Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S3 Ep128: Episode 128: U.S. Navy Horror

Episode Date: June 22, 2023

Tonight’s epic feature-length story is ‘I’m a Sailor in the US Navy: We just found something real bad’, an original story Chris Koleszar, kindly shared with me for the express purpose of having me narrate it here for you all: https://www.reddit.com/user/ChrisKoleszar/

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. The U.S. Navy is the largest and most powerful navy in the world. It has a larger fleet tonnage than the next 13 navies combined. It also operates the largest fleet of nuclear-powered aircraft carriers, submarines and cruisers. It has more nuclear-powered warships than the rest of the world. Truly is a sight to behold.

But not everything always works like clockwork. as we shall see tonight's feature-length story. Now, as always, before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's story may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. And let's begin. Private Logs, specialist MacB. Guffin,

2019, 09, 29. This is me out at sea. You know, Probably the dumbest thing I've ever done in my life was shoot up in a school parking lot. That's how I ended up here, on a boat bigger than my hometown, on my knees, deep-throating Uncle Sam's brand of freedom eight days a week. I was 26, so not a student. And really, it only makes sense that the cops will get called for a strange car in a high school parking lot.

Well, given America's proclivity for... school massacres. But since I was young and with no previous record, the judge cut me a break. Told me I could go ahead and enlist in Donald Trump's army. If I was willing to murder strangers for this rich, second-rate celebrity, then I could remain a free man. Well, free outside of that binding contract, the military makes you sign. Anyway, I know you probably don't give a shit about my life. For most Americans, that whole even now bullshit mentality of support our troops amounts to nothing more than don't question what our wealthy parasite overlords deign to do with our soldiers. But I feel it's necessary to give some context before we get to the weird shit I'm about to tell you.

I'm an ex-junkie on Uncle Sam's imperialist brand of the Scared Straight Program. I'm not the square George Captain America kind of guy. No, nor am I the psychosatist type. Fourth most prominent type of soldier in the military so often finds capering about within his ranks. And really, the top five types of military enlistees go in order like this. One, poor people who feel they have no other options in life and have convinced themselves that they might just make the world a better place. Two, Captain America types.

Three, losers, like myself, with drug problems and pending legal charges. Four, psychotic sadists who genuinely want to rape and pillage. And five, colossally stupid Christians, the white Jesus type, who actually think they're fighting some kind of holy war. This, in my experience, is what the proud U.S. world police really consists of. tax dollars hard of work. Just think about that every time you look over your measly paycheck from your minimum wage job. Save that thought as you see that between federal and state, you got hose for two or 300 bucks.

Anyway, I digress. I don't feel some higher calling to be the best of the best. I definitely don't believe in the freedom of information more than the non-disclosure agreement I was forced to sign when I joined up in this chicken shit outfit. I'm just a normal guy with normal problems and somehow that resulted in me finding myself in a distinctly abnormal situation and that's what I'm here to talk about so now that you're up to speed on me

let me bring you to today's events I'm in my quarters right now pretty sure the only reason why the higher-ups haven't taken all of our laptops and phones away yet is because they just straight have forgot due to the absolute insanity that has unfolded here in the last 24 hours. But it's only a matter of time before they do. So I'm going to write this as fast as I can. I'm going to send it to my homie on the mainland.

Well, he's going to post it. I told him not to edit anything, as I'll be deleting the files on my end after I send it to him. So his copies will be the only version of the originals. I apologize for any grammatical errors But Well I think nobody got time for that shit right now I mean

Jesus's ball sack The shit I just saw Okay Okay Let me take a couple deep breaths And slow this down We were all the way out in the Pacific And I mean way out

Playing war games with the Russians There were just two of us all the way out there in the middle of nowhere, with literally nothing breaking the surface of the water for 400 miles in any direction. I don't know how alone you've ever been. Maybe you've hiked the Appalachian Trail or something. You know, been someplace where you're truly away from society.

It's just creepy. Even with a general cacophony of over 300 people sharing a limited space and the steady harm of gigantic engines, there's just, Something unsettling about being somewhere humans would never naturally exist. I was stationed on the USS Barry. It's an R.A. Burke class destroyer.

And the Ruskies were spoiling a Keshing class destroyer. Well, I don't know how to say the real name. Let's call it Putin and Trump suck D. Or PTSD for short. Anyway, we're in the second day of our supermanly dick-waving content. The sun was beating down upon us mercilessly from the cloud of the sky. All the boys were out on deck, greased up and ready to share some freedom. It was at my fire station, locked and loaded with my true love.

I am too brownie. Her name was Betsy. She was the most successful relationship I had had in nearly a decade. All told there were eight fire stations arranged around the bow. The Ruskies doing the same. It was a truly retarded gesture. What hell's getting into small arms, ship-to-ship combat in 2019. When two captains feel the urge to compare their wangs,

this is what you get. I was lolly-gagging at my station, churing it with my mate Cole. His fire station was above and behind me on the second deck, close to one of our landing pads. We're just talking the usual bullshit when the call came up on our comms. A Swedish supertanker had put out a distress call. The details were scarce and made little sense.

Captain Diomedes is a man of few words. Though, to his credit, he's not a practitioner of the all-too-popular ego trip known as the need-to-know mentality. He relayed to all hands exactly what he himself had been told. The ultra-large, crude, or... tanker, the nanny, had run into some trouble out on the water, reporting that they'd collided with a whale. That part made no sense. Supertankers are freaking beasts. They're over 12,000 feet long. What the hell was a whale going to do to that? Even if it swam directly into a

propeller, kamikaze style, it would only be like a speed bump to the nanny. This, of course, changed the nature of our war game. Now the wang waving contest had shifted. from who can kill who better to who can rescue people better. Both ships immediately broke away and headed north, speeding balls out towards the emergency, heading even farther away from land than we already were. The PTSD immediately took the lead in the race. The rumors of the Ruski's propulsion methods proving true.

The vibrations of the roaring engine six-decks blow were proof enough that our captain had ordered the engine room to give it their all, though that Cole and Diomedes would never admit it. But, when in doubt, take to the air. That's not some wise proverb. I just made that up. Realising that we wouldn't beat the Russian captain in a straight-up race,

Diomedes ordered one of our seabirds into the air. The chopper went streaking off, even both ships in the dust. It wasn't until then that I noticed the heavy. fog dominating the northern horizon, and I mean dominating. It was still about a mile away, and even at this distance the wall of Merck seemed to have no end, stretching on as far as the eye could see, both east and west, and its height reached all the way up to an overcast cloudline. So, for all intents and purposes, after about a mile north, cavoo was zero. Well, that's some

spooky shit right there. A voice to my right made me jump. Jeez, man, I sighed. Lieutenant Michael Riggs had materialized next to me. The dude was like that. A sea ninja. He could insert himself into a crowd of gossiping junior office without anyone realizing it until some shit talking to already well and truly being underway. Howdy McMuffin? He smirked at me. Fortunately, the guy wasn't a dip. seeming to derive sufficient pleasure from his natural stealth in the form of startling the shit out of people oh and by the way mcmuffin was my nickname on this floating city his gaze wandered off to the north just thought i'd come topside and see how everything was going he said everything's ship shape up here lieutenant i said quickly he nodded absently his eyes scanning the limited horizon and there's no tanker in sight. So, I guess we're going into that shit.

He finally sent. Before I could reply, our conversation was interrupted by first-class petty officer John Witherspoon. O'y, lads, look here, he shouted. We called him Spoon, or Spoony most of the time. Spoon was an army brat who spent most of his life on an American base in Britain, so we had that distinct English accent. I thought it made him sound like the most sailor-y sailor on the boat. He was currently occupying the frontmost gun station about ten yards ahead of me.

There, off the port. Everyone on portside took a look overboard. Shit, man, I heard Cole say from above. I kept scanning the water. What? I shouted up to him. I don't see shit. I turned to look up at him. Cole pointed down toward the dark water

His nose wrinkled in disgust I turned to look again And then I saw it It was a humpback, I think The massive creature looked like it had been filleted by a giant Then spread open and slapped down on the surface of the water I was grateful for the small mercy that the thing wasn't floating belly up To at least spare us what was undoubtedly a far more

gruesome sight. The smell hit as we drew nearer. It's pretty hard to describe. If you want a good idea of what it was like, head out on a hot summer day and go to the alley behind the nearest restaurant, and find the compost bin, stick your face in and breathe in real deep. Just then both ships began to slow. Oh, come on, Cole shouted. Do we have to slow down next to this freaking thing. Don't matter, brother, Spoonie said grimly. Take a look at what's floating between us and that broom.

And so we did. Fuck me if the water in front of us wasn't filled with dead sea life. Dead and rotting and smelling like the goddamn apocalypse. Not just whales. There were sharks and octopus. There were plants, small fish and jellyfish.

All dead. All rotten. This has got to be some kind of oil company fuck up, Rick said, more to himself than to me. We all stared down at the water as the Barry chugged slowly forward. The deck vibrating slightly every time something big impacted the hull. Our ship was a true badass maiden of the sea. We all knew that a bunch of dead sea life wouldn't thread in our hull, but still, warships weren't designed to drive through floating graveyards. Even this high up we could literally feel the ship,

exerting herself in an effort to push through the mass of dead things. Our seabird was hanging back, hovering about a hundred feet over the water. The wall of murk towering over the chopper. The quiet was broken by someone retching somewhere near the starboard bow. Out at the corner of my eye I saw Riggs grin and shake his head slightly. But my God. Once we were in the thick of it, the stench made even the start. lieutenant's smile falter.

I couldn't describe it to you in words. It's just something you'd have to experience for yourself. A scent that offends the soul. An odour that scratches at the lizard brain. Something that knocks ominously on the door leading all the way back to our primordial beginnings. It's got to be that fog, I remember saying. Shit was abnormal.

I swore that it seemed backlit by ever so slight greenish tint, like there was some bright light way off within the swirling mass. Both ships slowed even further down as they neared the fog back. Finally, after about another quarter mile, we cleared the corpse field and came to a stop about a hundred yards out. The sea all around us was still dotted with the dead. But, thankfully, the strength of the strength of the world. of the stench was dialed back as we moved to less crowded waters. Someone must have given the order

for the chopper to proceed, because a moment later it pressed forward. Climbing higher as it disappeared into the murk. The mist was so thick, it even muffled the sound of the chopper. And within a moment, the only evidence we had a bird in the air at all was a faint, thudding in the distance. That shit's toxic or something. I continued while simultaneously visualised. how long it would take me to get my gas mask out and onto my face. It's got to be some corporate scrub. Someone dropped a bunch of poisonous ship by accident in the water. Now it's capping the local ecosystem.

I began to monologue. I don't know why, but when I get nervous, that's how I cope. I talk a lot. Me sideways, spoon muttered. Well, the hell's growing off for that one. I turned to look. At first I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. I'm still not sure.

It looked to be another filleted humpback, but this one had some weird shit jutting out of it. It was hard to tell at this distance, but something was definitely growing out of the carcass. Oh, I don't know what to say here. God, it almost looked like a small tree. There was this thick, twisted trunk. The wood,

at least I think it was wood. with shit brown and mottled with patches of fuzzy white mould. I remember in that moment imagining exhibit saying, You, dog, we heard you like horrifier mould, so we put horrifying mould on your horrifying mould. A few sickly-looking branches bent up towards the sky. Upon them spread a disturbing-looking mushrooms, unnaturally large,

the colour of rotten strawberries and dotted with milky white circles. Then the sound, of a distant core drew everyone's attention to the mist. Gulls, Riggs asked, clearly mystified. How the hell are there gulls all the way out there? Soon more cores echoed out of the fog. It became clear that there was a bunch of them somewhere out in the gloom. And by the sound of it, they were heading toward our position.

I shrugged. The lieutenant was right. We were more than 400 miles away from a lot of. any documented landmass. Not even one of those cartoony 12-foot islands with the lone palm tree lay anywhere out here to break the surface of this void. A lone seagull broke through the mist, heading toward us. Shortly thereafter, gulls began pouring out of the swirling miasmo in the dozens.

Ever so slightly, me and Spoonie raised the bowels of our weapons toward the sky. I pictured staff Sergeant Alden in that moment. coming out on deck and berates. What the hell are you bubble gums pointing your weapons at the skyfall? Don't tell me you kids are afraid of some mangy birds, I imagined him, saying. But Staff Sergeant Alden did not come out on deck. Instead, we watched as the sky between us and the fog began filling up with goals. How many of them are there?

Spoonie asked in exasperation. I couldn't be sure. But I felt like there were at least a hundred of the little buggers up there, making a racket as they approached. Must be all the dead sea life, muttered Cole. Damn, it's a smorgasbord out here. No way, prof. You think those girls are dumb enough to eat that rotten shit? Spoonie said. Then, as if on cue, the lead seagull dropped a load.

I watched the little blob of feces twirl gracefully through the air, falling a hundred or so feet before striking the deck directly in front of Spoonie. Why that little bump, Spoonie started to say, but was interrupted by a little blob of poop striking his shoulder. Oh, fuck, he shouted. I laughed. Couldn't help myself. It's not funny, you wagger. Spoonie shouted as he ripped off his jacket. This only made everyone else start laughing. However, the revelry was abruptly cut short. short as dozens of ship blobs began falling out of the sky like a light summer sprinkle.

Oh, shit, Rick said appropriately. Suddenly, guano shit began striking the deck all around us. I looked up. That was a mistake. Before taking a poop round to the face, I spotted at least 50 birds passing overhead. With what had to be at least a hundred more behind them. I was pretty sure they were all relieving them. themselves as one, as the light sprinkle rapidly turned into a steady rain. It doubled over,

wretching. Then, almost as one, they let loose with the bird equivalent of an artillery barrage. Given my current position on the deck, I felt more than saw the event. Oh, what the f! Someone shouted. By the time the bulk of the seagulls were passing overhead, the light salver were turned into a literal shitstorm. Obviously, we weren't supposed to leave our posts, but a few people did anyway, frantically running for whatever cover they could find. Sailors were slipping and sliding all over the deck. A few of them busting their asses pretty hard. I took off my jacket and tried to use it as a makeshift umbrella. I'd like to think I remained at my post because I'm a good soldier. But the truth is that I didn't run for cover because Riggs was standing right next to me.

This reminds me the last time I saw my ex-wife, Rick shouted over the cacophony, grinning up from under his own jacket, which he decided to use much like mine. Just then, the can lit up with chatter. All hands, all hands, prepare for emergency landing. The hell, Rick said to no one in particular. A heartbeat later, the sea hot came streaking out of the fog. Somehow in the pandemonium, we hadn't heard. heard the sound of her approach. She was listing at a bad angle as she barreled towards us.

Squinting and shielding my eyes to see through the shitstorm, it took me a minute to realize what was going on. Chopper was plastered with blood, poop and feathers. Even at this distance you could tell that the entirety of the windshield was covered in bird gore. Damn it, Rick shouted. Back, everyone into the deckhouse, on the double. It was clear that Not everyone had heard him, but those who did broke and ran. I remained partially spellbound, only managing slow, backward steps as I watched the chopper struggle. Riggs ran forward, frantically waving and shouting at those who hadn't moved. The chopper was coming in hot.

Already she'd cross half the distance between us. Now I could see the black smoke coming out of her rotor. The blaring sound of the impact alarm going off startled me out of my stupor. She was going to hit. There was no doubt. And from the looks of it, she was going to crash pretty much where we were standing. And so I turned and began sprinting away.

I may have already mentioned that I'm a recent ex-chunky, so, as you can imagine, I'm not really the American Ninja Warrior type. And we spent most of my young adult life getting wasted and zoning out on beat-up couches and love seats. So, I sprint out five ungainly steps before I slip, Scooby-Doo Banana Peelstein, and a big old patch of bird tarts. It's full-on vine material. I do a sort of half-flip in the air.

My feet and the darkening sky, the last thing I see before the back of my head connects with the deck. I'm not sure how long I was out. Neither is anyone else. mainly because everyone was preoccupied with 42.9 million dollars of military hardware slamming into 1.8 billion dollars of military hardware. As it were, the more expensive war machine won out in the end. Later, I was told the seabird hit the ground sideways,

then began a kind of alligator death roll across the lower deck. At some point the blades all snapped off, sending deadly sharp pieces of composite titanium and steel shooting across the deck at blinding speed. The six-foot piece actually managed to lodge itself into the freaking SLQ antenna. Miraculously, there was only one casualty, one of the pilots. The other guy, the co-pilot specialist Billy Hamilton, actually survived. Apparently leaping out of the chopper seconds before impact,

then the dude fell about 90 feet. Spoon later told me he'd watched it all happen. this is actually word for word what he said. I recorded his account and now copy it here. I know this message with the pacing of the story a bit, but trust me, I mention it because this event becomes extremely relevant later on. 2019, 0929. Testimony of specialist John Willispoon.

Oh, it's a spellbound, mate. It was like the chopper was coming in, hot, right? But when Hamilton jumped out of that bird, I just... couldn't look away, seeing him twirling down through the air like that. I thought he was about to pop his glocks for sure, but then, oh, the damnedest thing happened. Right below him was one of those dead humpbacks. Growing out of it was one of those fucked up tree things, you know? Well, anyway, this one had some real big mushroom spreading up from its belly, I don't know, like Super Mario brother's big. So he smashes through this freaking fungus canopy. I can see they're bending really far

before breaking, clearly cushioning his fall a bit. Then he hits the dead whale. Oh, and it's so soft, it sort of caves into itself as he slams into it. He literally disappears into the blubber of this thing. He must have blasted it straight through at the other side and out into the water. It's half a minute later, I see him bob to the surface. I couldn't fucking believe it. Luckyest thing I've ever seen. End testament. That's verbatim. And Spoon was the only one so far fire who said he saw what happened he said it took the chopper smashing into the front of the deckhouse to snap him back to reality when i woke up cole and rigs were kneeling over me apparently the sea bird had rolled right past me it's probably a good thing i'm a clumsy oaf the feeling if i kept running

my slow ass would never have made it through the front door thing was the real proverbial shit hadn't hit the fan yet but it was about to. In fact, it was about to knock the fan off the damn table. A fire control team was already on deck, dousing the wreckage in flame retardant, black smoke billing out in a great plume from the destroyed seabird, mixing with the encroaching wall of fog. The previously blue sky was beginning to darken as the overcast rolled south. Medical staff were checking on the injured, and they just finished fishing Billy Hammond out of the water. I'd just been helped

to my feet. It's taken in the surrounding carnage when the impact alarm blared once again. Oh, fuck? Cole said it like a question. As if in answer, the can lit up again. All hands to stations, all hands to

stations, unidentified craft approaching on a collision vector. That's all I needed to hear. I didn't know what was going on, but the next weird thing thing that came at me from out of this fog was getting shot. Everyone scrambled to their posts. I jumped on Betsy, flicking off her safety.

Deep below, the Barry's engines roared into life. The deck vibrating as she sought to accelerate faster than she probably should have. She turned hard to port. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Riggs unholster his pistol. I almost laughed at that. The Barry led out one, long horn. hornblast. Even though it was far above our position, the sound was still teeth rattling. The horn paused briefly. Then followed up with five short blasts. Clearly no one on the

command deck had yet decided that this unidentified ship had violent intent. Otherwise we would already have been Bird Three, lighting up that fog like the Fourth of July. Then we saw it. The giant black shape hurtling through the mist, moving faster than any ship should through fog that dense. It's dark outline backlit by that sickly green light. Even as obscured as it was, I could tell there was something off about its shape. The Barry's horn blasted five more times, and the sound was echoed by the PTSD, which was floating about a quarter mile from our starboard base. The engines roared away far below, but I could already feel it. We weren't going to make it out of the way on time.

Shit, she's going fast, I said. Why the hell is she going that fast? Rigg seemed to ponder the question for a minute before answering. Maybe they were lost in the fog, he said. When our seabird went in, they decided to follow the sound out. Could be the captain's panicking and going full speed ahead, because he doesn't hear the bird anymore. Hmm, it was all I managed to say in return.

And then the behem off came barreling out of the gloom about a hundred yards to port, rocketing out of the murk straight at us. I think in that moment everyone realized it was aiming for us. Shouting sprang up all around the deck. My God, Riggs said. Is that the Nani? Spoon shouted, that's a freaking nonny in it. It was.

There was no mistaking a super tanker. It was bigger than any ship in the Navy. Until that moment the largest vessel I'd ever seen was the USS Kitty Hawk. This was taller and wider by a large margin. But as the details began to resolve, the thing became almost painful to look at. The hull of the ship was a dirty amalgam of corpse blue and red, brown, the steel hole was horribly corroded. Even at this distance we could see that ragged holes where the metal had rotted completely away. It made me think of the kind of cavity

that marks the death of a tooth. But it was what was hanging from the hole that was truly disturbing. Bodies, dozens, no, hundreds, hundreds of bodies were strewn haphazardly all across the visible underside of the ship, grey and bloated from exposure. It somehow reminded me of tinsel garland strung across a Christmas tree. There was no rhyme or reason to the corpse's arrangement. Some looked like they were nailed to the rotten steel, passion of the Christ style. Others were anchored to the hall by rusty chains. Some dangled by the neck, like they'd been hung, others by a foot or an arm. The captain clearly decided that this ship, and they were. The ship had clearly decided that this ship was piloted with malicious intent.

Because a split second later, the Bushmaster on Starboard opened up, letting loose a three-shot burst. The rounds punched a line of hubcat-sized holes through the rotten steel of the vessel. Then someone, I think it was coal, opened up with their M-2. Since the command to fire had not been given,

this would probably result in some real disciplinary action later on. However, no one seemed to be thinking about that. as the whole deck erupted in a cacophony of gunfire. It was a token gesture at best. What the hell were our Browning's going to do to this master? If anything was going to put her down, it would be the bushmasters. But even if we turned her into Swiss cheese, at this range I doubt it would make a difference.

The dozens of shots pummeling into the super tanker, it was impossible to see where my shots were hitting. several of the bodies transformed into something that looked like pulled pork what was more interesting however was the effect our shots had on the hull itself ordinarily the rounds were just likely ricochet off the thick hole but in some places the decaying steel gave way like paper even at this distance i could see a line of basketball-sized holes stitched their way across the mouldering under side of the ship

any of our shots should have seen the nanny begin taking on water but something in the back of my mind told me that this monstrosity didn't give a shit about sinking PTSD for its part took a couple of pot shots

on our behalf from its portside A19s but they weren't about to launch any heavy ordnance given the target's proximity to our ship the giant towered over us casting ash ship in its growing shadow.

The barrier completed a 90-degree turn and was now trying to accelerate out of the Subotanga's way. The gargantuan ship began filling up our entire view on the starboard side. At 50 metres, I spotted something on the enemy's stern that made me stop and stare, despite the cacophony going on all around. There were what looked like gigantic masts. That's the best way.

way I can describe it. Masts at least a hundred feet tall, as if the ship was commanded by 18th century pirates obsessed with manual lines of sight and wind power. Even from my limited vantage point, I could see yards for the lower top and gallant sails. Except, in place of sails were dozens more corpses, hanging from the yards by chains, swinging lazily in the air, and the air, high above as the nanny borne down upon us. Seagulls flew about in droves in the sky above the bodies, apparently enjoying the easy pickings. Very quickly the terrible sight was hidden as the gigantic ship closed the remaining distance. At about 50 feet, all we could see was the massive hull looming over us. To give you an idea of the size disparity here. The USS barrier is about 150,000.

55 meters long and rises about 20 meters above the water line. She's a big mama-jammer to be sure. But the nanny. Well, the nanny was about 500 meters long and rises about 60 meters from the waterline. And that's not even counting the massive, fuck-all nightmare masts. If the barry was a great white,

then the nanny was a megalodon. Not just a regular one. it was the shark from that movie the Meg and unfortunately Jason Statham wasn't around to boop it on the nose the impact alarm wailed once again and the can lit up all hands

brace for impact and so we did almost as one we stopped firing and just sort of white-knuckled our weapons as the leviathan bore down upon us The Barry's engines roared below deck. Giving one final heave,

she managed to clear the nanny to a little past the starboard beam. It wasn't enough. We couldn't see where the nanny hit us, as our view past the gatehouse was nil. But we sure knew when it happened. The impact was apocalyptic. The sound of steel colliding with steel was deafening. The world went south.

sideways as I was thrown off my feet. My fingers were ripped painfully from my weapon. I didn't black out or anything, but the impact was so jarring that I literally had an overpowering sense of vertigo, and for a long moment I forgot where I was. I'm not sure how long I lay with my back against the deck, staring up at the spinning sky. Someone grabbed me and hauled me up. It took me another minute to focus on who it was. It was spooning. I remember smiling lazily. I remember smiling lazily. Oh, good old Spoonie.

Great guy. Took me a couple of seconds to realize he was holding the collar of my uniform in bald fists. Wide-eyed and frantic. He was yelling something. But my ears were ringing and I couldn't hear him. Oh, let's fucking go. His voice finally cut through my days and the blaring alarms. Go, I asked.

Instead of replying, he began to pull me toward the starboard side. I looked around as I stumbled along. All about us were panicked sailors running to and fro. The hell, I said to no one in particular. The ship's sinking, you won't care. Come on! And then it all came back to me, well, at least partially. We were about ten yards from starboard now.

The nanny, it hit us. Oh, gee! Jesus, McLaughie, he shouted over his shoulders as he dragged me along. It turned you into a bloody Muppet. The ship listed badly to port, and I almost fell backwards. But Spoonie grabbed me by the collar again and righted me. Come on, mate, the ship's going down. We got a legate. I guess that was enough to snap me out of my stupor, and I began to sprint along with Spoonie.

The thought was jarring. The entire ship was going on. under? This place would be my home for nearly two years. I'd lived through the latter part of my opiate withdrawal here. I'd seen the sunrise and said hundreds of times from the decks of the barring. It was so massive, it felt like a small town. And now it was headed to the bottom of the ocean. The thought just seemed insane to me. We reached the starboard side. Without pausing, we leapt together, holding hands actually like this was some shitty

Michael Bay film like I was Megan Fox and spooned with Shaila Berth saving his super banging motorcycle expert girlfriend from certain doom I don't know if you've ever fallen 50 feet but suffice to say it can really suck

we hit the water heart the world became a haze of blueish green as salt water shot up my nose Spoon and I were separated upon its path. I just floated there for a moment, taking it all in. Despite the pandemonium, I felt a sort of tranquility as I hung suspended. The cacophony of muted shouts and splashes echoed in the sea all around. An explosion echoed somewhere overhead.

The water around me shook with the force of it. The water was so clear that I could literally see sailors plummeting into the salty water. water ten yards away. Then I chanced to look down and my momentary peace was shattered. The blue-green of the water slowly darkened until about fifty feet below me was nothing but a yawning abyss. Well, I've never been a fan of deep water and in that moment I remembered that I was more than four hundred miles away from anything, in water filled with rotting corpses. I stared down. Spellbound by a void no human was ever intended to look upon. Way down in the briny depths, I swear I saw something shift. Some monolithic form quivered and then went still. That's when I decided it was time to get out of the water. A few seconds later I breached the surface, gasping in a lung full of air. All around me, people were. splashing and shouting in panicked tones.

McMuffin! Screw and shouted. Somehow spotting me amidst the insanity. He swam up to me. There's something below us. I could tell he didn't like the sound of that. Let's get to the lifeboat. And so, we did.

I'm going to give the abbreviated version of what went down next. Long story short, we got to a lifeboat. our comrades and the Russians hauling us out of the salty water. Nothing accusted us on our swim to safety. However, there's another kind of surprise to this story. The barry didn't sink. Nope, she listed like a mother. Really looked like she was going down, but in the end the captain kept her afloat.

So an absolute assload of us jumped off our ship and into the water. for no good reason. I know, right. Ridiculous. Anyway, after the nanny hid us, she seemed to run out of steam. It took us over an hour

to get everyone out of the water. In all that time, the nanny just floated there, as if she were dead in the water. The bloated body swaying, leering at us as we were to get everyone back in the boat. After that,

both the Barry and the PTSD fared away from the nanny, taking us out of the aqua graveyard and putting about a mile between us and the super tanker. Even though she didn't sink, our ship did take some serious damage. Now, it's after midnight, and even as I lay here in my bunk, crews are working on much-needed repairs.

Between medical evals and cleaning up what we could, We haven't got much info from the higher-ups, but I'll tell you what I do know so far. Captain Diomedes radio for some backup, but I'm told it'll be days before anyone gets here. The nanny hasn't moved, or answered any hails from either us or the rusky since the collision. And tomorrow, when the sun rises over this endless expanse, we're going to send a boarding party to the ship. I'm going to be on that boarding party and if I'm being honest I'm not sure how I feel about that

it's great that my captain thinks highly enough to have handpig me for his team but our destination is a mystery draped in corpses so yeah I'll post again if I live to see my laptop all I can say for sure is that today I really miss Harold

and private log. Private logs. Petty Office of First Class Mac B. Guffin. 2019. 09.30. We left at 0500 the next morning. It was cold.

The sun was up, but the sky was overcast as far as the eye could see. The water was dark and chopping. The Barry and the PTSD parked their butts about a half mile away from the nanny. The corpse field in his teeth. disturbing garden of mushrooms and mould were all but gone, having either mostly drifted away or sunk beneath the waves overnight. Cold droplets of rain fell from the grey above as our boat sped toward the Nanny. Right off the bat, I didn't like what I was seen. For starters,

the wall of fog didn't seem to have moved an inch since yesterday. The Nanny loomed just at the edge of the murk. It's dark, gargantuan shapes standing out in stark, constant. against the swirling grey backdrop. It looked like a horror movie waiting to happen. But at least we weren't going to go in like a bunch of slasher movie victims. Captain Diomedes decided to come in hot on this one. In addition to our standard VBSS team, we had a full-on badass Marine MRF stationed on our ship at the time, and the cab decided to commit the entire force.

If I had to guess, the captain was feeling the burn from the people we were lost. Not all of the sailors who jumped ship after the collision were accounted for. Several had gone missing, despite extensive efforts by both ourselves and the Russians to locate them. It didn't make sense. All 16 sailors were unaccounted for. Lieutenant Riggs was among them. That part really got me. He'd been standing right next to me before the nanny hit us, and then Riggs was just gone. There were four boats from the barry headed toward the nanny. The first to each carried a full platoon of Devil Docks, 16 Marines in each. They've been stationed on the barry for almost three months now, and I've gotten to know of you.

Lieutenant Nathan Brisby was definitely the square George Captain America type. A good, if not deluded guy by all accounts. While platoon Sergeant Jeb Emery was the White Jesus, Holy War time. Fun fact about Sergeant Emery was, he felt cocaine was a very useful tool in his crusade. Truth was, these guys were adrenaline junkies, with a lot of them. Marines out at sea are like bored eagles in a cage, and after yesterday's collision there, trigger fingers were more than itchy.

The other two boats consisted of Barry's very own VBSS. Well, it was a token force, really. Basically, the captain wanted eyes in there that he knew were on his team. All told, there were ten of us. five on the boat and five on the other. Our team's role was basically medical backup and fire support. The platoons had their own med guys and definitely had their own heat to bring to the party, but like I said, Captain Diomedes decided to come in heavy on this one.

On my boat was myself, Spoonie, petty officer of first-class Greta Thompson, petty officer's second-class Boris Yannard, and that dig bag I mentioned earlier. Staff Sergeant Alden. In case you were wondering, Sputney's not a med guy, neither am I. I feel it's best to stay away from meds. That job fell to Officer Thompson and Yannet.

The Ruskies were getting in on the action as well, deploying their own recon units somewhere near the port and Starbook quarter. We had no plans to rendezvous with them. Given the sheer size of the tanker and its myriad structures, they may as well have been on another boat entirely. Their landing craft had deployed ahead. ahead of us and at that moment their four boats looked like nothing more than dark spots as they moved alongside the rusty behemot. In another moment they would disappear behind the port quarter.

God damn, Greta said, eyeing the tanker with trepidation. You said it, I replied absolutely. We were just about a hundred yards out and the body strapped to the hull were becoming visible. If possible, he actually looked worse than yesterday. many appeared more bloated. As we closed the distance, we could see that some stomachs had distended to obscene degrees, while others had literally burst,

their entrails dangling in the salty breeze. Jesus, hanging all these bodies would take forever, Greta said. Seriously, how the hell would you even do it? I asked. Greta shrugged. Maybe go around the hall with a small boat and nail them up one at a time. But that's crazy, I said, shaking my head. She's more than a quarter mile long. She's a fucking disturbing, that's what it is, spoon cut in.

It's a bad freaking omen. We should sink her at range. Stole that crap, Witherspoon. Alden butted in it. We don't need any of that demoralizing shit. The sergeant's reprimand was cut short as the radio squawked into life. Except it wasn't a communication from any of our common. rates. Instead, it was what sounded like an old man giving a sermon in a frail, wavering voice.

An old man giving a sermon on what was supposed to be a secure military channel. Behind the man's words was this strange buzzing sound. It almost sounded like he was broadcasting from within a swarm of flights. The transmission was clearly not directed at us. And the gods of man shall be exposed for the false constructs that they are. His voice wavered, but somehow still conveyed a sense of strength. As the architect of life rises up from the land of the dead to walk amongst men once again. We were about thirty yards out now, and the nightmare masts were just coming into view. At least the ones we could see.

From this vantage point, there really was no telling what lay beyond the lower debt. It's hard to tell how many corpses were swinging around up there, but my gut told me there were at least fifty or sixty swaying. the cold breeze. Above the mast flew a small army of those damned seagulls. No doubt some of them were members of the ship brigade that unloaded their avian fury down upon us only a day before. Their idols and edifices of the false prophets Jesus of Mohammed shall be broken, and their shattered remains trod into the dirt. The man droned on. Our boat crested a medium-sized wave and suddenly dipped downward into a steep trough.

Before the craft could write itself again, we hit another wave that caused us to jolt violently upward. I grabbed onto a railing as the force of the impact lifted my feet off the dead. The petty trinkets and barbles of the god of Abraham shall be cast out into the sea. The voice cracked, building in strength. Their symbol is defaced. The defies of religions of the misledged shall be destroyed and forgotten. All conflicts shall cease. Once again, man shall know peace.

United, under the true faith, forevermore. The man giggled maniacly, as if he couldn't quite take his own sermon seriously. That somehow made it worse. Spoon and I exchanged an uneasy look. Yanna, switch channels and get Lieutenant Brisbane on the horn, find out if he's hearing this shit too. Alden's usual alpha male tone carried with it a hint of uncertainty.

certainty. Aye, sir, Yanna said. Oh, he's reaching on up, up from below. The voice came through on the new channel in a sing-song tone. Damn, that's creepy, Yannar said as he began cycling through frequencies, but the old man's hollow voice echoed through every single one. He's stepping on up through the dark. He's climbing to stairs. He's building a door, rejoin.

joy. The buzzing seemed to grow in intensity, along with the old man's intonations. It only took a second to realize Jena had cycled through every available channel, having stopped once again on the primary. There was no denying. Every secure frequency was compromised. He will take the world away from the burning light of this small, hateful son. Together we will journey through the lightless deaths. Our world, his companion through the long night. Well, I suddenly don't like the sound of that, Greta said, checking over her M4 as she did. Turn that shit off, Alden commanded.

Yan'ev did as he was told, and we were all grateful for it. The sound of that man's voice, with that incessant buzzing, well, he was really starting to freak me out. The Marines were ahead of us. The force recompensed. platoon under Lieutenant Brisbane broke off, headed for the starboard bat. The other half of our VBSS following behind them. If they'd heard the bizarre chatter that had infiltrated outcomes, they gave no sign that they wished to abort. We followed the amphibious recomb platoon under Platoon Sergeant Jeb M. We were going to be boarding on the port side bow. The plan was to meet somewhere near the end of the lower deck, close to the beam. Our boat slowed to a

crawl as we crossed the remaining distance. Brisbane and his group rounded the nanny and disappeared from view. The sight of the masts also fell away as we crossed into the supertanker's shadow, and the hull became a rusty wall, taking up our entire view. Now that we were up close, we finally got a good look at the corpses. There was a mixture of rusty chains, meat hooks and nails employed in the creation of this macabre were displaying. Some weren't stuck to the hull at all, but merely dangled from meat hooks so they've been crudely nailed into the corroded steel. It was noticeably colder within the shadow of the colossus.

Standing at its base was akin to standing at the base of a cliff, trying to look up and see the top gate one a sense of vertigo. Our ships came to arrest alongside the hull about ten meters from one another. Emory's team was preparing to fire their two tailguns. If you don't know, basically five-foot-long cannons that fire grappling hooks. Jesus, look at those freaking holes, Greta said. How the hell is she not taking on water? Truth is, I was trying not to look at the ship. I'd be doing my best to avert my gaze between my weapon, a spooning and the deck.

This shit was disturbing, and my heart was bleeding too fast for my liking. But she was indeed correct. When the nanny had come at us from out of the fog, she was already visibly rotted through in places. The parts of her that I could see had already been pitted with jagged, rusty holes. And after yesterday's brief salvo, she now looked even worse for wear. Jagged holes, the size of baseballs, dotted her underbelly, where the corroded steel had given way to the fury of our M-2s. On top of that were the hubcap-sized pits, the starboard-side Bushmaster had punched into her.

The ragged edges burned black. It was obvious that the nanny should have long ago succumbed to the sea. There was no denying it, and yet she stayed afloat in defiance of the laws of physics. I suddenly had the unsettling feeling of being watched. I found my eyes scanning the bodies, half expecting to see one of them looking at me with a corped blue head cocked in my direction. Then my eyes roamed down to the water, as if I was. I was going to find something watching us from below our boats. I was really starting to freak myself out. The soft punt, punt, if the tail was firing, brought my attention back to the task at hand.

The tail, or tactical air-initiated launch system, was an impressive example of human ingenuity, able to fire over 100-foot obstacles. Both shots apparently found their mark. A moment later, two Marines were shinning up to the lower deck. It was quite a sight to behold. The devil dogs had to climb about 80 feet before reaching the top, which they did so with admirable speed. Not to mention the fact that they had to climb over dead bodies to do it. Almost as one, they reached the summit and disappeared over the side.

I think we all held our breath in that moment, expecting to hear the chatter of gunfire. but all was silent for an unbearable length of time. Much to our relief, a few minutes later, two rope ladders were tossed over the side, and rapidly unfurled down the length of the hull, one for each of our boats. Both ladders unfortunately unraveled over some of the bodies. It was inevitable. Right, Alden said.

Okay, Yanna, you're with me. Witherspoon, McGuffin, Thompson, you're on guard, Judy. Don't let anyone fuck with our... ride out of here. My eyes, sir, the three of us said in unison. All things considered, it was understandable call. It's not like the devil dogs were short on firepower. That was more me and Spoonie's specialty anyway. Spoon was packing a belt-fed MK48 while I was carrying an M2-49. It's not like the jarheads were lacking in that department. And I've got to hand it to him, Alden wanting to climb all the way up there, moving over festering corpses no less.

On top of hanging suspended from a rope ladder nearly a hundred feet in the air. Well, that took some cahones, but I'm happy to say my common sense would not allow me to have. Soon, our little away team was up and over the side. Emery had left a fire team of two marines behind as well, so we immediately commenced to looking awkwardly at one another. After about five minutes of uncomfortable silence, shifting my gaze between the Marines, my teammates and the boat of Horace, I decided to give the radio another go. I climbed up the ladder to the flying bridge and plop myself down into the driver's seat, flicking the radio back on.

Prophet has come to us at last. The old man was still giving his sermon, but now in a soft, serious tone. The buzzing had noticeably decreased in body. as well. In the guise of man's machines, we shall ride upon his back into the lands of humanity. And there? Oh, no, I said, shutting the radio back off. I stood up and walked over to the edge of the bridge where I looked down to my mates. We exchanged a look for a long moment. Unable to think of anything else to do, I just shrugged my shoulders. Oh, bugger this, Sproon offered. The grieve. Greta concurred.

You mark my words, mate, this is all going to go out of pot, you know. Before Spoon could continue boosting morale, our attention was drawn to a corpse near the rope ladder. It was about eight feet up, so just about eye-level with me. It seemed to have come loose

from the nails that had pinned it in place. We watched as it slowly fell inward through a corroded hole the size of an office desk. The decaying skin caught on the jagged edges and tore away strips, leaving long, stringy tatters of grey flesh in its weight. The second later we heard a splash. So there is water in there after all, Greta said, her gaze lingering on the hole.

Then she turned to look up at me. Let's get a light in there, she said, and ducked into the cabin to find something suitable. I immediately felt apprehensive. Well, I couldn't figure out why. From the look on Spoon's face, I could tell that he felt the same. Okay, Greta said excitedly, and she exited the cabin. In her hand was a large LED spotlight. She climbed up the ladder, Spoon following quickly behind. Alrighty, she said, raising the light. Let's see what's going on inside this mystery ship.

The powerful beam clicked on, illuminating the yawning darkness before us. none of us were prepared for what the light revealed oh my god retta whispered what in the bloody hell is it spoon said from what we could see the interior looked completely hollow and till the distance about six or seven metres in that's where the empty space ended at an unsettling-looking barrier it was this organic-looking wall the tissue for surely it was a long and not artificial, was rigid and bumpy, and stretched on in all directions as far as our little light could penetrate. It was that same rotten strawberry colour as the mushrooms we'd seen the day before. We stood there in dumbfounded silence, just staring, until a sudden motion drew our attention. These two bulging lines pressed together that ran horizontal down the middle of the wall, stretching in both directions about a dozen feet. The lines were highlighted by two swollen ridges.

All at once the ridges vibrated, shuddered, really. The rest of the wall quickly followed suit. The mass pulsated once, twice. I, Greta started to say, but she was cut short as the two ridges separated in a blur of motion. One ridge shut up into the darkness, while the other rocketed downwards. We found ourselves staring. into a milky white ore. It shifted in its socket of rotten strawberry flesh.

The size and strength of the thing vibrating the very air around us with its movements. As one, we dropped down, pressing up against the wall of the flying bridge. Oh, Jesus, fuck me, Spoonie whispered. There's something wearing the nonny like a fucking shell. No one offered a response to that. But there was no denying it. That was definitely an eye, milky white and the size of a school bus. The air around us continued to vibrate with its movement.

We stared in collective shock at one another, as the magnitude of what we'd just witnessed worked its way through our brains. We—I swallowed dryly. We got a radio the others. Did you forget that there's a nightmare sermon going on right now? Greta hissed. Oh shit, I said, having temporarily forgotten that Murphy's law was getting ready to make a grand entrance. What the hell do we do?

Spoon asked. Wake up? I suggested. This has got to be a freaking nightmare. I almost believe my own words. It's not a nightmare, mate. Unless I'm the one who's dreaming, because I know for a fact I ain't a figment of your imagination, but muffin. Spoon said, his eyes wide.

as dinner plates. We stared in silent horror at one another, listening to the air vibrate with the eyes movements, and then everything went still. I couldn't help but wonder if its searching gaze had fallen upon our boat. I think we would have stayed there forever, huddled against the side of the bridge wall, unless Greta hadn't finally spurred us into action. We go get the others, she whispered. We tell them what's going on. We get the hell out of here. I told you this was going to go tits up in a jiffy, didn't I? Spoon hissed.

And you were cracked. Greta snapped back quietly. Now we have to remedy the situation in an equally fast jiffy. Okay, I whispered. Leaning in as I spoke. I'll go up and get the others. So, you're just going to climb eighty feet up, are you? Spoonie asked.

Right past the eye of doom. Spoon's words prompted me to gaze up at the rope ladder. I swallowed dryly before answering. I'll be quiet, I said. More than a dozen guys already climbed up this thing. As long as we don't disturb it, you shouldn't notice me. I was already doubting my words, realizing how stupid they sounded even as they were leaving my mouth.

We're all going, Greta said. Or at least I am. No way I'm staying. down here with that, Finn. Me too, Spoon concurred. And so we very quietly began moving. I took relief,

climbing up the ladder first, followed by Greta, and then Spoon. The Marines watched us from their boats, visibly perplexed. One of them walked over to the edge of the port quarter. He was in the process of cupping his hands around his mouth to shout at us when

Greta shot a finger to her lips. The Marine lowered his hands and gave her, what the hell, gesture. Greta just shook her head, and we continued our ascent. Judging from the fact that neither of the Marines reached for a radio, it was pretty clear they knew the frequencies were compromised. Passing the gaping hole was terrifying. My heart was hosting a slayer concert beneath my ribcage. The ladder was about six inches from the jagged edge of the opening.

I kept my body as far to the right as possible as I climbed past it. Next came the corpses. They were hanging about 20 feet up. That part was tricky since the ladder was resting on top of a body. It made it hard to keep a good grip. I got a good look at it as I clambered over. It was a man probably in his mid-forties, wearing the remnants of a tattered uniform that had once been wiped.

I guess it was the uniform of a sailor from the nanny. Dead, milky white eyes stared out at the sea. What I found really disturbing was the fact that he appeared to have died smiling. Even through the swollen decay, I swear the guy was grinning ear to ear. This got me wondering about the rest of the corpses. I paused and leaned out a bit from the ladder, trying to get a clear look at the next closest body. "'The hell are you doing, McMuffin?'

"'Gretta whispered. "'Move your ass.' "'Well, I did as I was told, "'and started moving once again. "'And not before I spotted a little baby mushroom "'growing out of the grinning corpse's shoulder. "'It looked like it had torn its way up "'through the top of his uniform in order to bask in the sun.

"'And about sixty feet up, "'a strong gust of wind whipped across the hole. "'The breeze was so strong that my feet kicked out from under me. I hung there for a few terrifying seconds, white knuckling the rung I'd been holding onto. My boots dangled out in the open air at an angle with the force of the wind. I dared not low down, as I struggled to regain my footing. Thankfully, the wind finally relented. And after a few more panic heartbeats, my boots found the ladder once again.

After another grueling couple of minutes, I reached the top and hauled myself over the wall. and they turned to give Greta a hand. Soon all three of us were safely leaning against the wall of the lower deck, catching our breath from the heart pounding climb. Although, given the circumstances, I don't think the word safely is exactly accurate. Raising our weapons, we scanned the area. None of our comrades could be seen. I silently thank God that the deck wasn't as disgusting as the hull,

though it was plain to see that there hadn't been any of the room. custodial work performed in quite some time. Bird guano spat at the deck and other less identifiable liquids pulled in dents and divvets in the steel. The deck leading out toward the edge of the bow was completely devoid of life. To our right, about 20 metres away, was the first of many buildings, and way off in the distance loomed the hazy form of the nanny's bridge, towering like a castle. A forest of steel sprawled out between us and its walls. We moved quickly and quietly toward the building. One of the masts lay between us and the structure.

An almost steady sprinkle of bird droppings were plummeting from above and spattering on the deck near its base. We gave the mast to wide berth as we continued forward. The only sounds were the coy of seagulls high above, and the distant lap of cold water far below. The deck had patches of rust, but it was nowhere near as bad as the hull. Everywhere could be seen large brown stains that I instinctively knew was dry blood. Judging from how many I could spot at a cursory glance, it looked like there had been a massacre here.

Look, Spoonie whispered, pointing toward the building. There's Sergeant Alder. Spoon was right. There, behind the bay windows of the first building, was both. Alden and Yanhe, who looked to be bent in concentration over something. The Marines were nowhere in sight. We hurriedly entered the building, which consisted of a huge open room divided by a long counter that ran nearly the entire width of the space. Janair and Alden were messing with a radio. Alden was over a desktop next to the radio, presumably trying to find some way of contacting

the barring. Static poured out of the speakers when we entered. The old man seeming to have finally concluded his sermon. Why the hell aren't you guys out with the boat? The sergeant asked, not looking up from what he was doing. The tone of his voice was unsettling. It had none of the force that Alden was so well known for. He sounded scared. Sergeant Alden, I began.

We have to get off the ship. Yeah, no shit, he said. Not looking at. up as he tapped away on the computer. This OP is Fubar. We can't contact the barry. Every frequency is jammed, and there's a goddamn corpse garden in the back.

What? I asked. Not sure that I really wanted to hear the answer. Don't see for yourself, Alden said. The devil dogs are running a recon back there right now. We got something worse than that, massage. Spoonie chimed in. There's something wearing the nonny. The sergeant stopped tapping

with the keyboard and looked up at us for the first time. Something wearing the nan. He repeated the word slowly, as if trying to decipher a code. Well, we don't know for sure if it's exactly wearing that I started, but Alden cut me off. You've lost your minds. Is that it? He stood up wearing an incredulous look on his face. He looked over at Yanir. You heard it too, Yanir. This situation is too big for us to handle. Coms are compromised and part of our team is becoming dangerously unhinged.

Time to go. Alden had clearly been looking for any reason to get off this ship. Whatever he'd seen had him spooked pretty bad. Yenna looked between us and the sergeants. was all he came up with in reply and ever so faint sound came echoing up from somewhere deep down in the ship slowly all of our eyes went down to the floor came the sound again

what the hell is that Alden whispered looking at us with wide eyes the fear in his voice said that he already knew what it was we all knew the ship had a pulse somewhere way down in the depths of this diseased monolith echoed a rhythmic pounding. Faint but undeniable. It's the black heart of the beast, Spoonie said in a grave tone.

She's pounding away somewhere down in the dark. We're not bullshilling, you search, Greta said quietly. There's something big, real big, down inside the hull. It struck me then, how we had all decided to start whispering without having verbally agreed upon it. I think we were all instinctively afraid that the thing below would hear us talking about it. Alton said, his face all but drained of colour as it finally dawned on him we wouldn't make this kind of crap up. He abruptly stood up. We're getting off this ship right now, he whisper shouted.

The dude's eyes were as wide as dinner plates. We have to get the others first, I pointed out. To hell with that, he is. hissed. They're off playing in the corpse farm. They got themselves a box of creolas and they're having themselves a scouting party. He started moving toward the front door. Sarge, we can't leave them, Greta hissed back. You want to go find them? That's on you. I'm going back to the boat. I'll wait for you there. Alden was practically doing a tiptoe job. Under other circumstances, the site would have been funny.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned his head and hissed over his shoulder. And hurry the hell up. Then he disappeared through the door. Janair trailed after him. He paused at the threshold and looked back at us, offering us a final shrug before exiting the same way as our sergeant. Believable! Spoonie shook his head.

Let's move, Greta hissed. Without another word, we moved across the large, room, heading toward the door that led to the back entrance. At a quick glance, it was clear that this place had been made into some impromptu medical bed. Open gauze pads and used syringes lay discarded on the floor. Atop the countertop that divided the room lay an assortment of half-full and half-empty pill-bolts. The contents spilled out like candy across the improvised medical workstation. In addition to this was something I just found bizarre, strewn across the counter and floor was, of all things, what had to be at least a hundred used sunny wipes,

like someone had made a last stand against the encroaching rod, swiping away madly as an army of bacteria encircled them. A strange symbol was painted against the back wall in what I could only assume was dry blood. The shapes it was comprised of were disturbing. Its design consisted of three crudely drawn circles, one with two stacked on top of it, drawn side by side. The circles were complemented by three jagged arrows jutting out from between them. Fascinated, I stepped closer, my eyes running up and down the jagged lines. I don't know why, but I literally felt like it was drawing me in, and I had to consciously make an effort to look away from it.

And then I saw it. something that demanded my attention over everything else in this floating madhouse. A bottle of unopened oxy, just sitting there, minding its own business near the end of the counter. I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I saddled up next to it like it was a cute girl at a bar, and I was a drunken creeper. Hey baby, that's a fine little thing like you doing in a place like this. Slowly I reached out and picked it up, turning the bottle over, in my hands, an all too familiar voice in the back of my head said lustfully,

I looked up just in time to see my two comrades cautiously exit the back door of the building, weapons raised. I slammed the bottle back down on the counter and literally ran away from it, like it was a bomb getting ready to explode. Upon exiting the makeshift Medbay, we saw immediately that the sergeant hadn't been exaggerating about there being a farm, or at least a makeshift one. as unbelievable as it sounds after just a few feet from the door stood the base of a hill made of dirt the sole stretching on in both directions until stopping in the distance at the deck walls on either side cautiously we ascended the slope which rose at a moderate incline about two metres from the deck i half expected the dirt to go along with the pervading theme of grossness that the nanny seemed to have fully embraced but instead it looked like to look like the dirt to go along with the pervading theme of grossness that the nanny seemed to have fully embraced but instead it looked like a little looked like perfectly normal soil. Actually, it looked and smelled like some high great stuff. My uncle had a farm I used to have out on when I was younger. After that, I put my green thumb to

good use illegally, growing the ganja in my home state of Ohio, and so I considered myself somewhat of an authority when it comes to judging soil quality. Oh, this whole bloody affair is barking mad, mate. Spoon said to me in a hush tongue, keeping his eyes forward and weapon up, as we crested the summit. You're damn right about that, Spoonie, I answered. As sooner we're off this floating nightmare, the better. Now that we've made it to the top, we could see that the dirt was part of a makeshift field that stretched on for about 20 metres.

At that point, our view was obstructed by what appeared to be black cornstalks, black or very dark blue, couldn't quite decide. Either way, the dark forms of the three-meter tall, stalk swaying in the cold morning air was unsettling. But all those oddities felt trivial in the face of what had been lain out in nice, neat rows atop the site. Bodies, their dead eyes staring blindly up at the overcast sky, all in varying stages of decay, a myriad of horsefly zipping about their air overhead.

And they weren't just dead and bloated like all the others we'd seen. Oh, every one that we'd. passed appeared as if it had been in the middle of an autopsy when something had interrupted the procedure. Some had ribcages that lay cracked open, bearing their necrotic contents for all to see. On others, thighs had been flayed open wide, deep incisions along torsos marking where sizable chunks of tissue had been removed, all appearing to have been done with surgical precision. Everywhere that blade work had been performed, proven to be a boon for the encroaching vermin. The usual suspects were present. Flights and maggots have begun their work on the bodies. All of their

basis of operation were centred around the post-mortem wounds. Indeed, the seemingly expertly placed incisions appear to even be aiding the very progression of decomposition. As the rot, what was taking hold of the corpse's flesh seemed to favour an organised pattern, centered about the expertly inflicted post-mortem wounds. Some of their bodies were ridden with the same mold we'd seen on the dead sea life yesterday. Small versions of those rotten strawberry red mushrooms were growing out of a few corpses. What in the bloody hell is with their faces? Spoonie's voice quavered. Some looked like they'd died smiling, while others had clearly done so whilst weeping. One thing was for sure. No one looked like they'd had a boring death. The voice came

echoing up from somewhere beyond the edge of the corn stalks. I immediately recognized it as one from the radio. Though the words couldn't be made out, the strange timbre was unmistakable. Even that odd buzzing sound was present. We set out toward the black stalks, keeping low as we ran down a path created by two rows of bodies. As one, we reached the wall of corn and crouched. I say corn, because that's exactly what it looked like. that we were up close, you could literally see ears of corn swaying in the breeze, except the corn

was a grey blue colour. The leaves and stalks were black with highlights of very dark purple along the edges of the leaves. The voice was still far, but close enough for us to barely hear out what was being said, though the words made little sense. From seed to sabbling, from strong tree a rotting lord, the divine path of our Lord is good. The man droned in a voice thick with mucus. Right, Greta said. McMuffin, you take point. Spoon, you're our backer. Officer Thompson was apparently in charge of this little mission, and that was just fine with me. Judging from the way Spoon nodded, he was on board with that as well. Just before we entered into the foliage, a Marine with camo face-plaint and a boony hat poked his head.

The Marine, Kiefer, I think his name was, put a finger to his lips. We stopped in our tracks, remaining silent and staring up at him expectantly. Kiefer took one cautious look over his shoulder and then stepped completely out of the brush. We're about to make a move, he said in a hush turn, meeting our eyes one at a time. You're following this weird priest fucker for about 20 minutes now. The spy time is over. He's one sick son of a bitch, though, I can tell you that. We have some very important intel to share with your commander

that's probably going to change that, Greta said, trying to cut to the chase. When he hears our report, he's going to want off this ship ASAP. But this, Kiefer only shook his head. Too late for that now, guys. The serge already has some of the boys spread. out, including himself. Tell him after we make our move. The motion for us to follow, but paused at the edge of the storm. Unless the ship's about to explode, he said thoughtfully, then turned to look back at us. The ship's not about to explode, is it? No, but I started to say, but was cut off.

Good. Come on, then. We're going to miss all the fun. Kiefer grinned and dug back. into the brush. Quietly, we made our way through the wall of black storks and grey balloon corn. As we trudged on, the invisible thing was the towering shape of the command bridge. Its dark form, low hazy, with distance still stood out starkly against the backdrop of swirling grey. The tiny shapes of what I presumed to be sea-goals circled in the air above the tower. Halfway through our journey, Kiefer turned around to whisper to us. Oh, and don't freak out when you see the horse flags.

There's literally a metric ton of them where we're headed. I just nodded, unable to form an adequate response to that. After what I guessed was about ten metres. We reached the edge of the mini cornfield and crouched down. The field ended in a steep hill. The slope dropped an impossible five or six metres before bottoming out into a dirt-filled mini valley that ran the width of the depth. It stretched on into the distance before disappearing into another wall of black corn.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Greta said under her breath. She was crouching on my left. What in God's name happened here? Oh, that's fucking mad, man, Spoon whispered to my right. They must have knocked out the bloody deck. That would have taken out more than just the top deck. Greta observed. More bodies, too, I whispered.

There are only four that come. could be seen from our vantage points. They were arranged in a peculiar cross-path, the tops of their heads almost touching. Oh, with the bodies, Greta hissed. Look at the damn flies. Kieva hadn't been exaggerating about the flies. There were literally small mountains of them,

piled in great seething heaps on both sides of the mini-valley where the dirt met the steel walls of the nanny. Our conversation was cut short as the Marines' target waddled into our line of sight. There he was. The man himself. The guy had been haunting our airwaves since well before we'd even set foot on this cursed ship. The obese man was dressed in torn and dirty priest's robes.

He was old and big. The dude had to be at least seven feet tall. He looked sick, I mean real sick. His skin was corpse white, making the angry red boils that popmart his face stand out in stark, contrast. His hair having fallen out in tufts, it left small patches clinging to his skull that stug out in all directions. A cloud of horseflies buzzed over his head, sipping about in a small perimeter around the rotten priest as he lumbered across the dirt.

That's the dirtiest priest I ever laid eyes on, Spoon said to my right. He wasn't joking, the guy was disgusting. Blotches of red and brown stains complemented the ragged holes that dotted. his priestly garb. There was something else about the shape of his body. I was sailing bold on his back about the size of a basketball. I guessed this was something akin to what radiation poisoning looks like. Despite his drab appearance, the man wore an expression so jolly

it would give Santa Claus a run for his money. He hummed a little ditty I didn't recognise, as he moved in great, lumbering steps. His movements as methodical as they were slow. stepping over and between bodies with great care he paused over one of the corpses bringing his face down to within a few inches of the dead woman his brow furrowed in what looked like deep concentration as his eyes roamed up and down

hmm hmm this just won't do he said clucking his tongue as he rose back up on his haunties he raised the bucket close to his face and gazed inside He looked like a proud father peering down at his newborn son for the first time. Patience, patience, he groped. I just need a moment to work. With careful reverence, he set the bucket down and pulled out what looked to be an ice-pick. His brow furrowed, and a bloated, purple tongue stuck out the side of his mouth, like a child deep in concentration.

Apparently, he found what he was looking for. because a moment later he violently plunged the ice-pick straight into the dead girl's forehead. Then he pulled the implement back out and examined his handy-worm. Seemingly satisfied, he turned to grab the bucket. Well, very good little ones, he cooed. Bless it be your journey. And with that, he tipped the bucket, and maggots began pouring out and onto the girl's face. I turned away.

hands in my mouth as I fought the urge to puke. Task complete, the priest gave a jolly laugh and tossed the bucket away. Oh my, he said like a parent praising their talk. You are ambitious. I told you that you'd do fine. And now look at you. Oh, so proud, so proud. I realized then he must be talking to one of the maggots.

That somehow disturbed me more than anything else last far. and now the man bellowed to the skies he drew himself back up to full height throwing out his arms like a telean velgist addressing a congregation now for the sacred hymn of the flower hands on top of your head the commanding voice cut into the man's sermon lie down on the ground now sergeant emery along with three other marines came rushing out from between the black stalks about six metres to the left of our position position. Simultaneously, a group of four marines led by a man I recognised as corporal McCready came charging out from between the storks on our right. All weapons were trained on the rotten priest as they rushed down the hill. The men struggling not to lose their footing as they descended. You could practically hear their trigger fingers twitching, seemingly oblivious to the incoming threat. The disgusting man looked up at the approaching men with an idiot smile

that said, Oh boy, new friends. Brothers, sisters, welcome to the Church of Life. The fat man bellowed joyously. During the exact opposite of what he'd been commanded to do, he began waddling toward the group of devil dogs. I said, get down on the ground, are you disgusting asshole? The sergeant bellowed in a voice that even intimidated me,

and I was on this guy's side. "'Party's over.' Despite the threatening commands, the rotten priest bellowed out a belly jiggling laugh, and took a few trundling steps forward, his wet robes dragging through the dirt. "'Oh, no, friend. "'The party's just beginning.

"'You're just in time. "'This guy is straight up disturbing,' Greta said to my rights. "'The safety of her weapon making an audible click "'as it was switched off. I nodded and glanced over at her. She was white-knuckling her enfold. I realized that I was doing the same with my weapon. I silently thank God it was someone other than me down there

facing off with this free. Emery shook his head, taking another step forward. There was only about five metres between them there. I don't think we'd fit in with your crowd. Speaking of them, how many of you are there? the priest's mouth was home to only a handful of teeth that looked like yellow tombstones jutting out of blood-red ground the guy's smile was too white dude looked like he could fit a cantalub in there oh but you are mistaken child the man said with the enthusiastic mania of a religious nutter from america's bible belt the grace of our grandfather does not discriminate oh no no Emory and his men tense to fire.

The priest continued lumbering toward them. The falling maniacly. His body visibly jiggling beneath his ropes. He's reaching on up. He said in a sing-song tone. He's reaching up from the grave. Not one more step or you. Emery's own words were cut short by the of his own M-Fault.

Not even bother. to finish his threat before he made good on it. For in the span it took the Marine to say these few words, the fat man suddenly exploded into motion. Having gone from a slow lumbering gates were dead on sprint that should have been impossible for a man his size. And I mean, like freaking Hussein Bolt on his best day fast, leaving the swarm of flies scattering in his weight.

And he was doing it with his arms extended, like he wanted a freaking hug. Wow, this shit. was freaking. The sergeant's aim was true. The short three-round burst of five-five-six millimeter nato-round struck the priest at centre-mass. I could see the back of his robes billow out as the bullets tore through his body. But the monstrous man didn't stop.

At first I thought it was just his girth and sheer momentum keeping him moving forward. But then he bellowed out another madman's laugh. And I felt my heart skip a beat. It was weird, but in that moment no one else fired, not even Emery himself. The sergeant just stood there, staring, mouth hanging open in disbelief as the hulking man bawled down upon him. This fucker was actually picking up speed. In another heartbeat the priest crossed the remaining distance between them. At the last second, Emory seemed to snap out of his trance.

Taking a step back, he pulled the trigger of his weapon once again. carbine spat out another three-round burst at this distance even stevie wonder couldn't miss once again the rounds tore straight through the priest but now the marines and mccready's squad were behind emery's targets not a good place to be reflexively everyone ducked private jerome hawkins took at least one round in the leg he went down hard not that any of us took notice in that moment We were all too busy watching the fitted priest slam into Sergeant Emery. The lunatic gave out a near-deafning bellow of joy as he wrapped his arms around the Marine. The sergeant led out a shriek that was unsettling and how out of place it was for his gun-toting alpha-male persona. At last, at last! The priest shouted as he and the Marine crashed to the ground.

At last, thou soul, you return to the flock. emery screamed and thrashed beneath the rotten girth of the man this brought the other marines out of their stupor as one they charged towards the two figures locked on the ground i made a token gesture of getting up to help as well which amounted to nothing more than me slowly rising and walking to the edge of the hill greta spoon and even keifer mirrored the gesture no one was trying to get involved in that ship the priest brought his face down low stopping within inches stopping within inches of the marine, huss and wriggling insects falling onto the shrieking sergeant's face. Ah, for too long you've been away. The maniac's grin grew wider, and he laughed. Ah, you have forgotten yourself, but now, now the love of God will return you to the fall. Whatever this insane fucker was planning next was interrupted by the three heavily-muscled

killing machines slamming into him. The priest was knocked off the stricken old. and sent sprawling onto the steel dead. Out from under the priest's girth, Sergeant Emery scrabble away on his hands and knees, puking and groaning as he did so, Greta said, and started down the hill toward Emery's crawling form. Another of the Marines turned and made their way over to Hawkins.

Having finally realized that someone else besides the hostile had been hit by the sergeant's amateur move, the priest rolled onto his knees, but Corporal McCready delivered a heavy boot to the guy's face, sending him back to the ground. Do not get up. The Marine growled through gritted teeth. It was unsettling.

Even at this distance you could literally feel the hostility wefting off the Marines, not that it made a bit of difference to the priest. The guy sprang up like you'd boof to Pogo stick for breakfast. Smiling insanely through split lips, and cracked teeth. Several of the boils in his face had exploded, sending rivulets of noxious yellow fluids streaming down and mixing with the river of crimson running down his mouth. He didn't even seem to notice his wounds. The priest giggled and put his hands up like an old time boxer.

Then he started hopping from one foot to another, his blubber visibly jiggling beneath his robes. All righty then. Who's off for a friendly game of Fistico? He said in a playful time. I could see McCready's eyes bulger the challenge. The Marines were wolves and their blood was up. This motherfucker, the corporal growled under his breath. The Marine shugged off his backpack and tossed his weapons down. All right, guy, he said, crackling his knuckles between his combat gloves.

We're taking you in. But first we're going to cuff you. you. And if I need to beat the ever-loving shit out of you to get those cuffs on, well, all the better. Um, Corporal McCready, sir, I said from a top of the hill. There's some, there's some intel you really need to hear, sir. Fill me in when we're dragging this fucker back, the corporal said over his shoulder. Um, sir, Spoonie chimed in. Officer McGuffin isn't exaggerating. There's some serious... In a minute, McCreedy cut him off. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

Burley Marine squared off with the priest, who looked absolutely tickled pink at the prospect of a boxing match. At six-five and being composed of two hundred and thirty-five pounds of solid muscle, McCreedy cut an imposing figure, especially with that Game of Thrones' taormon-style beard he sported. But the rotten priest, or a unique menace all his own. I mean, he obviously didn't look like some tough as Nail's M.MA fighter, but the filthy garments hanging limply from his obese, hulking form, was just unnatural.

Disturbingly unnatural. Are you nuts? Thompson shouted from where she knelt by Sergeant Emery's shuddering form. That guy took at least three rounds to the chest and didn't even flinch. The sergeant missed. McCready said over his shoulder. The hell he did! Thompson shocked that. as impossible as it seemed i was almost doubting it as well i mean seriously how could he have taken even one five fifty six millimetre round to the chest and still be standing but it was too late now anyway the two men squared off after a few seconds of some fancy footwork mccreedy made the first move the breeze was far too slow to react and the marine delivered two solid hits to the man's triple chin Then he hopped back, fists raised in a defensive posture.

The corporal was clearly getting into it. You could literally hear the sickening smack of flesh on flesh. They had no doubt that either blow would have broken a man's jaw, but it only seemed to enthuse the priest. He responded with a tittering giggle. Then the priest once again sprang into an impossible blur of motion, grinning maniacly as he crossed the five or so feet between, them in a single heartbeat.

What I did not expect was for Macready to be ready for this, or at least it seemed like he was. Just as the priest sprang into motion, the corporal began to fall backwards. By the time the priest's meaty fist was swinging through the spot where his head had just been, the marines ass was hitting the ground. Somehow, in that split second the corporal had produced two weapons. In one hand was a taser gun, and the other hand was one of those special-op stunned batons. I'd been hearing about. First came the stun gun. The shot was epic. Both darts struck the insane

wanker right in the forehead, and his lunatic smile finally faltered. Body convulsing, the priest dropped, skidding on his knees across the dirt for a good metre. His teeth bared and brow knitted in pain. A few of the boils on his face exploded, shooting yellowish fluid into the dirt. Somehow, the guy still remained upright. In the blink of an eye, McCreedy was back on his feet. Apparently anticipating the man's resilience, he was already swinging his stun-button mere seconds after the priest's knees hit the ground. The blow caught the guy on the left temple. Two sounds came near simultaneously, then. The first was a stickening crack of hard rubber, of striking bone, followed by the air-jolting zoop of 775,000 electrical volts being discharged into

the man's skull. The priest went down, hard. Boxing my ass, McCready sped on the motionless heap at his feet. It was in that instant that several utterly insane things happened at once. The first thing that drew our attention from the short scuffle were the mounds of horse-fell. lies. Suddenly, as one, they exploded into the air. Hundreds of thousands of tiny beating wings creating a thunderous roar as they rose up into the cold grey sky. The next thing that drow attention was what lay beneath. It looked like dozens of men had torn at their clothing until they were all but naked, then lain down against the wall of the deck and allowed themselves to be buried beneath the small mountains of Insoe. For a long moment,

moment we just stared in shock at the motionless half-naked heaps. Their bodies were disturbingly swollen in places, even curled up as they were, we could see strange bulges of discoloured flesh in places. And the skin that wasn't bulging out was visibly covered in angry red waltz, no doubt from the horse-loves. At first I think we all thought that they were dead, but soon enough they began to twitch and shudder, and their misshapen furtive and their misshapen forms began to rise. We should have fired then. We should have lit them up like Christmas trees

before they got the chance to come around out of their stupor. I think it was their unbelievable appearance that kept us rooted in place. But instead, we just stared dumbly. Slack-jawed as they began to stand upright. They were huge. Each one of them towering, eight feet at least. The scraps of tattered clothing that clung to their bloated bodies indicating that they'd once been sailors of the nanny. Now that they'd risen to full height, their deformities were all too visible.

Thighs and knees inflated to twice their normal size. Shoulders whose flesh are grown to the size of football pads, pectorals and even some heads blown up like watermelons. Dude, what the hell are they wearing? Greta said, eyes wide and staring. I think it took Greta, saying that, to get my eyes to make sense of what I was seeing. It wasn't there bodies that had blown up like blooms? Oh no, that would have been far more pleasant. To our collective horror, we realised that they'd sewn huge chunks of other people onto their own bodies,

and not just the flesh of humans. It looked like they'd picked through yesterday's graveyard, cutting slabs and wedges of whale blubber and stitching it to their own skin like some kind of horrific Kronenberg-esque body armour it was hard to tell where their potmarked flesh ended and their makeshif flesh began then as one they began moving toward us some raised rusty pistols and shotguns others brandish corroded knives pitted with holes the rest were armed with nothing more than jagged pieces of men metal, whole pipes. Thick, milky, white and yellow liquids running in rivulets and dripping down their raised arms. Welcome, brothers and sisters. One of the man-things bellowed jovially from beneath his makeshift helmet of whale-facts, his long, flabby arms spreading out in a gesture of embrace. Welcome to the congregation. Everyone fall back, McCreely shouted, at open fire.

back to the boats on the double. The devil-dogs fell instantly into an organized retreat. There were twelve Marines now. Five Marines took up firing positions and opened up on the approaching horde, while one grabbed the wounded Hawkins, and Greta dragged a vomiting Sergeant Emery to his feet. The one thing we had going for our little group of intrepid adventurers was that the enemy was slow as molasses,

moving like disease sloths across the deck. i sprang into motion running down to greta in order to help her drag the sergeant up the hill spoon came about half-way down and opened up with his s a w the staggering volume of lead thundering into the approaching mass of flesh was the lead monstrosities did a jiggling shuddering dance as the deadly storm of high-velocity rounds tore into them a few went down many others raised up arms covered in dead whale blubber and decaying fleshed to shield themselves and pressed on through the maelstrom. One of the monstrous men had been moving considerably faster than his lumbering brethren, and before we knew it, he was stomping amongst the group covering our retreat. They were positioned at the base of the hill. Grette and I were more than halfway up the hill now.

My heart was thundering in my chest as I looked down toward the towering figure. Even at this distance his stench was enough to make my unethical. eyes water. I'm pretty sure that if I didn't have a waterfall of adrenaline shooting through my system at the time, I surely would have puked right then and there. Disgusting freak had to be at least nine feet tall. His shoulders nearly half as wide. The naked bloodstained torso of a man was placed on his chest like a breastplate. The mutilated upper body hung by short, rusty chains, attached to wicked-looking meat hooks. The hooks were embedded deep into the flesh of the giant's shoulders.

His head and face were completely hidden by the grey flesh of, what I guessed, was a huge strip of shark meat. The tightly wrapped flesh was stitched in such a way that it reminded me of a medieval knight. Two small holes had been cut into the rancid flesh, providing eye-holes for the thing. That was it. Not even a goddamn hole for brink.

breathing. The giant had taken the small group by surprise. One hand hung down at his side, gripping a badly rusted pump-action shocker. His free hand shot out at the nearest gog. A meaty hand closed around the marines' neck. The freak lifted the man, at the very least had to be 200 pounds of pure muscle, up off the deck and into the air, making the motion look effortless. The other three Marines refocused the men. The other three Marines refocused their attention on the more immediate threat. The giant's grotesque body armour trembled and shook with the impact of bullets, and he took a few staggering steps backward as bullets found living skin beneath dead flesh. But he didn't go down. Instead, he chortled hysterically,

his shoulders bouncing up and down along with his laughter. "'All is ash,' he said with glee. "'All is dust.' and he turned and flung the Marine toward the rest of his oncoming brethren. The big man cartwheel threw the air like a rag doll, before disappearing with a scream into the oncoming tide of diseased flesh. Everyone, back! One of the other Marines shouted, as he charged the monstrous man. His two remaining comrades did as they were told, firing off token shots as they retreated up the hill.

The charging Marine put a burst from his M-4 right into the giant's head. which the freak took straight to the dome, but his face mask of five-inch-thick rotting shark meat tanked the rounds without any visible damage to his wearer. The disgusting man just took another few staggering steps backward. And then, with a sudden, unexpected burst of speed, he raised up the rusty shotgun he'd been holding, and literally blew the man apart.

In an instant, his chest and body armour were reduced to a fine red mist. Both remaining halves of the Marine fell to the ground with an audible thud. I couldn't believe it. The weapon was in such rough shape. I was amazed that it fired at all.

Somehow it looked like it was actually doing more damage than it had been designed to. Sarge is clear, McCready shouted over the din as Greta and I guided Emery up to the remainder of the hill. Wilkes, Fragg. Blaine, smoke.

Two of the Marines immediately leapt up from their crouch firing positions, each pulling a pin from a grenade. The horde was about halfway to the hill now. The frag landed somewhere in the centre of the crowd. The smoke grenade landed at the bottom of the hill. Are you insane? Greta shouted at the corporal. We're on an oil tanker and you're setting off grenades? Go, go, go, go.

was the only reply in McCready offered. No one cared to wait. waited around to see how the attack played out. Together we plunged back into the black cornfield. A second later, two explosions boomed definitely from behind us. Steel groaned in protest and the dirt beneath our feet trembled under the combined force of both grenades going off near simultaneously. Just as our group exited the other side of the cornfield, a terrible moan arose from somewhere below. The force of it shook the deck more than the grenades had. The sound was painful. What in the hell is that? McCready shouted over the

dim. It was kind of funny. In all the craziness that had ensued since the corporal's would-be boxing match, I'd almost forgotten that there was some kind of kaiju-sized nightmare chilling down inside the hall. That's what we came to tell you, sir, Spoon gasped as we neared the edge of the corpse farm. There's something inside the hole, sir. Something big. behind us echoed the sounds of pursuit. A round drilled a hole into the dirt of our feet. We turned to spot two lumbering figures coming out from between the cornstorms. The three of us let loose a salval of our own as the others ran past us.

The shot struck home. Blubber armour quivered violently beneath the force of high-velocity impacts, and the grotesque beasts were forced back into the foliage. We couldn't tell how big. Sproom continued. But my gut tells me that everything below deck has been hollowed out and this bloody thing is wearing the nanny like a shell. McCready turned to fix us with a look of disbelief.

Something is wearing the nanny? He asked slowly, testing out the words to see if they made any kind of sense. We reached the entrance of the makeshift Med Bay and filed in. Two marines posted up by the door to cover our retreat. "'What about Lieutenant Brisbane and the others?' The thought suddenly struck me as we crossed the room. Shots were ringing out behind us now.

The sounds of rounds impacting the interior of the room, echoing loudly, heard someone cry out in pain. "'We never established contact,' McCready shouted, struggling to be heard over the chatter of gunfire. We'll jump in our boat and sail around the hull, see if their ships are still there. For just one second, My gaze flicked over to the bottle of Perks as I sprinted around the counter.

Even in all this madness I couldn't help but notice it. That in hand of itself was insane. We exited the front door of the Medbay. Griller and Spoon were in front of me. One of the Marines having taken over from them with dragging the physically distressed Sergeant Emery. It didn't look like he was doing good, but I couldn't understand why. I remember the feeling of my feet hitting Anne.

actual steel deck, and I rejoiced at the sensation I would never take for granted again, but my relation was short-lived. Spoon and Greta stepped onto a particularly corroded-looking patch of deck plating, and the steel gave way with a mighty grove. Greta leapt reflexively, managing to just barely clear the sudden pit that had formed beneath her feet. She tucked and rolled as she hit the other side. Spoon gave it his all, too. Though he wasn't as nimble as Officer Thompson, he still managed to grab onto a jagged edge of the hole. Spoonie, I shouted, sprinting toward his dangling form. Wait, McCreedy shouted in warning.

Spoonie, I shouted, sprinting toward his dangling form. Wait, McCready shouted in warning, but I wasn't listening. I hit the deck on my knees and scrambled over to my mate. Hang on, Spoon, I shouted. I made it to the edge of the hole and found Spoon hanging on for dear life, for below him was nothing, at least nothing I could see. All that lay under his dangling form was a yawning black pit. Hurry the ill up! Spoon shouted in desperation. I got you, buddy, I shouted over the crack of gunfire.

But I didn't have him. For a half-second later, more of the deck suddenly and violently caved in. the steel letting out another mournful howl as it bent downward. And then we were falling. Down, down through the darkness. The air rushing past felt hot on my face. And that's when I just heard someone come back into the barracks. Got to wrap it up.

I'm going to send this to my home by on the mainland. I'll post again as soon as possible. Well, if possible. McGuffin, hell. and private law. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen.

Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast from, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.