Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Meltdown

Episode Date: May 4, 2022

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Welcome to aboard, Viarai. Embarked and profite. Embarked and celebrate. Rigolet. Publiere. Savoray. Admire. And,

and profite. Villarai, the voice that we love. Talk to nicely. Michelson's face is unrecognizable. It's severely swollen and splotchy where it was once healthy and vibrant. Blood and pus seeped through his skin like sweat, staining the white sheets under him red and pink. He's calm now, but it won't last.

He'll be awake again, writhing in pain, screaming, and begging to die. He's the toughest man I've ever known, and seeing him like this is a special sort of torture. But I can help him. I have a 45-caliber pistol on my hip. It would be easy to put him out of his misery, and maybe I will. Maybe that's what we should all.

do. I wonder if there are 146 bullets on board this submarine. Surely, there are enough to go around. Otherwise, I fear we're all facing a long, painful, and slow death. I boarded the submarine with 15 other Navy SEALs at Kings Bay Naval Submarine Base. All our equipment was already loaded on the ship, except the small packs that we each carried with us for the few days we would be on board. It wasn't my first time getting on a nuclear-powered submarine to hitch a ride somewhere, so it did not surprise me to hear the submariners grumble about freeloading oxygen breathers as we got on board. They pretended like they were saying it under their breath, but they really wanted us to hear it, a little Navy-to-Navy shit-talking. But I laughed it off. Navy SEALs are,

by definition, the best of the best. These guys got jokes, Michelson said from Barclays. behind me as one of the submariners showed us through the cramped vessel. Let them have their jokes, I said to him, loud enough for anyone in earshot to hear me. You'd have to have a good sense of humor to stay on one of these death traps for months at a time. Michelson laughed. Hey, he said with mock outrage. The U.S. Navy submarines have had a spotless record in recent years. Not a crash or a meltdown.

Before Michelson could get the entire word out, the guy leading us into the sub spun around. Don't say it, he shouted. At first, I thought he was joking. But his face told me differently. It's bad luck to talk about that stuff on the sub, he said. He was a young guy whose cloth nameplate red, Parks. He really took this stuff seriously. All right, man, Michelson said.

I didn't know. Just a little friendly razzing. Parks looked at us for a moment, while the guys behind us grumbled about the holdup. Then he turned around and led us deeper into the sub. We passed submariners pretty much everywhere. Sometimes we had to squeeze past each other with not an inch to spare, much more intimate than I like my travel.

But I went where Uncle Sam told me to go and how he told me to get there. Parks showed us our bunks, which were about the size and shape of a coffin. With the big difference being there was no lid, only curtains on the one open side. You had to slide in sideways and close the curtains if you wanted any privacy. These bunks were stacked four high and six deep in one cramped corridor, a total of 24 beds in one particular stretch of hallway. Each of the little beds lifted up, revealing a shallow box where our clothing and any personal gear would go. We unloaded our packs into our assigned bunks and then wandered out to the crew's mess,

while submariners buzzed about us, getting ready to embark. One of the guys on my team, Holloway, produced a deck of cards, and we spent an hour or so playing. We heard some announcements about getting underway, and then we felt the sub move. Soon after, a submariner came through the mess and said, get ready for the angles and dangles, gentlemen. Sure enough, we felt the sub tilt as it dove, making us lean back or forward in our seats, depending on which way we were facing. After a couple of minutes, the sub leveled out, and we were on our way.

There were about ten of us seals in the mess, including Michelson and Holloway. The rest of the guys were either in their bunks or working out in whatever small space they could find where they wouldn't be disturbed. Since we didn't have any jobs to do, we were just killing time. It would be four days until we were in position to insert into a foreign country where we weren't officially supposed to be. So we had four days to kill. Unfortunately, things went to shit on the third day, and they went to shit real quick. I awoke to alarm claxons. I hit my head on the bunk above me as I tried to sit up.

Guys were running through the tight hallway toward the bow of the ship. One submariner almost tripped over me as I swung out of the bunk. What the hell is going on? I asked him, but he ignored me. And as I stood up, I realized that the sub was tilting up slightly. presumably we were surfacing. Holloway appeared behind me, squeezing himself against the wall of bunks as more young men ran past. You know what's going on? I asked him. I couldn't read his face as he looked at me.

It looked the same as ever, calm, cool, and collected. But the words he spoke chilled me to my core. I heard one of them saying something about the reactor. You're kidding. This must be a drill. These reactors have redundancies and fail safes, don't they? Not one serious reactor problem during the whole nuclear submarine program, as I understand it, Holloway said. But the Russians have had some serious problems. Yeah, well, we're not the fucking Russians, I said. Moving forward toward the mess, Holloway followed. A bunch of seals were in the crew's mess, sitting or standing around.

Ten of them, to be exact. As Holloway and I walked in, that made 12. There were four missing, and one of them was Michelson. Where's everyone else? I asked Lieutenant Lyons, who sat in the corner with a toothpick in his mouth, sticking out of his bushy black beard. Michelson and Dunn went up to see if they could help with whatever the hell's going on. I don't know where crews and Stokes are. I'm sure they're here somewhere, Lyon said.

Everyone was silent for a long time. The only sounds were the alarm claxons, echoing throughout the ship, and the occasional garbled orders barked over the sub's internal communication system. You think this is a drill? Holloway asked, Lyons. No, Lyons said. That shut us up for even longer. Suddenly, the entire sub shook, as if we just hit something.

I couldn't tell if we were moving or not, but I assumed we weren't. I had no idea where in the world we were, or how close we were to help, and I knew next to nothing about nuclear reactors. Some commotion caught my attention. The sound of men talking hurriedly grew closer. Three submariners appeared in the doorway to the mess, walking sideways because they were carrying a person between them. Move, clear a table.

One of them said. The seals at the nearest table got up, and the submariners put the man down. He was another submariner, but the skin of his hands and face was covered with third-degree burns. He was unconscious, or dead. I couldn't tell which. Three more men entered the mess carrying another submariner,

and I recognized Michelson and Dunn as two of the three. They put their man on another table. This guy was also badly burned, but only on one side of his body. He reminded me of the Batman villain Two-Face, only without the neat line that divided his damaged and undamaged skin. There were splotches of burnt skin on his face, as if he'd been splashed with burning water. And that, I soon learned, was close to what had happened.

I went up behind Michelson and Dunn, peering over their shoulders for a closer look. Michelson saw me from the corner of his eye. Get back, he said. Don't touch any of this. What happened? I asked. Something happened with the reactor, Michelson said, unbuttoning his shirt. We've all been exposed to high levels of radiation. It's all over our clothes.

One of the submariners looked up at me and the other seals standing around. The safety valves failed. He said in a voice tight with disbelief. The steam. The pressure was too much. It's not supposed to be. supposed to happen. It can't happen. The pressure vessel, he trailed off, seeming to realize that he, too, was covered in radiation because he started taking off his clothing. When the men were all

stripped to their underwear, their clothes set in a corner of the room. They worked on taking the clothes off of the two burned and unconscious men. The rest of us watched, helpless to do anything. With all the training we had, we'd never been trained for something like this. We could do nothing but watch. Michelson suddenly stepped away and threw up on the floor. He looked up at me, shame on his face, but no fear. Once they got the clothes off, the burned men, a man who I assumed was the ship's corpsman appeared with a first aid kit and started treating their burns as best he could. This is Commander Ramsey speaking. The comb boys came over the sub-speakers, causing all of us but the corpsmen to stop what we were doing. I won't sugarcoat this. You've all been

been trained well, and you all know what you've signed up for. So I'll tell this to you straight. We've suffered a catastrophic accident involving the reactor. I've tried to blow the ballast tanks to get us to the surface, but this doesn't seem to be possible. Without the reactor, we can't move. So we're currently sitting on a sea shelf about 400 feet under the surface of the water. I've been in contact with the Navy, and they're sending help, but it won't get here for several days. In the meantime, we need to sit tight and stay cool. We'll get through this. I looked at Lieutenant Lyons, and then at Michelson and Dunn. Their faces betrayed no emotion, but I was pretty sure mine did. Twenty-four hours passed and mostly tense silence. They had sealed the reactor compartment

because of high radiation levels, but those in the control room were receiving higher than normal doses, so they kept the crew there to a minimum and rotated them frequently. After several hours of vomiting and confused babbling following the initial exposure, Michelson seemed fine. He hadn't thrown up anymore, and he said he felt normal. Dunn had started showing symptoms about an hour after Michelson. Apparently, he had followed Michelson into the reactor compartment to help get the burned men out. Twenty-four hours later, he seemed okay, just like Michelson. The corpsman said it wouldn't last. The two men who had been burned in the reactor compartment

had been vomiting and convulsing since shortly after they'd been brought out. The corpsmen said they'd be dead within days, if not ours. None of the news we got was good. So when lions came and found me lying in my bunk, I knew things were about to get worse. It wasn't his face that told me. It was the lack of a toothpick in his mouth.

He meant business. Listen, he said. I've just finished telling him. the others what Commander Ramsey told me. He says the oxygen tanks will run out tomorrow. They can't produce any more oxygen because the reactor powered those systems. But he said they have oxygen candles we can burn. The question is whether they'll get to us before they run out. Jesus, I said. He thinks we're going to run out of air before they get here? He doesn't know, maybe, Lyons said. But that's not the most concerning part of our situation. You're kidding.

What is it? Killer sea monsters closing in on us? Lions shook his head, clearly not in the mood for tasteless jokes. Ramsey says we're hanging off a sea shelf. He says the sub has been shifting slowly for the past day. But now it's speeding up. And he thinks there's a chance the sub could plummet off the shelf. And let me tell you, it's a long drop. I thought the angle was changing, I said.

Is the drop long enough for the compression to kill us? Lions nodded. But we have our equipment on board. We could swim out. And leave them all behind? No, we have our dive gear. They have some escape suits or something. But we can only go through the lockout trunk so many at a time.

It can only fit so many. Since we're guests on this ship, Commander Ramsey wants us to go first. What would we do? Just float on the surface of the ocean and hope that rescue ships show up before we die? That's if we make it to the surface alive. from 400 feet, that's not guaranteed, I said.

Lions shrugged. I know the risks as well as you do. There are no good options here. We can wait to die in here or try our chances in the ocean. This is insane, I said. Fucking insane. Just telling you what our options are. Lions left me then, and I thought about leaving the ship in our scuba gear.

It wasn't a better option than staying on the sub. at least not as things were. Even if we did survive the swim, we would be abandoning them to their fate, hoping that they could escape. Even if they had enough escape gear to get everyone off, I didn't like it. Now it has been two days since the reactor accident.

The air has grown foul. The levels of carbon dioxide are climbing, even though we're burning the oxygen candles regularly. Michelson and Dunn both took a turn for the worst hours ago. Their skin is degrading, swelling, and turning waxy. They're delirious, often crying out in pain. Their sweating blood as their insides are being destroyed on a cellular level. The rest of the people on board are trying to do as little as possible in an effort to conserve oxygen.

One man had to be sedated after he lost it and started screaming about not wanting to die this way. I stand next to Michelson's bunk looking down at him, thinking about putting a bull in his head, just like he's asked me to do at least a half-dozen times now. And I think about putting a bullet in my own. My chances are only slightly better if I do what lions wants and swim out of the sub. But I know I'll take the chance. I don't have a choice. I know we should have left by now to give the submariners more oxygen, so it's time to leave, to say goodbye. Lions and the rest of the team are waiting for me near the lockout trunk. I volunteered to say the last goodbye.

I grabbed Michelson by the hand. His skin feels loose, as if a strong yank would separate it from his muscle. He's delirious now, half conscious. His swollen lips are cracked and bleeding. I put the barrel of my pistol to his head and say one last goodbye to my good friend. And then I pull the trigger. Done is next. and he's semi-conscious.

He looks up at me from between his swollen eyelids. His lips move. He whispers, It's been a pleasure, I say, putting the barrel to his head, and then I pull the trigger. The submariners are silent as I pass them. Their bloodshot eyes following me as I head to the lockout trunk.

The sub shifts under our feet, the angle growing steeper. There isn't much time. Commander Ramsey is outside the lockout trunk. He shakes my hand before I suit up in my diving gear. Thanks for the ride, Commander, I say. He smiles weakly. Good luck.

Once I'm suited up, I join the rest of my team in the lockout trunk. Ramsey seals it from his side, and shortly after, water pours in from the ocean. It's freezing cold, even through the wetsuit. As the water fills up and the pressure changes, I have my doubts that all of us will live through this. 400 feet is a long way to go, and the oxygen in our tanks actually becomes toxic at this depth. The best thing to do is take one breath and swim hard for the surface, hoping we don't end up with nitrogen bubbles in our brains. So we each take a single deep breath from our tanks before the pressure inside the trunk equalizes with the outside pressure. If we don't die from the bends, we'll probably have some serious injuries.

But I guess that's better than dying, choking, in an airless. submarine. Once the lockout trunk is full, Lyons opens the door to the ocean, and we swim out. One by one, each of us exhaling slowly as we go up. This is because as the pressure changes, the gas on our lungs expands, so we need to exhale to avoid rupturing our lungs. There's enough sunlight filtering down, so I can see the submarine growing smaller beneath me as I swim up. It seems to be moving. I watch as it slides off the gray sea. shelf, plunging in slow motion down into the black depths below. No submariners managed to get out. There wasn't enough time. Maybe it's better this way for some of them. Instead of dying slowly and

painfully from a lack of oxygen, the pressure will crush the submarine once it gets to a certain depth, killing those on board quickly. I turn my attention back up toward the ocean surface, breathing out of my mouth as I ascend. Since the gas, My ass in my lungs as expanding as I go up. It feels as if my lungs are staying full, even though I'm not taking a breath. After nearly four minutes, I break the surface of the ocean. Some of the other guys are already up,

and I see that many of them are bleeding from the nose. The water in front of me is pink, and a finger to my upper lip reveals that I'm bleeding too. Off in the distance, I see a ship of some kind, and it looks like it's coming closer. A rescue boat, too late to save the crew. I noticed that two guys are missing as I look around. Where are Gibbons and Sanchez? I ask Lyons.

He just shakes his head. I can feel an ache settling into my joints. And I know I have the bends. I'm sure we all do. But we're alive. Which is more than I can say for the 130 men left on this sinking submarine. Lazzang sur-joled, Puitance-Moyerned

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