Time is Running Out

“Time is running out John.” the automated voice cooed in a way that was supposed to be comforting. As if John was unable to tell from the oxygen gauges which read near empty. They too had been colored in an attempt at a comforting manner. It did NOT have the desired effect. It was infuriating to feel that he was the only one in the craft who realized how utterly critical the situation was. No amount of cool blue paint would fix it. Actually maybe it would help. Smear it across the readouts and view ports. Stop seeing the gauges crying doom. Hide the reminder that the oxygen gone. Forget for a moment the fuel tanks were empty. Ignore that the carbon dioxide was at dangerous levels. Pretend the depth gauge was merely an odd fan. Breath in the paint fumes coming off it all and become mentally hazy as doom hurtles towards him. It’d be less distressing than being acutely aware of the situation. Just about every readout was showing him precisely the worst possible reading.

“Power reserves critical. Goodbye John,” the system cood, as if it was bidding him farewell for the evening, rather than abandoning him to die alone. John punched at the radio, but got nothing. Asphyxiation is making him hazy. No need for the paint after all. Of course, there’s no radio. Power is failing. In futile anger, he punched at a viewport. He found himself thrown against the target of his fury. He bounced off it and was thrown to the ceiling. “Even up and down isn’t behaving properly,” he growled to himself. It was then that he saw a thin dark tentacle drift past the nearest viewport. Something has his craft. “At least I die of giant squid,” he chuckled to himself. He heard something scrape at the airlock hatch. Impossible. Squids don’t open hatches, but all the same lockwheel spun wildly. He scrambled across the small craft trying to find a weapon to defend himself. He glanced over his shoulder, as he heard the hatch open. He didn’t see the oozing tentacles of doom that he expected. Instead he saw dripping hunched creatures swarming through. A wet gurgling accompanied them. Unarmed and cornered, he turned to face these horrors. He felt one of his feet slip from beneath him and sees the floor rush to meet me.

************************************

“Shame,” a dockworker mutters to his comrades. He adjusts his grip on one of the limbs of a corpse. “Poor bugger slipping like that.”

“I told you we shouldn’t have entered,” his comrade retorts. “The air loss was messing with his head.”

“We had to go in,” the first argues. “Poor sod would have died of fright.”

“You can’t die of fright,” the second continues. “Besides whole lot of good it did him.” They reach the exterior of the craft and dump the body on the dock.

“Can’t we do test the limits of these subs without human trials?” the first says derailing what was, for him, a losing argument.

“Simulations aren’t the same,” the second declares and heads back into the craft. A book lying in a corner catches his eye. He grabs it and waves it towards his comrade.

The first chuckles as he catches the author’s first initials. H. P. “Of course.”

The second takes the book to the outside of the craft and tosses it into the water. Still chuckling he gazes down at it’s sinking shape. As the ripples recede his reflect returns meeting his slimy fishy gaze.