Murmansk-13

Tor’s vision darkened for a second, his knee throbbed as he stumbled over the offending chair. Green lights twirled, burning into his retina’s as he clattered entwined to the cold floor. His palms ached as did his elbows having taken the brunt of his weight. Before him Katja quivered lying foetal, her surgical gown lying open to her buttocks lightly dimpled by cellulite. Beyond her Mihailov had his back to the cold chambers and appeared confused, a thin thread of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

The sudden reek of putrefaction filled Tor’s nostrils. The carrion essence of rotted flesh acting like smelling salt to his senses. He was further alerted by the aghast gawk that shaped half of Peralta’s features, the Filipino had stayed his fall by grabbing the corner of the marble autopsy slab. He now crouched staring at the morgue door.

Even Katja seemed to wake from her stupor as a low mournful keening disquieted the morgue. Briefly stilled, Katja kicked and pushed in the feotal position to the feet of Peralta. The old bosun sinking to his haunches to help her behind him.

In the dim, Tala’s wild eyes sparkled. She looked down at Tor. Unmoving, her deflated EVA suit creaked, seemingly wanting to escape the scene before it. Usually fearless, she quailed as the low keening grew in fervour. Tor peered over the morgue slab. A slumped, human form silhouette filled the entranceway, the thickening effluvium of old fish emanating from the shape. It took a shambling step forward and stayed. A rattling inhale accompanied its movement.

“My name is Tor Gjerde, Captain of the DSMV Riyadh,” he said in a flimsy voice, struggling to his knees. “Identify yourself.”

In the corner of his eye, Tor could see Mihailov carefully rise to his knee and shuffle backward in clipped movements.

The smell intensified as the shape loped forward again. It gave no response beyond another eldritch moan. Tor felt his skin prickle with gooseflesh. Slipping into shadow the figure gained form beyond its outline. Despite himself, Tor leaned forward.

In the gloom and the wan play of green neon light, Tor could discern the shape was possessed of waxy slick flesh and human features. Its head lolled boneless to the right and slipped back as it took another step forward.

Tor’s fingernails clawed at the recess in the table where gore would be directed to the drain during examinations. The figure was twelve feet away. Behind him, Tala edged back toward the medical examiners table cart, still occupied by instruments that had lain inert in absentia. She took quiet and careful steps to avoid disturbing the material of her suit.

The head slowly rolled back to its stationary position, glassy eyes now in clear view. Clouded pupils, striped by tache noir focused lifelessly on Tor. He felt his heart hammering in his chest as he realized the sickly jaundiced pallor belonged to… “Falmendikov?”

“Papa?” Katja tried to stand but Peralta, wizened by fear, positioned himself so she could not see. His old eyes remained those of the keen seafarer he’d once been.

“It’s not your father,” said the Bosun, cryptically.

As the figure of Falmendikov turned to regard the pair Katja instinctively stopped. As she finally saw what Peralta and Tor saw, her legs buckled beneath her. “Papa, what happened to you?”

Tor waited to see some spark of recognition in Falmendikov’s ravaged face. His forehead had been clawed by broad nails and bite marks punctured both sallow cheeks. He walked despite his neck being clearly broken and his jaw rolled and clicked in dislocation. Cruor had wept from every visible orifice, wetting his flesh, but the sight that filled Tor with the greatest fear was the feral hunger in which he viewed his cowering daughter.

“Oh God, Papa,” Katja wept softly, held to station by Peralta. She appeared torn between filial concern and despair.

“Nikolai,” the figure pivoted on ossified legs, busted bobbling head gyred toward Tor. “Yeah, look at me Nikolai.”

Nikolai inhaled, a death rattle that preceded a strident keening noise. Tor could see animalistic life anew in his former Chief Officer as he lifted his nose to the air, constricted pupils twitching back and forth. Falmendikov’s Saudi Shipping jumpsuit hung limply from his diminished, skeletal frame. Through the torn, blood stained fabric, Tor watched Nikolai’s grey intestines pulsate, viscera hung moistly from a ragged gash to his stomach – swinging listlessly as Nikolai drew another step forward. His lower jaw clacked, partially ripped from the skull.

Tor felt all resolve drain away, his eyes twitched to the now clear door. The ruined stare of Nikolai fixed him in place, he wondered how quick Nikolai could move in his present state and whether they could pacify him. He didn’t have to wait long.