EOE

  The first breath felt like drowning in reverse.

  Christine’s lungs pulled in something thick and warm. A gel that clung to her throat like syrup. Her body revolted. She rolled onto her side, retching, forcing the viscous fluid from her lungs. It came out in clear, heavy ropes that tasted of rust and salt.

  She wiped her eyes, her fingers trembling. She tried to plant a palm to push herself up, but her hand didn’t find the floor. It sank into something soft.

  The pressure gave with a wet collapse, like pressing into overripe fruit. Christine jerked back. Her foot slid and punched through something that might have been another person.

  She froze. The air smelled of iron static with a hint of rotten tissue. Her eyes adjusted to the gray light, and the blurred shapes began to focus.

  People. Parts of people.

  A torso that ended in sealed skin where legs should be. An arm growing straight from a ribcage. A face studded with too many eyes. She scrambled back, sliding through the slick mixture of gel and tissue, her hip colliding with skin too cold and far too smooth.

  Where is Nathan?

  A sound vibrated through her. The air itself lit up, a glare stabbing into her eyes.

  Something descended through the brightness.

  It didn't walk; it ignored gravity. Seven feet tall, encased in a suit that looked like liquid glass. Inside, pale skin pulsed with rivers of blue light. It tilted its head, studying her like a technician checking a petri dish.

  Then, the air around her solidified.

  Invisible pressure clamped her ribs. She was lifted off the pile of bodies, gel dripping from her elbows onto the dead below.

  The pressure squeezed until her vision blurred. Walls formed and dissolved around her, the ship building itself as she moved. She tried to scream, but the pressure slammed her down onto a metal grate.

  Dense, warm fluid hammered her from every direction. It wasn't a wash; it was a violating erasure. It scoured the gel from her skin, forced her eyes shut, and flooded her mouth. She choked, twisting away, but the jets adapted, correcting her position with mechanical patience.

  Then, just as abruptly, the fluid stopped. A hurricane-force wind blasted the moisture from her skin, stinging and hot.

  Her limbs shook. She dropped to her knees. Her hands hit the cool metal floor, and something plopped onto it as she landed.

  Hair.

  A clump, dark and wet, stuck to her fingers. She stared at it like it belonged to someone else. She reached up, touched her scalp, and found tender patches where follicles had let go. She swallowed hard. Her fingers were still trembling. Worse now. A fine, relentless tremor that made her hands look older than they were.

  She brought her hand to her ear without thinking. The top curve should have been there. It was not. The edge ended smooth. No torn skin. No scab. Like a bad surgical cut, except there was no scar yet.

  A bench appeared along the wall. It did not slide out; it simply became. On it lay a sheet of fabric so white it almost glowed. It felt warm when she touched it, weightless like silk.

  A gift. Or a containment protocol.

  Christine stumbled as she wrapped it around herself with shaking hands. She folded and tucked until it resembled a tunic. The fabric clung when it needed to and loosened where it did not, like it had been engineered for the human form. She did not find seams. She did not find the thread.

  She sat on the edge of the bench, clutching the white to her chest. She was alive.

  She had never felt less human in her life.

  EOE

  The wall in front of her dissolved.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  The metal walls of the bay didn’t slide away; they simply stopped being.

  Beyond it stood a crowd.

  Humans. Hundreds at first glance, then more behind them. A room full of people wrapped in the same shimmering white sheets. The overhead light was soft and colorless. The air smelled damp and clean, but beneath that was fear. The static sensation remained on her skin.

  Christine stepped across the threshold. Her legs felt wrong. Not injured, but empty, as if she had walked a marathon in her sleep and woken up still running. And so hungry.

  She gripped the edges of her tunic, her eyes darting frantically. The silence of the room was heavy, broken only by the rustle of fabric and shallow breathing.

  Nathan.

  The name hit her like a physical blow. Panic, sharp and hot, spiked through the exhaustion. She pushed forward, her bare feet slapping against the cool metal grate.

  “Nathan!” she rasped. Her voice was a broken thing, barely a whisper.

  She shoved through the press of bodies. People turned, their eyes hollow, their faces slack with shock.

  What she saw made her stumble.

  It wasn’t just the panic consuming everyone. It was the physical damage.

  To her left, a man stood staring at his hands. His fingers were gone. Not cut off, but fused. His hand ended in a smooth, fleshy paddle, the skin seamless and unbroken.

  To her right, a teenage girl sat against the wall, weeping silently. Her jaw was melted into her chest, the skin of her chin continuous with her clavicle.

  Christine spun in a slow circle, scanning the sea of white sheets. “Nathan?”

  She saw a torso with legs that ended at the knees, the stumps perfectly rounded. She saw a woman with eyes that had no pupils, just whites that pulsed with a faint blue bioluminescence.

  The tremor in her hands spread into her forearms. Exhaustion pressed into her bones like wet sand. She nearly collapsed, but a hand caught her elbow.

  “Easy,” a voice said. “You’ll fall.”

  A man stood there. Middle-aged, kind-eyed, his left hand shaking slightly like hers. Beside him was a woman a little younger, with a mouth that pulled unevenly, one corner higher than the other. Both wore the same white fabric. Both looked like they had been left out in the rain and then dried too fast.

  “You are new,” the man said. His voice was hoarse, like he had been yelling. Or like he had been crying and did not want to admit it.

  “My husband,” Christine choked out. “He was... he was right behind me.”

  The man’s gaze flicked over Christine’s face, her hair, the missing top of her ear. He didn't ask about it. He looked away, a shadow passing over his face.

  “We are all looking for someone,” he said softly.

  Christine felt the blood drain from her face.

  “How long?” Christine rasped, unable to finish asking as her throat gave way to silence.

  “Since we arrived? I don’t know.” The man glanced up. “It does not feel normal. I think we were saved… by something.”

  Something.

  Somewhere in the distance, a sound began to drift through the heavy air. A melody. Low, mournful, sung by a dozen shaky voices.

  “Oh, the water is wide... I cannot get o'er...”

  The Crossing. An old folk song popular at funerals. It echoed off the cold metal walls, a ghost of the world that was gone.

  Then, a sound cut through the singing.

  Wet breathing. Labored. Close.

  Christine’s head snapped down. The triage instinct lit up, bypassing the terror. That was the sound of a lung filling with fluid.

  She pushed past the man and woman. People shifted aside without argument, a silent corridor forming because they recognized the look on her face.

  Against the far wall, a woman lay on the floor. Gaunt, pale.

  Her body had arrived wrong.

  From her neck down the right side, there was nothing. No shoulder. No arm. Her chest on that side was smooth, stretched skin where ribs should have continued. Her breathing moved only the left half of her torso. The right side did not rise.

  Christine dropped to her knees. She reached for a pulse. Thready. Fading.

  “What’s your name?” Christine asked, knowing there wasn’t much time left.

  “Ruby,” she whispered as her eyes fluttered open. They were glassy, focused on something far away.

  “Water,” Christine croaked, looking up at the circle of bystanders. “Does anyone have water?”

  Blank stares. Heads shook.

  “We have nothing,” someone said.

  Christine looked back down. There was no IV. No oxygen. No morphine. She was a nurse with empty hands.

  Ruby gasped, her back arching slightly. Panic flared in her eyes. She knew.

  Christine leaned in, blocking the sight of the surrounding horror. She placed one hand on Ruby’s forehead and the other on her chest, over the heart that was working too hard.

  “I’ve got you,” Christine whispered. “I’m right here, Ruby. You’re not alone.”

  Ruby’s lips moved. It hurts.

  “I know,” Christine lied, smoothing the hair back from her damp forehead. “I know. Just breathe. Look at me. Just look at me.”

  She held the gaze. She couldn't save the body, so she saved the moment. She let Ruby see someone kind, someone calm, in those final moments. She joined the Crossing song, her touch gentle against Ruby's cooling skin, offering what comfort remained to give.

  The gasping hitched. Slowed. Stopped.

  Ruby’s eyes remained open, but the fear drained out of them, leaving only glass.

  Christine stayed there for a beat, her hand still on the cooling skin. A tear leaked from her own eye, tracking through the dust on her cheek.

  “She’s the lucky one, you know.”

  The voice was dry, dark, and startlingly close.

  Christine turned.

  Nearby lay a man. He had a head and torso. No limbs. Clean termination points at the shoulders and hips, bloodless, almost sealed. He looked less like an amputation patient and more like a statue that had been broken for transport.

  His eyes tracked Christine. They were sharp, intelligent, and lit with a terrified humor.

  “I’m Red,” she said automatically.

  “Callum.” He tried to gesture, realized he couldn't, and let out a short, sharp laugh. “I’d shake your hand, but... well. Logistics.”

  Christine didn't smile, but she didn't look away. “Are you in pain?”

  “I don’t know,” Callum whispered, the humor slipping. “I can feel my legs. They’re cold. But I look down, and there’s nothing there.” He swallowed hard. “How do you know something is gone if you can’t feel it at all?”

  Then, the walls changed.

  Status Check: How is this story landing for you so far?