tearing into them when finally I saw it. And I wasn't in much shape to do anything afterwards, except Gork. It really did look like the photos. And, in fact, for a second there, I didn't believe my own eyes.

I just... Well, I just couldn't piece it together as something real. If I had taken a picture, you would have called it fake. If I had sketched it or painted it, you'd think it a pretty picture of a dream, but nothing more. I have seen photos of glacial ice bisected by sudden geological change, seen the clear blue crystal standing tall like an impossible snapshot of the ocean depths, but this was something else. Just a few metres away from where I stood, the wall of ice began,

and a few metres further the prow of an enormous ship was clearly seen frozen perfectly in time impossibly large for any wooden vessel I've ever seen it was like a jagged piece of rock or wood that jutted out from the darkness

towards us so that only the nose was visible it looked like some colossal aquatic predator with his face pressed against a sheet of glass and you couldn't help but feel a little afraid looking at it How big is it? I said, stammering the words out like a frightened child. The air pocket is around 800 metres.

I looked towards the three men. I didn't even remember who'd spoken. But my face must have said what I was thinking, because Mr. Whittle spoke up quickly enough. The nose is clearly visible about 100 metres tall. Whether the ship behind is 100 metres long, we can't easily say. but the sonar shows the cavity it's trapped in is 800 metres long

It could be half that I said and still dump all over everything I've ever understood By the limits of ship building The largest ships currently in existence Reach around 4 to 500 meters This This is a city that floats It shouldn't exist

Dr Shirley snarled And I realised the sour-faced adventurer Wasn't making the comment out of awe or even curiosity. It was more of a flat statement with the emphasis on shouldn't. Dr. Whittle and Grieves both noticed this

and something of an argument quickly broke out. Well it does exist, Garrett, Dr. Whittle cried. That issue has long been settled. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Dr. Greaves said. Please, gentlemen, this is truly something special. But Dr. Shirley was obstinate.

and difficult, and he never fully stated his case while I was present. Instead, he skirted around the idea that they should have never reported it, that they had somehow breached their scientific responsibility by not ignoring the evidence of their own eyes. In the meantime, I returned to the ship, absolutely breathtaking by its imposing size and jagged outline. It looked unlike any ship I'd ever seen, pitch black and full of blunt hard angles, like an oil tanker made out of burnt matchsticks. This won't reach the outside world, I said, my loud voice cutting cleanly through their bickering

so that they all look towards me. I'm sorry to say this, Dr. Greaves, but you won't be recognised for this kind of discovery, or in all likelihood any others. Some truths are a little too big, and this is one of them. You can't say that, Dr. Greaves cried. We've heard visitors from at least a dozen universities, and they've all seen this very thing right in front of you.

And they won't be recognised either, I smiled. Some things break the scientific method, and this. Oh boy, this is a big one. But we have to try, he cried. You said it yourself. The proof is in the pudding. I'm not surprised you're trying to pull us into your silly conspiracy peddling, Dr Whittle snorted.

None of you will see this work published. I told them, ignoring Dr. Whittles' remark, not even in small journals. To be honest, I thought it was all a hoax, despite the things I've seen. And so does everyone else, and they don't have the benefit of my experience. The fact you so readily called in help

will only make this worse for you, because the sooner it becomes clear you really do have something. Well, that's when they show up. They are welcome to it, Professor Shirley said, a glint of defeat in his eyes. I never wanted to be Galileo. I don't blame you, I replied,

but there are worse hills to die on. As it stands, I'd say you have a week or two before some very stern-looking people turn up and start taking everything you have. At least, that's my experience. Of course, cried Dr. Whittle, here we go again, the strange men in suits,

the inexplicable stalling of a bright young career, threats, and even direct coercion. The difference here, Dr. Rutherland. is that we have proof of our claims instead of parading some nonsense theory about prehistoric civilizations. I left that last part unanswered and instead cut to the chase.

You have seven to fourteen days, I said. Your careers are dead. There is no claim to be had, no place in the history box. I'm truly sorry, but sooner or later you must mourn the death of your life's work

because it's happening one way or another. Why else we're not? Would I be sent here to taint you all by association? Any of your colleagues who openly support you will quickly find themselves out of pocket for all sorts of reasons. Dismiss it is conspiracy all you want. I'm past arguing about it. But all you have going for you is that the people who matter still think you're lying,

and that buys you time. Time to do what? asked Dr. Greaves. I pointed to the ship. To go get a closer look? there will be no credit no claims no glory no acclaim

just the truth for you and you alone scream this news from a mountaintop and all you'll get is struck by lightning but for those of us who value knowledge for its own take there will always be the truth of what lies in that ship so I wrote to my hands together with barely contained glee who wants to crack this thing open

Ryan was fiddling with the lighting on his camera But I didn't have the hard to tell him None of it would leave the camp intact Still, his expertise in remote camera rigs Was very helpful And there was something strangely funny About watching him explain the concept of a GoPro To Professor Shirley

As it was, we managed the jury rig A pretty half-decent solution to just about every problem That had popped up in the last four days And with the recording equipment all set up we were good to go. Now the cave was almost always occupied as various engineers and mechanics had worked tirelessly to first drill into the ice

and then establish a safe corridor to the ship's hull, all under sealed, airtight conditions. Tents were set up and quarantine procedures established and standard hazmat deep pressure suits were hanging by the improvised bulkheads. Turns out that my connections weren't so unwanted after all and by the time I had a drill flown in that was worth over 250,000 pounds,

Dr. Whittle finally started warming up to me. Professor surely remained distant, but he broke one quiet evening while I was sat outside my tent and smoked, coming over to ask how I'd possibly know the head of the company well enough to work that kind of favour. Proof is in the pudding,

I said with a smile. My theories went down in flames, but the truth is still worth something in the right places. How do you think I fund my research? Some people will give anything to know what no one else does And they'll pay even more to tag along Or play some vital role in digging it all up But then again you'll find out soon enough

He said nothing in return and simply stumped off in silence His footfall was crunching in the snow But whether he liked it or not I'd play a vital role in making this all happen And I watched Dr Whittle and Professor Shirley's suit up With a kind of glint to my eye The professor caught it at one point and turned visibly red

and I had to look away to stop myself from laughing. This couldn't have happened without me and I stopped just short of openly reveling in it. Once Ryan had the remote camera feed all set up they pulled on their unwieldly helmets and started the long waddle to the bulkhead. I had felt a powerful sense of accomplishment all throughout this day

and yet the sight of the two men approaching the door with a ship looming over left me frightened for them. The ship was a pitch-black splinter in the abysmal depths and nothing about it looked welcoming, a floating city of Tar, too large to imagine moving around the open ocean. My own experiences taught me

that there were odd things buried deep in the earth that do not like to be woken up, and the question of who had built this ship and how remained hanging over all our heads. When I took the time to consult a few marine architects, they all practically laughed me off the phone at the suggestion of an 800-meter long wooden ship. Even with all the luxuries of modern technology, they said,

such a thing simply isn't feasible. One, only one, had floated the novel idea that it might somehow be workable if the wood scaled in size as well. But of course, he'd laughed, that had required tree over 800 metres tall to create a really solid structure with any hope of surviving the stress,

and gravity puts a hard limit on how tall trees can grow. I hadn't liked to think too much on that. I wasn't sure how to file it away in my brain, so I left it floating around until it came back to me in that moment as I watched the doctors enter the bulkhead and disappear from view. It was a question that should have inspired awe and fascination,

but that ship looked all too hungry, and I turned to the remote feed with a feeling of intense anxiety. It took hours for the two men to finally cut an entrance into the hole, and the whole time a small army of students waited on hand to take away the steady stream of samples and being tested. By the time they cut the final section away, Dr. Greaves had joined me, and we waited with bated breath.

Here we go, Dr. Whittle muttered to himself, and I watched as he plunged ahead. The entrance was about two first. foot off the ground and one of the men leaned forward in the darkness. His light was pale and chalky in the gloom, showing a floor coated in thick layers of dust that flared bright white in the camera. Debris led to the floor, buried under the blanket of dust like cabins in the snow. When one of the men started to climb upwards, his movement disturbed a flurry of ashy flakes

that swept across the screen like a blizzard. They flashed brightly in the camera's glare and visibility was poor. We could see no walls yet, just an empty space. Hesitantly, surely took his first steps and swept his head around to gauge the size of the room. It was enormous, though the ceiling was low and the shadows felt claustrophobic. We hadn't had time to arrange for proper medical monitoring, but I could well imagine both men's hearts were racing. Their breathing filled their helmets, and more than once they swallowed too loudly for our

They walked onwards until, after a few meters, something came into view. It swept past the camera at first, and before any of us could tell him to swing back, had already done a double take and brought the object into full view. It was a cage, filled with little more than a pile of white dust, and beside it was an identical one with similar contents. A few feet behind it, a wall came into sight, and the men's torches caught sight. of other crates all lined up in a row. Their exact number was lost the darkness,

but even with our limited sight, we saw that they were arranged in a repeating pattern of pairs. Two by two, I muttered. Dr. Greaves was pink, his face a puzzle I couldn't crack. Ryan's expression, at least was familiar. What the hell? He groaned.

I turned back to the feed and watched the two men follow the wall. The going is slow, and both scientists stopped often to collect a few loan items resting on top some of the crates. There were knives mostly, but one looked oddly like something the Egyptians used to remove the brain prior to mummification. One by one, they were bagged

and put away into various pouches along the men's suits. They were meticulous in detailing what little they found, so the going was slow. But eventually, a break in the wall appeared, It was a rounded doorway and looking through it we all saw a set of wooden steps rising into the darkness. There were wooden planks fixed to the wall with no sign of rails and the thought of ascending them turned my stomach. Did you see that? Dr. Whittle cried and everyone in the small crowd that had gathered around us all jumped at once.

From the back laughter could be heard but my eyes were wide and fixed on the screen. He was staring straight up at the stairs, desperately trying to see past the gloom. Did you see that? Dr. Whittle cried again. His voice suddenly frail. I did, I replied. I saw it. Something moved.

That's not possible, Doctor. Dr. Grieve said, grabbing the speaker. Check the audio recordings, Dr. Shirley said. His voice grave. I didn't see anything, but I'm sure I heard it. Ryan was already on it. While we had access to two standard radios, the suits included extremely sensitive recorders designed to pick out the faintest noise.

I didn't tell anyone on site, but they were actually specialist items used by ghost hunters to detect EVP. At the time, I'd found the irony delicious, sitting there as Ryan skipped through the first 20 minutes of recording. It wasn't irony I could taste, but instead the acid wash of terror. that stung the back of my throat. We saw it before we heard it, a rising peak in the waveform that stood out from the other noise. When it reached playback,

it began as some ill-defined shuffling, briefly pierced by a loud and clearly defined thump, followed by a fading drumming sound began to footforce retreating into the distance. For the last few minutes, Whitler refused to take his eyes away from the stairway, but surely his feed was roaming from side to side, He had focused on the doorway that appeared in the corridor a few metres down.

I imagine he was terrified, just like the rest of us, but it was clear he couldn't stop curiosity getting the better of him. He peered through the doorway and found an identical room to the last, filled with rows and rows of endless pale cages. What's that? He said, and approached one a few metres away. Whatever he saw, our cameras couldn't make it out, until he was right by it.

This pile of white and dust had a face. It emerged out of the mound like a primitive face carved into a volcano. Attached the two bars on either side of the cage were hands, frail and thin like a shrivelled monkey's paw. Of the arms there was no sign. Looks almost human, doesn't it? The professor said. It does.

I replied, My voice like paper. Is there anything underneath it, or is it just a pattern left by the dust? Why don't we find out? Surely replied, and I watched as he knelt down and pushed his arm between the bars.

He gently poked the service and it yielded to his fingers, but he must have felt something nonetheless because he spoke. It's not all dust, he mumbled, before pulling out a small section of skull that included some brow.

eye socket and cheekbone. He sifted through a bit more and found a few teeth that were too sharp and too long to be a primate, and he deposited them safely to the excitement of us all. Wait, he added, what's this?

That wasn't in the last room. He went further into the darkness until a small flat surface unveiled itself on the far wall. It looked like a kind of workspace, little more than a stone slab with a few large jars huddled around the floor beside it. One of the jars, about two feet tall,

had been hauled onto the top and was open. Be careful, I said as he approached it, suddenly aware of how far into the darkness he'd gone. Dr. Whittle, I added, turning to the second screen, Are you okay? His eyes were fixated on the stairs above him. His breaths were quivering, desperate, and no matter how hard I tried

he refused to reply Professor, I said returning to his feed I think you need to return to Dr. Whittle He was standing over the pot staring down into the featureless pile of white clay-like material

it was soft yielding like soil to the small scraper he used to collect a sample Professor I repeated myself you need to check on the speaker beside me exploded into a cacophony of screams.

The professor's own feed cried out as well so that the whole workspace was filled with dueling copies of the same shrieking horror. I snapped my head to the side and tried to see what was happening, but the doctor's screen showed only darkness while the professor shuffled quickly to the spot where his colleague had once stood.

He found only a lone strip of the doctor's suit, but no sign of the man himself. I was already shouting at Ryan to play back the recording of the doctor's feed while Dr. Greaves grabbed another screen and stared at the audio recording. He was pressing one side of a pair of headphones to his ear and his face had gone white in sheer terror.

What is it? I asked. But he didn't reply. He looked at me and I saw he was close to passing out. Professor, I yelled, grabbing the radio. You need to leave. Surely his speaker burst into protest but I ignored them and turned.

back to Dr. Greaves. What is it? I cried. What can you hear? Ryan, hovering just behind me, who could no longer bear the tension, leaned forward, and tore the headphone jack out of the computer. Both the doctor and I cried out at once. No, don't! But it was already too late?

The camp was filled with the sounds of wet and painful splutters. Someone was hyperventilating close by. short, sharp, desperate breaths and occasionally those deathly shudders turned into a small, gentle moans of dying protest. No, Dr. Whittle whispered, his voice distant, but he repeated the word a few more times. No, please.

There was a terrible crack and some of us winced. The hyperventilating stopped, with a frantic gurgles and wet animal panting continued. I turned the sound off with shaking hands, I could see that Professor Shirley was close to the stairs, one foot raised to go looking for his friend, and I cried out, Professor Shirley, I said, you need to leave. I have to find him, he roared, you can't be serious, we can't abandon him. His voice was so loud it hurt the speakers.

It was a sobering outburst. As his words died, the whole cave becomes silent, until only the sound of dripping water and radio static could be heard. Suddenly, we were all aware of how alone the professor was, and so was he. I could see him looking around, surrounded on almost all sides by aching shadow. This was an impossible nightmare carved out of tar, disorienting and distressing in ways that reeked of the uncanny. Leave, I whispered, and this time he didn't argue. He nodded, probably more to himself than to me. and at last he turned back the way he came.

It was awkward to walk in the suit, but I wheeled him on to go as quickly as possible. I don't know if it was our imagination, but during such tense silence, the white hiss of the radio seemed full of spectral bumps and shuffles, and I could see the paranoia and fear effect surely. His feed was constantly moving from side to side, and occasionally he jumped at something

none of us got here or see. I'm close to the entrance, he said at last. Come on, come on, come on, I whispered. Surely was no more than ten or fifteen meters from the exit when something shifted in the pixelated shadows on either side of the blinding white portal.

The professor stopped dead in his tracks and froze like a deer in headlight. In defiance of everything I knew possible, something stepped out into the light and barred the professor's way. It was tall, stooped against the ceiling in a blurry humanoid silhouette. The professor cried out, and so did we all. The shape of the thing, the way it moved, since shivers down my back.

I felt like I was watching film from another world, but a part of my mind reminded myself, the event occurred no more than a hundred metres from where I stood. The professor was trying to back up, and this thing reached out towards him. Its giant, mischapen hand filled the screen, and the professor's cries rose to a crescendo. There was a sound like a tree falling, and the screen went black, and the professor's screams stopped. For a moment, I thought he was truly dead, until Ryan looked up from the workstation.

His eyes were red, and I could see he was crying, but it took me a moment to realize what had caught his attention. The professor's screams hadn't stopped. the microphone had been disabled, but we could still hear him. His voice was now tiny, faintly audible through distance, ice and thick airlocked doors, but we could still hear him, and he was squealing like a pig. I was barely able to stand, but he managed to approach the door. I was close enough to touch it when the screaming finally stopped for real this time. In those final few seconds, I was just able to make out what it was he was saying.

He was pleading for it to stop. Is the air safe? I asked. Yes, quite safe. Now we've pumped oxygen into the cavity. Dr. Grease replied. My face was pressed at the bulkhead's window. From where I stood, I could just about make out the tattered remains of Professor Shirley's suit,

sitting a few feet inside the hull of the ship. How long until the security detail arrive? The doctor asked, his head peering over my shoulder. Days, I answered. We pushed for time. I want what's left of that suit. You can't be seriously going through with this. The camp was quiet. After the previous day's events, I'd forbid anyone from sleeping in the secondary sight

and insisted everyone make the hike up to the old one on the surface. It wasn't just about safety. The doctor and I had devised the plan to snatch the suit, and hopefully whatever, few samples remained, and I wanted no one around when we did it. For the thousandth time, I told him, I'm deadly serious. Good God, I could sprint there and back in less than ten seconds. Just keep the lights on, the door open, and that shotgun pointed firmly at that hole. This isn't very scientific, he groaned. And dolphins don't look like mammals, but they absolutely still are, I said.

Sometimes science isn't very scientific. I didn't wait for him to reply. I opened the door and stepped forward. I wore no suit for this encounter and took a deep breath, stifling the urge to dwell on the exact nature of the air I breathed before breaking out into a sudden sprint. I felt like a kid running past the closet to get to the bathroom late at night. Except now, I was running right towards the darkness, not past it.

I cleared the tunnel quickly, reaching the entrance in a few seconds. I wanted this to be over. My heart was in my throat, my scalp felt ice cold, and my stomach was like a lead weight holding me down. I was so scared I could have easily forgotten to breathe as I reached my arm into the shadow and grabbed a hold of the suit's cuff. I could feel myself losing control, but couldn't stop, not now. I pulled at the material and cried out in despair.

when something tore, and I was left holding nothing but a small clump of thick, vinyl-like fabric. Damn it, I cried, snapping my head back towards the petrified doctor. Keep that damn door open! I reached my hand out into the darkness, so far that my chest touched the floor, and every single cell in my body started screaming at me to leave. Without the suit, my perception was crystal clear, and I could hear every crack and groan of that wooden superstructure. but I wouldn't back out

and when my hand failed to get a proper grasp of Shirley's old suit I actually took a small running jump and threw myself into the dark all that remained outside were my ankles but this time both my hands grabbed the suit and when I leaned up onto my elbows and started to haul it I felt the satisfying weight of heavy equipment drag along the floor a brief flush of history lasted barely a second I shuffled back slowly until my feet touched the floor and looked up to inspect my hole

when I saw a large white oval floating in the dark. It looked almost like a bowling ball if one of the holes was a little larger and further apart than the rest. When two of those same holes blinked, I finally realized what I was looking at. It was a face as large as my torso, and the body it belonged to was cloaked with shadow. It was so still, it was uncanny, exuding no emotion or thought or intent. I didn't know if it was scared of me, curious or hateful, and it made the sight all the more terrifying.

Sooner or later something would give, but I wouldn't leave the suit behind, so I maintained eye contact, even through the tears, and moved as slow as a continental drift, back, back, back, back, out of the entrance. About halfway there, I snapped into action,

whipping the suit over my shoulder before springing like a madman towards the exit. For a moment the doctor looked confused, but then his eyes fixed on something over my shoulder, and I knew it had come out into the light. Thankfully, the distance wasn't that far, and I flew past the doctor like a sprinter passing the finish line.

I threw myself onto the ground and screamed. shut the door, shut the damn door. I relaxed, only when the doctor heaved it closed and turned the handle with a satisfying clunk. He had yet to look at me, instead fixated on whatever had been close behind. When I finally got back up from the ground, I jostled him aside and stared through the window. That alien face, no eyes, no nose,

nothing but three aching cavities in a pale white disc, was staring at us from the hole in the ship's hull. It was dead still for the longest of times. All three of us locked into each other's gaze. When it did finally move, it was to tilt its head perfectly to the side like a turning wheel. There it stayed for a few more seconds,

watching us like a curious dog before sinking back slowly into the monstrous ship. It's fungal, the woman said, holding a sample of the clay, It's unlike anything I've ever seen, except in some ancient fossils, and even then, nothing quite like this. Food, perhaps, the doctor asked.

I wouldn't eat it, the biologist squirmed. It's going nuts under the beatry dish. It may look inert, but whatever's going on under the surface, it's doing it at an astonishing rate. In the time we've had it, the sample has undergone tens of thousands of generations. What about the dust, I asked, and the skulls, sample we retrieved. Similar makeup, but different. I'm not sure. Some of them are corrupted with the fungus, but just like the sample from the vase, it's a nut. I taste contamination, but... Well, it looks different. What do you mean, the doctor asked? I don't know, she replied with a shake

of her head. In some of the samples, they share similar features. Dry air helped to preserve some cell samples in the skull, but that's even stranger. The marrow itself is fungal in origin, but there are blood vessels that look distinctly mammalian, not to mention the cranial structure is definitely primate. I don't suppose you can shed any lights on this, Dr. Greaves asked, turning to me. I walked over to the sample and took a small piece of it onto my finger. Both the doctor and biologist hissed endless warnings at me, but I waved them off. I crushed the small piece between my two fingers

and then rolled it back into a single ball. I even took a moment to smell it. It's clay, I said. Or rather, it's something that anyone without microscope could call clay. What does that mean? The doctor asked. The deluge is the oldest myth in the world. Noah and his ark are found in the oldest recorded civilizations

creeping through Samarian, Mesopotamium and Babylonian cultures. is part of nearly every single creation myth, whether it's Hindu, Greek, or even Welsh, I said. And yet, what does old even mean? The oldest officially recognised version of Noah dates to around 2000 BC. So what?

Current estimates say the human race is millions of years old. Humans as we recognize them, anatomically modern humans, reach back anywhere between 100,000 and 150,000 years. The bulk of my work is focused on covering the truth of those lost epochs, my conventional science would have you believe we lit fires and chased dogs. We certainly did those things, but I have spent my life trying to prove that we were not idle, that many people in those times achieved great heights,

some even greater than ours. You believe this ship was built by the very civilizations you claim? Dr. Greaves paused, briefly to correct himself. He couldn't treat my research like some fringe conspiracy theory anymore, not with a floating city frozen in ice a few metres away. The civilization you've found evidence of? I shrugged. Maybe. I've certainly come across the deluge myth in some of the works I uncovered in the Canadian wilderness. I would have tried publishing, but I was long past that sort of thing. What did the myth say? The biologist asked. They wrote of Duran Anash, a man compelled to construct an enormous ship at the behest of his gods.

It was to be a test of his character, of his faith, and just like our versions, he was to use this ship to repopulate the world after an apocalyptic flood that did, indeed, arrive in some form. But unlike all the other versions of this tale, Duran Anash was not a hero. He was a sculptor of clay, perhaps the greatest in the world, or to have ever lived. And the gods resented his arrogance. So one night they approached him, and he said, said his gift for sculpt was so magnificent it exceeded even theirs.

And even though the world was due to end with a terrible flood, they wished for him to be the benefactor of the blank slate that would be left over. He was to take a gift of clay. The very clay used to create all living things and spent his time aboard the ship, fashioning any and all manner of life he desired. Duran Anash was only too eager to fulfill his destiny and drove his family into ruin building the ship. But when the flood came, it carried him and his ark away,

but left the world untouched, although Duranah Nash could not see this. He carried on with his plan, not knowing that the clay he had been gifted was cursed and corrupted. How exactly, I don't know. Still, the gods were laughing at him, and so was the whole world. The moral, being the wise, shouldn't trust gifts from the gods.

There was a long silence. I continued to fixate on the small lump, of clay that wasn't clay. My heart was pounding. My chest felt tight. A thought had entered my mind while I spoke, and I couldn't shake it. I couldn't get it loose.

I wondered if, for a moment, this really was... What are you doing? The biologist asked, but I didn't pay any attention. I brought the tip of my finger close to my mouth and gently breathed, just like I'd imagined God doing

when I was in church hearing about Genesis. For a short while, nothing happened. I think Dr. Greaves said something. I didn't catch it. My finger was starting to tingle, and I squinted so hard it hurt my head. Slowly at first, but with gathering certainty, the small piece of clay started to squirm.

It was moving. From beside me, the young woman started to laugh a gasping exhalation of awe. She had moved in to take a closer look, but Dr. Greaves stepped back and cried, cried out in terror. I still didn't speak. I kept the lump on my finger and approached the table where I placed it gently, and we all stood, watching it crawl like a caterpillar. Get it under a microscope, I said to the young woman, hurry. She snatched a pair of tongues and went to

gently plug the small worm, no larger than a grain of rice from the table. The metal had barely touched it, when something suddenly white and vainy shot out of the worm and, and groped around the tongs. It expanded and branched like the tongue of a ribbon worm, forging across the table in pale rivulets so quickly that the biologist was forced to drop the instrument with a cry of terror. She jumped back just as the propositist left the table and tongued the air, roaming, grasping for someone else to take. Kill it, Dr. Greaves cried. It's growing. He was right. In less than 30 seconds, its tendrils had reached out across the table and we watched as it grew

to cover three quarters of the table. Thankfully, the biologist had a senses about her. She started to splash something on the writhing pile of snow-white flesh. The beaker she held was filled with all sorts of flammable chemicals. I snatched the few with the same universal warning symbol and began hurling them

until, at last, I felt some kind of satisfaction that fire would find purchase. By the time I stopped, the worm had started to grip and pulled down on one of the tent walls. Dr. Greaves took the initiative and ran forward, throwing a burning rag right at it from just a meter away. The fire went up with a loud whoosh

and the mutated lump of clay began to change in bubble. The chamber we were in was large enough to house the small building. So we waited nearby as the fire raised onward and took not only the creature but the tent as well. I took the time to steal the important samples away, but the young woman grabbed my arm before I could leave and made sure we checked the seal. of each one. We couldn't risk

the rest of that stuff exploding into life. I suppose that was the scientist dinner. But standing there as the tent went up in flames, I felt the scientist within me die. The worms screamed in agony in its final moments, and

we all watched, our faces twisted into disgust and fear, unable to turn away or block out the sound. It was screaming. In my voice. You know you shouldn't do this, the biologist asked. Since the fire, she had risen to replace Dr. Whittle and Professor Shirley in their absence,

proving herself to be a capable manager of the scores of students and staff, and an excellent scientist. I hadn't expected to need a biologist for what I'd figured to be an archaeological problem, but I was glad her expertise was on hand. The four men, beside me, were arming themselves with shotguns. The kind used to blow out door locks during police race, They were small with good stopping power, and my hope was that in such a large space, they'd run little risk of doing too much damage to anything we weren't aiming at.

All of the men worked for the same company that had provided the drill, and the team had a long history of corporate sabotage and all sorts of shady things. They were used to knowing very little, but I had given them a brief overview of what had happened to the last two men to enter the ark. By the time I'd finished, they all looked at me with acidic glare, Damn spook, one had hissed before spitting on the floor. But they didn't have to like it. They just had to aim and shoot if the worst should happen.

I thought our best bet was the hope that our numbers would discourage attack and allow us to roam in peace. Neither the biologist nor Dr. Greaves shared this view. They thought this was madness, but they were so far from learning just how cruel the world can be when it's deliberately set against you. I'd lost everything, and for what, exemplifying the scientific principles I've been told with a light against darkness. I found the truth, and I fought for it, and I wound up dragged through filth and muck

and laughed out of every university until I finally slunk off and found other ways to live. Now I was being given a second chance to do it all differently, and nothing from heaven or hell was going to stop me. Gentlemen, I said to those assembled before me, let's go with that I turned and made for the balkhead

I gave no one not even myself any time to think or voice protests that ship towered ahead like all my nightmares made real and I had to go inside I had to know more

we had glimps something in that tent we had pulled apart all the tangled knots all the myths all the legends and cut right to the central truth of our long-forgotten origin

the clay, the gods, the ship. At night I was wracked with nightmares, and in them the ship spoke to me in my own voice. My pursuit of the truth, it told me, had elevated me beyond science. This was something divine. And there was thinking of this that I passed through the tunnel

with no more fear than a man going to the bathroom. I was even smiling for a while, and I gestured to the entrance like I was inviting the men to step onto an elevator. They looked at me like I was strange, especially after they climbed in and found the congealed and blood splatters

where surely had died. Or that arterial spray had soaked the dusty floor into gooey pulp, and there were a few scattered pieces of rotting bone and flayed skin. But the rest of the body, we found no sign. Divine or not, I had no intention of losing my life on this little venture.

I took control quickly and began to photograph the variety of tracks all around us. Most looked human, but quite a few were round overalls resembling an elephant's print. Others were long in slithery, and others were completely unrecognisable. What exactly are we looking for? The man beside me asked. A gallery or a workshop, I said. This was made by an artist.

He'd have at least one of those. I knew he had no idea what I meant, but I'd just. for us to move on. We walked quickly past the very boxes Shirley and Whittle had, and I saw that atop a few, there were empty spaces in the dust from where the men had taken a few tools while walking

the same way. The effect was oddly unsettling, but I didn't have much time to think. We were soon at the first doorway where we found signs of a scuffle amongst all the white dust. This was where Wettle had been snatched. Close by

I could see where Shirley had walked off towards the second room he'd found, but the doorway was out of sight. The shadows in the ark felt like they ate light, and our beams lit little more than narrowed discs that fell weakly upon the floor. Up, one of them asked, pointing towards the stairs. Up, I replied. The steps were ancient, but they held. I knew from analyses they were a kind of organic woven fiber, harder than steel,

but organic in nature. how that resulted in a ship this size floating, I don't know. But we climbed the first flight and found the steps to be as firm as steel. On the first platform, we found another doorway, and I had us make a short excursion, but there was nothing of particular interest. We returned to the stairs and continued climbing, briefly poking our heads through each doorway in the hope of finding something new. We never saw more than empty rooms with cages for a long, long time.

but I knew there must be more, and with any luck it would be close to our point of entry. From behind me, I could hear one of the men was counting steps. He was grown in marks under the back of his hand with his thumbnail, along with the diagonal slashes to indicate left or right turns. He was preparing for a worst-case scenario, a desperate flight in total darkness to safety, where he'd have to reverse each step one by one if he had any hope of making it home.

On the eighth floor, we stopped briefly. There were no railings on any of the platforms, and it kept far away out of fear of heights. One of the men stepped right up to the edge and dropped a glow stick into the chasm below, where it flew straight down, illuminating the gnarled, ancient walls, and steps in neon glow green,

until at last it struck the floor and stopped shrinking in size. From so far up, it was just a speck. Jesus Christ! The man cried, snatching a shotgun up before thinking better of firing. Somehow, the glow stick was moving. It bubbled side to side before disappearing into some unseen knock. We're not alone, he hissed. We knew that, I said.

Come on, a few more flaws at least. We moved onwards, but from then on, two men remained with guns drawn to their shoulders, constantly turning side to side to cover the space between us. They, at least, managed to climb quite easily, but I was starting to lag. Thankfully, the 12th Thore we reached showed signs of human life. There was a thistle broom nearby and a small table with pots and bases. Some of the doors had hieroglyphs around them, and the post of this door were carved in fine and beautiful patterns. This was not a sterile, empty space waiting to be filled with thousands of handmade animals, and I entered the hall.

feeling giddy with excitement. I pushed a few doors open and found old wooden beds next to small tables. There were small figurines carved out of wood and quite a few along with small metal plates I think we used to hold candles.

In total we found 20 rooms with these simple and rustic signs of occupation. There were ancient blankets rolled up into shelves plates laid out for food. One room even had a few toys left out on the floor. They were crude but clearly meant to be horses,

and I couldn't help but laugh as I held one up to the light. Oh, we were busy, I muttered. But after that, the rooms became strange. Signs of normal human life were replaced with something more manic, more frightening.

It was in these rooms that the dust piled up highest, reaching up to our knees. The walls were scratched and gouged, and all too familiar faces were carved into the wood. Bowling balls? One of the men snorted, pointing towards one. I swallowed the acid in my throat and had us move on.

Those pictures reminded me of crude cave paintings and I had a strong instinct as to what had made them. We kept going deeper into the structure. It was half a mile long and I doubted we had any chance of thoroughly exploring any given floor, but I couldn't quite stop myself from trying one more door. I should have been more careful But I kept on going

Until we were well Over halfway in the ship And the scratchy Low-hanging corridor we stood in Stretched off in both directions Lost to darkness Suddenly one of the men cried out in terror

And brought his weapon to bear He fired before anyone had a chance to speak And the sound was so loud It practically flawed me Good God The man next to him roared It was a damn rat. Cease fire!

The lone gunman lowered his weapon and started to laugh. His pale face glistened in the light of my torch. His eyes were bloodshot and wide. But you could see the relief clearly on his face. It was just a rat, he repeated. I'm just... Just a bit jumpy as all. What room did it go in?

I asked. Two doors on the right, the leader answered. I walked towards it. beckoning for them to join. What are we looking for? One hissed. It was only a rat. There aren't any rats on this ship, I said.

I'm not alive. I pushed the door and a sea of dust flowed out into the hallway like water, wedging the door stuck in a halfway position. I stepped back and waiting for the hissing sound to stop and for the dust to settle. Once it was quiet, I poked a light through into a small, mousy face, staring at us from the corner, resting in the dust at chest height. It was an albino thing, a lot like a rat, but with webbed limbs and barbed tail.

What the hell? One of the men muttered. The creature lifted its arms and blew out the sails between its hands and legs. They all jumped back, but it made no more movements, instead staring at us intently and hissing. I noticed dark, eye like ovals on the skin. it had stretched out, and I realized we were looking at a threat display. Nothing to be worried about, I said,

just some kind of... Something fell from the ceiling and ate the rodent. It happened so quickly, I had only flashing impressions of claws, teeth, and long spindly limbs extended to their furthest reach. One of the men turned his flashlight upward, and we saw what might be described

as a praying mantis if they had reached two feet in length and had a centipede's body. It's clicking mandibles ground the vermin into dust and sprinkle down from above like salt from a shaker. It's eating it, someone hissed. Or at least, I said, I think it is. What does that mean? Don't worry, I answered. The mantis left us alone and we returned quickly to the stairway.

For the next few hours, we continue to explore the proud of the ship floor by floor until we reach the top. On each one we encountered stranger and stranger forms of life, including a wasp nest made by more of the small rat-like things. About a dozen broke from a larger horde and rushed us, but stamping on them made quick work of our attackers. Each one exploded in a welt of pale milky fluid, with their skin and organs flattened beneath our feet like wet soil. The effect was quite odd,

and I even peeled one of the cleanest specimens of the floor and bagged it for later examination. Further on, we stumbled across lone insects buzzing in a small cloud like snowflakes in mid-air. They were like wasps, but with fewer legs and two pairs of shimmering dragonfly wings. We shooed them away and found an arachnoid the size of a TV struggling on the floor. It was infested, rotting from the inside out, and we watched as many postules along the surface of its crustacean shell pot and small larva came crawling out. That wasn't all. we found fungal flowers that had torn through multiple rooms,

the meaty pale caps glowing white in the dark, small creatures with four needle-like legs, roaming the ceiling with sharp mouths that picked randomly at the wood like birds snatching up seed. All in all, we saw a fair bit of the ship's life cycle on the upper floors and got to watch a lot of things eat, either nibbling away at the stalks of mushrooms or snatching smaller insects from the floor.

And in every example, we watched as they grouped up their prey and left a sprinkling of dust. The only real clue we got as to how things worked was the rat hive, where I found a fat, swollen queen surrounded by workers who were rolling up the matted dust and depositing it

in small holes along the hive wall. They were eggs made from the same base clay dust that littered everything on the ship. I watched long enough to see some of the larger ones hatch into mulling cubs no bigger than my thumb. At a guess, I'd

say that a fair-sized lump of the ship was infested with these life-forms. In just a few hours, I'd filled every pouch I brought, and we were all lugging at least one duffel bag filled with pots and jars that clinked with every movement. I decided to call this particular excursion done, and we all moved as a group back to the stairway, ready to begin the descent. Not the worst thing I've done. One of the men sighed, as we checked our surroundings, checked for signs of being followed. They look scary, but they're just hiding away in the dark.

Like a wax museum where everything moves, another said. Exactly, I replied, surprised just how accurate the statement was. They were harmless. One of the men who'd been bitten quite badly by one of the rats grimaced as he chaked the wound. He was already starting to fester and smell. Harmless, my ass, he grumbled. I hope whatever they're hiding from finds it needs the damn lot. I stopped dead in my tracks.

What did you just say? All these damn vermin, he growled, poking the leaking wound on his leg. Something I asked to eat them. They're all sneaking around, silent as hell. Did you notice that? It's the dark, he said. They don't worry about sight. They worry about sound.

That's why they're all up here, another chimed in. I thought you'd have figured that out by now, Doc. Damn, I cried. we've been looking in the wrong place. We should have stayed on the lower floors. What we're looking for would be down there. Did you hear yourself? One of the men asked.

I thought you wanted to be safe. Didn't you see that close stick moving? Exactly, I answered. Let's go. We descended the stairs and quickly returned to the entrance, rushing past one black doorway after another. The misty air of each hall was thick with floating moats of dust,

and it reminded me of looking in the door. into a cabin of a sunken ship, which, I suppose, we were. After a while, I stopped looking, not liking the look of the shifting watery darkness, but the feeling of danger only sharpened by need to go on. We'd come so far. I desperately had to know more. Well, we found it. The bottom floor had strange tracks, not unlike the over ones we found by Shirley,

recently made and slinking off into the dark further along the ship. Without wasting time, I had us follow them until the shaft opened up into a larger chamber. It was an aching, groaning space towards the rear of the ship with a ceiling out of sight. If it wasn't for the cloying stillness, you could have thought you were outside. But there were clear tracks through the dust.

So many, they looked like paths in the snow. This was a busy space. Quite possibly even some kind of meeting space. Guys? I turned around to see one of the men gazing at the opening in the rear wall where we just emerged. Something was glowing green far off in the distance, hovering where we'd been walking just minutes before. Is that? We had made a critical mistake.

All of us faced the one direction, and before either of us could say too much, one of the men near our rear was plucked, screaming into the air. He had been lifted, headfirst, by a grotesque hand as large as my torso. The knuckle was grotesque, and the fingernails cracked and bloody. With a single squeeze, it crunched, and the man's head was pulped into nothing. His limp body falling to the floor with a wet thud. Wees started shooting, all of us, but the effect was pitiful. White clumps of soil flew off the monster's chest and face, and the shot sent while shutters

through its frame. but it weathered the strikes like a well-trained boxer. Once it was done shrugging them off, it was left with a hundred small pockmarks that bled thick milk down its skin, but that strange gaping face with three holes showed no signs of anger or pain. It simply reached and grabbed another man,

and I soon realized our hope of stopping it were close to nil. We should have retreated, run even, but a look behind us showed another strange thing emerging from the darkness. Its head, a glorious abstract carving, reminiscent of raindrops hitting a puddle. Meanwhile, the ball-headed shape began to twist

and pull at his captive with a detached curiosity of a child. It pinch his wrist like he was manipulating an action figure before pulling too hard and tearing the arm off hole, along with a thin strip of muscle that was left dangling from the torso. We were so close, I screamed, barely aware of what I was saying. I couldn't countenance failing at the stage, and without really thinking anything through, I decided my best chance was the strike-out alone. I ran past the dying man and the golem who held him, narrowly avoiding a sweeping arm that reached the grab me.

I could hear some of the other men screaming for me, but they had no chance to follow. I switched off my light and trusted myself to fate. From behind came the steady discharge of two shotguns that, after a few seconds, was rejected. to a single, desperate man shooting and yelling defiance into the dark. Do not stop. I won't, I muttered,

crawling through the dark. Keep going. I will. This is a gift. My gift. My words were a hushed sob. I was speaking just to hear the comforting sound of my own voice.

It had been at least the day. By sheer chance, I'd reach the small room all the way on the other end of the ship during my flight, and I'd hidden away in it or listening to the ever so quiet footfalls of the clay men that lived here. It had been so tempting to stay in one place where I might avoid their groping hands,

but it wasn't that simple. I had no food, only had a small supply of water, and sleep was impossible. After a long time huddled in the dark, I finally pushed the door open and began to crawl my way along the right-hand wall, desperate not to make a sound.

All my equipment had been abandoned, borrowing the light and gun. Whatever I brought out to the ship would just have to fit in my head. You're so close. I know, I hissed. The words sounded a little too loud for my comfort, so I stopped and waited the signs of the slightest change in my surroundings. I had no idea where I was, but I could only assume danger wasn't far off.

Thankfully, nothing moved. and I released a breath before continuing. The others failed. They all did, I whispered, a little more carefully this time. They never wanted the truth. No one wants the truth, I replied. You won't have to share it with them. They never deserved it.

You are so close to where he worked. I stopped. I couldn't risk turning the light on, but I waited to see if I could feel anything. Some possible change in air pressure. that might tell me if I was near a doorway. I must have stayed like that for a full minute, only to reach my hand out

and nearly fall through a vacant spot in the wall. I was hardly a tunnel rat. I couldn't even tell that I'd been kneeling next to an open room. I might have laughed under other circumstances. I crawled inside and pulled the door shut with aching care. Hoping for the best, I turned my light on and revealed a modestly sized space with rows and rows of desks. I was the only living thing there.

It was a workspace with one corner filled with vases of clay and half-finished pieces lying haphazardly on the ground. Some had been smashed, beaten, stumped. Others were still standing, precious, beautiful. He really was a good sculptor. Each one was a meticulous and beautiful rendering of a different bird.

They didn't look like perfect replicas of the real things, but rather like the ideal of how they should look. There was a shelf filled with thousands of pairs of sparrows, crows, parrots and hens, all inert but incredibly lifelike. I picked one up and noticed they felt different to the clay samples I had taken. I figured it for a practice run, a way to hone his skills before trying for the real thing. Not like the others, I muttered quietly. He destroyed these works and many others.

He did not understand the curse, did not understand why the real ones failed. How long was he on this ship, thinking the fate of humanity depended on him? I asked myself. He never stopped trying. So why did he smash these ones? Rage? Frustration? He died of old age, alone. At the far end of this room was another doorway.

I approached it, shaking, ready to. to enter the next chamber, when the door I closed jotted forward with a terrible grind. It moved no more than an inch, and I snapped around, fixing my light on it. Wild shadows flying around the room like gargaws and the cathedral spires, but it was still. For a moment, I thought I'd imagined the sound when, once again, the frame shivered and the door moved forward another inch. A single white finger probes the gap and reached around the door. soon followed by two others. Run.

I turned, just as a round head peered at me, but I didn't want to wait to see what it was. I ran, passing into another room filled with dozens of sculptures of life-sized deer, each one hauntingly beautiful, a complete far cry from the wretched misshapen thing that was chasing me. Others lay smashed on the floor, broken before they could ever be finished. These rooms were chained together in an open row of workshops where the ancient artist had practiced making all kinds of things.

I ran straight through each one, trying my hardest to ignore the rising boom and footfalls behind me. His talent wasn't enough, I thought. You're getting close. The room started to change and I noticed that they were now filled with those familiar empty cages. It made me hope I was close to where we'd entered. Although close is a relative term when trapped in a nightmarish labyrinthian city

of pitch-black wicker walls. Left. I burst out of the cage room into yet another corridor and headed left without even thinking. Those footfalls continued, and as I sprinted, I found long white arms

appearing out of doorways on either side. I ducked them as best as I could, but at the very last moment one grabbed my hood and lifted me from the ground. My heart was in my throat and my vision narrowed to a static white tunnel. I think I peed myself. I don't remember. But I quickly wriggled my way out of my jacket before the arm's twin snatched at the space where my head had been just moments before.

I hit the floor running and carried on, legs paring like pistons or my lungs burned with acid. I could hear more of them coming and there was just enough oxygen left in my brain for me to start wondering what the long-term plan really was. Keep going, they won't follow. I ran for what felt like forever, until, eventually, I looked back and saw more of those strange things lingering far off in the darkness. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but I felt as if they should have been closer than they were. I didn't want to think they were slowing, I didn't want to feel that sort of hope. But I found my feet moving faster nonetheless, as if whatever lay ahead really might just keep me. safe.

You're here. I stopped at last. Where I stood was a crossroads of sorts, quite possibly in the same chamber we'd been attacked in the day before. Dozens of small footpaths had been carved in the dust by regular passage, and they

converged on some space far ahead. I followed to the centre where a small crater, a few metres wide, had been made in the snowy ash. As far as I could tell, I was alone so I took the time to catch my breath. But after that, I had no idea. So close.

So close, I murmured. The air in that place had a reverent stillness. My torch seemed to stretch farther than usual, lighting the space around me in a cool lunar glow. Endless flakes of dust fell around me, and for a moment I thought of standing in a snow globe. I felt like I was in the heart of the cosmos, like the whole world was holding his breath.

He blamed himself, blamed his mortality. Something stirred and I faced the darkness. Its footsteps were quiet like a dears in the snow, but I could feel the vibrations in the soul of my feet. He needed something better than he was. It approached. I realised this was the truth I'd been looking for, the explanation for it all.

He needed a god. And he made one, I answered, my voice a quiver. Where there had been a need for breath, the artist had made something to breathe in his place. In the darkness, it had stayed for the last 80 millennia, crafting endless creatures and shapes to bring to life. Ursud's creations for in Urset's God, it had never stopped trying to fulfill its purpose. It stepped into the light, and I saw the face of a weathered old man with a furrowed brow and a grey crown of hair, something inherited from the one who'd given it life. He was born of racial characteristics that no longer existed,

and yet I recognised the face of a man who was intelligent, patient and committed. It was the face of a priest or a teacher, an idolized representation of its creator that stood 12 feet tall. time, or perhaps the curse, had worn it down into a haggard leper of a man, skinny and gaunt with lesion-riddled skin. Even as it stood, parts of it fell to the floor in wet clumps that writhed and died. I decided it must be blind, since it had no interest in me, not even passing. It strode past and reached down, grabbing some of the ever-present dust to compress and roll into slithers of skin

it slapped onto its crumbling torso. It was refashioning its own body, even as it rotted to pieces. When one of its limbs came too close to me, I stood aside and let it wander ahead where I followed. Its feet carved wide paths in the ash, and I kept close as it wandered with purpose through the dark. After a while, it came to a stop by some mounds of dust,

and it lowered itself to the floor with a ground-shaking thud. Slowly it took some of the loose material and compressed it back into solid clumps of clay Carefully it began to fashion something I couldn't be sure what But I found all fear gone I could have stayed there for days I still don't know how long it exactly was that I stayed there

The god never moved And nor did I I couldn't I was rooted to the spot by the sheer beauty of its work, and I watched with intense fascination as it rolled and shaped and twisted and pulled until at last

it had the perfect image. Its enormous hands were deftly skilled and the final product appeared whole before me almost as if by magic. It was me. My clothes, my hair, my face,

even the coat I'd shaken loose just hours before. Every last detail was recreated with inhuman perfection. The guard looked toward me. Its stony blank eyes regarded me with no human emotion I recognized before rising from the floor.

It turned back swiftly towards the darkness and exited the light. And just like that, I was alone once more in the dark. Not alone, you have a gift. I turned to the statue. It was perfectly still, almost as if it was waiting.

waiting for someone to breathe life into it. No, I whispered. Yes. Why am I not surprised you're here? I opened my eyes. I was lying in the tunnel just behind the bulkhead with no memory of how I got there. Standing over me was a very grim-looking older man. His name, as far as I knew, required a level of clearance that was somehow above even the president's head.

"'because you make a habit of dumping all over my dreams?' I grunted, pushing myself upright while wincing from the pain. "'I must have been out for hours, lying on the hard frozen floor. "'Sheer luck had stopped me from suffering hypothermia. "'Thank God I had my jacket.' "'You really shouldn't have gone in,' he gestures to the ship. "'There's a million different reasons to leave things like this buried, "'and I would hope that over the years,

"'even just a few might have sunk in. for you. There are no good reasons to ignore the truth, I replied, before adding, How did I get here? Do you know that, at least, how I got out? The man shrugged. I was hoping you'd tell me, along with a few other details, perhaps, he replied. Oh, well, I said,

Funny thing is, my experiences within that ship are classified. Really? He raised an eyebrow. I've come to the conclusion that the information I learned from my excursion is too dangerous to share with the public and uh none of you many black dicks

meet my steep criteria for security clearance so why didn't you have your people talk to my people very funny he said I don't know why you do it it doesn't change anything no one will listen they don't need to I said

regrettingly taking his hand as he pulled me up now a you ass I was going to arrest me, or is this carnival finally over? It's over, the man smiled. The others are being evacuated now. Charges will be pressed against Dr. Greaves for illegally taking donations from organizations associated with fracken lobbyists. He won't see prison time, but he'll never work legitimately again.

As for you, we didn't feel it was worth our time to tarnish you any further. At this stage, you'll be lucky to get something out there on the internet. The students, I asked, strongly encouraged to change their current avenue of study. You know how it goes. First the carrot, then the stick. We'll get them out on the field soon enough.

I remember quite well, I replied. What about the samples? Some kind of fungal parasite that leads to genetic traits from whatever it finds in the atmosphere. Some quirk of temperature and humidity makes it best disposed to absorb breath, but nothing's technically stopping it from going all grey goo in the back of a warm cupboard.

When you factor in its potential ability to absorb memories, then, who knows? Maybe even you might understand why it needs to be kept under our strict control. We've had access to the sample for a few days while we waited for you to pop up. Its ability to absorb,

even the most complex of human memories, makes it an apocalypse waiting to happen. We found your lead biologist dead in a lab, while the things she was experimenting on finished up her written report. That's a shame, I said. She was a hard worker and very smart. Yes, it is, he replied, iron me with disdain.

Yet another avoidable death. Good thing you've got all the samples then, isn't it? I said. Locked away for all eternity, I imagine. God forbid we get to study it. The man laughed uproarously, like I just made a very clever joke. Your words, not mine, doctor. He said,

Before leaving, I could won the argument, something he loved to do. But I didn't pursue, instead allowing myself to be taken away by a crew of paramedics to check for signs of injury. Far away, the man became marshalling several groups of people to work on sealing the ark away for all eternity. I watched as, once again,

the world set itself towards the goal of destroying the truth I'd worked so hard to unearth. But this time I didn't feel despair or dejection I'd learned the full truth this time And although my stomach hurt like hell And my head was full of holes I smiled from ear to ear

I knew the truth The whole truth Or so I thought Christ One of the paramedics laughed shaking a cloud of white clay loose from my jacket It's like you made of the stuff Little by little, my smile began to fade.