We Found an Abandoned Oil Rig on the Dark Side of the Moon | Part 2

Dr. Noseleap Want to binge the entire abandoned oil rig story trilogy tonight? Start your seven day free trial of Dr. Noseleap premium now, and hear all three parts back to back without waiting. Cancel anytime, no commitment. Just go to patreon.com slash drnoseleap to sign up. That's patreon.com slash drnoseleap. I don't know how long I sit and stare at the massive waves of an ocean that can't be, but a beeping slowly brings me back to myself. And I realize that it's getting hard to breathe. I check my wrist control, glad to see that the interface is working again. And ironically gasp at the fact that I have about four minutes of oxygen left. Panic sets in, and I pull myself back to my feet, the impossible ocean crashing and roaring before me. The stars above are so thick and bright that they feel almost oppressive, like they are weighing on me. Squeezing out what little air is left in my suit. Hey pal, you okay? I turn to see a man a few feet from me, leaning on the walkways railing. I browse up in concern. You should take that helmet off. Take that old suit off. Why are you even in that up here? All diving suits are to be stowed below in the diving chamber. It's kind of in the name pal. He chuckles and pushes away from the railing, walking toward me. You knew here pal? I don't remember seeing you before. Emotions with his hands. Here, let me help you with that helmet. Get a better look at your face. The beeping is louder, and I glance at my wrist controls. Two minutes of air left. My hands go to my exosuits collar, the gloves of my fingers sliding under the metal clasps. There you go pal. Just a couple pops and you'll be free. He's reaching out, ready to help me. His fingers wriggling like snakes or eels. A sickening feeling fills my belly, and I pause what I'm doing. Who are you? Where am I? Really? He laughs and keeps reaching for my clasps. That's funny. I take a step back and he frowns. Hold still. I'm just trying to help. The beeping is louder. A quick glance shows me I have one minute. The booming waves draw my attention back out to the ocean. I see storm clouds brewing on the horizon, lightening, flashing within them. It's too far away from me to hear the thunder, not that I could hear anything over the crashing waves. So how am I hearing this guy? The one still reaching for my helmet. He's not on my calms, and without atmosphere, sound won't travel. Maybe I should take my helmet off. This guy isn't wearing an exosuit, and he looks fine. But the way he's dressed, work boots, jeans, flannel shirt with a safety vest pulled over it is achingly familiar. And within that ache is a healthy dose of caution. My lungs tighten and spots form before my eyes. A dull headache begins at my temples and then spreads up over my skull, coming to rest at the nape of my neck. Numbness and tingling attack my extremities. Iboxia. I'm dying of carbon dioxide poisoning. My own exhalations are killing me. My fingers grip the clasps once more, and I begin to flick them open. That's right pal. You don't need that bulky helmet anymore. Suddenly, hands grip my wrists from behind and yank my fingers away from my helmet clasps. Do not take your helmet off. I know that voice. Never take your helmet off. You hear me topper? Carlson. Mr. Helpful in front of me. Glare's at a spot over my shoulders. I have this Carlson. No you don't bevins. I'm about to go walk a different part of the rig. See what the ocean looks like on the west side. Mr. Helpful. Bevins is his name I guess. Continues glaring. His hands still outstretched. Still ready to help me get my helmet off. Then he yanks his hands back, sneering viciously. The new pet thinks he has some balls. He turns and spits over the railing. Then looks back past my shoulder. But you're just a young pup. You have no idea what this place is like Carlson. You need friends here. Without friends, who do you have to watch your back? He spits over the railing again. But stays facing the ocean this time. Oh. And on the rig, you need someone to watch your back. It would be an awful shame if you fell into that ocean Carlson. He's doomed to float in drown and sink and rise and float and drown and sink and rise over and over and over for eternity. Yeah, Bevins, you're right. That's suck. So I'm going to avoid that. Thanks for the heads up. We'll see. One thing about this place is you can't avoid things forever, even with eternity on your side. He spits one last time and then walks off without another word. He doesn't even look back at me. Just disappears down some stairs, lost from view as he heads to a lower deck. Never take your helmet off. Carlson slowly turns me around. By this time, I'm gasping so hard that I can't even think of a reply. The only thing I want to do is take my helmet off and breathe the same ocean air that a fairly normal looking Carlson is breathing. I stare into his eyes through my visor. The image flashes inside my mind. An image of Carlson, standing in a dark room lit only by candles. His eyes, milky white. I stumble back a step and my fingers go to my clasps once more. No! Carlson slaps my hands away and grips me by the shoulders. Dumb ass! What I just tell you! Never take your helmet off! I fall to one knee and reach more. The fingers of my gloves scratching at his jeans. As my vision blurs, I see he's wearing the same damn uniform as the others. Heavy work boots, jeans, a flannel shirt with a safety vest pulled over it. He crouches down, bringing himself to my eye level. Just breathe, topper. Breathe like normal and it'll all be fine. Your suit isn't running out of air. Trust me, you have plenty of time. In fact, you have all the time in the universe. And when you run out of time in this universe, you just get more from the next one over. And the next one over. And the next one over. He stands and grabs onto the railing as if he's about to be swept out to sea. And the next one over. And the next one over. And the next one over. Carlson, what is wrong with you? A gasp with surprise. I can breathe. I'm no longer suffocating. No longer about to pass out and never wake up again. Carlson, pay! He stops his repetition, but doesn't look down at me. I slowly get to my feet and join him at the railing. What is happening, Carlson? What is all this? He doesn't respond. Just stares out at waves that reach up as high as skyscrapers before crashing down into bottomless canyons. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. Then he shakes it off and turns and smiles at me. I don't have any answers, topper. Any questions? That phrase you just said. I remember it. A million images flashed through my head. The moon's surface. Seeing the oil rig as we came down the other side of that rise or wave or whatever. And dead people. So many dead people. Then the marked man. Who is the marked man? What did he do to you? Carlson's smile falters. And a brief look of pain mixed with grief and horror flits across his features. For one blip of one moment of one second, Carlson's eyes go milky white. Then it's all good again. Only ocean. Only Carlson. Only the rig. The marked man. Carlson laughs. And it sounds like pity and despair bubbling up out of a cesspool of human filth. That's a good name for him. I like that. What are you calling? Did he give you a name? Carlson begins to nod. But then shakes his head. No, no. The name isn't for you. His hand reaches out and claps me on my exosuits shoulder. Quite a bitch of a situation we've gotten ourselves in, A-Topper. If I knew what the situation was, I'd agree. Then join me in the mess, Mr. Topper. I spin at the sound of the horrifying voice coming from behind us both. I already have my fists up. Ready to start fighting my way free again. But I lower my fists when I see the man standing in the hatch way. He's no longer shirtless. In fact, he's dressed just like everyone else. But it's obvious I'm looking at the marked man, even if I can't see all the scribblings and sigils and oozing pus. Now need for violence, Mr. Topper. You are a guest here now. A surprise guest considering. But a guest all the same. He's grinning as if I hadn't been through what I'd been through. Hadn't seen what I saw. But I am not on an oil rig in the middle of an impossible ocean. On an impossible oil rig sitting on the surface of the dark side of the moon. All of that. As a guest, I want you to be as comfortable as possible. So how about you take that helmet off and breed some of this fine fresh ocean air? I look back at Carlson. But he's still facing the waves as if the conversation between me and the marked man isn't happening. Carlson? He doesn't respond or turn to look at me. Don't bother yourself with Carlson. He's off traveling the infinite. It's something you should try. You'll love it. He takes a step forward, his hands rising. Now, let's get that helmet off of you, shall we? I slap his hands away. And for the briefest of moments, there is no ocean. There is no oil rig. There is only complete and total darkness. A darkness filled with a presence. Something ancient. Something so much bigger than I can comprehend. I feel it waiting, watching. I feel it moved toward me, in me. Then I snap out of it and only see an angry man standing before me. His eyes shooting daggers of rage in my direction. That was rude, Mr. Topper. Very rude. I have my limits, you know. And you do not want to find them. Just ask my people. They'll tell you all about finding my limits. He gestures to my right. They look over to see the walkway filled with workers. Everyone wearing those damn boots and jeans and flannels and vests. I shuffle to the side and bump into something, which elicits a startled cry from my mouth. It's me. Carlson's hands wrap around my arm. Come on, you need to be somewhere else. He pulls me away. And I walk, sort of sideways and backwards, as I try to keep the group of people and the marked man still within sight. Carlson's grip becomes more urgent. And I look at him just in time to see that we're about to walk down a set of stairs. Footfalls behind me make me whip my head back around, but no one has moved. They all just stand there, watching me and Carlson descend to the deck below. Where are we going? What is happening? Carlson only shakes his head, as he continues guiding me down the stairs, then on to the lower walkway. Our workers mill about at the end of the walkway, and they turn as one to stare at us. Carlson yanks me to the right, and we take a middle walkway, heading directly for the other side of the rig. I glance down through the steel mesh and can see two more decks below me. And under that, nothing but churning, violent water. Carlson, what is happening? Shut up and hold your shit together, topper. We get to the other side of the rig, and all I see is the same impossible ocean, the same skyscraper waves, the same foreverness to it all. And far off is a storm on the horizon, an exact duplicate of the storm I saw on the opposite side. I turn and crane my neck so I can see as far to the left as possible. Yep, it's the same side. I crane to the right and see it all repeated there too. Carlson takes us right, and we walk to the next set of stairs, to send down those to another walkway, and we keep going until we're all the way at the end, then stop. A thoughtfully built wardrobe really comes down to pieces that mix well, last, and don't make you feel like you overpaid. And that's exactly why I've been loving quince lately. They make up everyday essentials using premium fabrics and thoughtful design, without the luxury markup. I picked up one of their linen shirts and immediately noticed the quality, light, comfortable, and not flimsy like cheaper linen. The shoes were the same deal. 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It's a nod more to himself than to me. It's obvious by the haunted look in his eyes. How long were we on the rig before I disappeared? I don't know. Only a few minutes at the most. You were there, then you weren't. So with some prodding by a bunch of dead folk, I went looking for you. I swallow hard. Then I found you. How long was that? From when you went missing to when I found you? I don't know. Figure it out. He looks at my wrist controls. He shakes his head. No, no, that won't help. Nothing there can be trusted. Remember how we told you that you were out of air? It's all lies. He spreads his arms wide. All of it. It's all lies. A clanging from above makes him drop his arms and then hug himself tightly. Crap. Shit. Got to be chill. Calm down, Carlson. Calm down. He looks directly at me. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. I jam a gloved finger at him. That. What does that mean? Infinite is what mean. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. Shit. Don't say that. Never say that again. You hear me? If we're going to get you out of here, you have to promise me you won't say it. Understood? Yeah. Sure. Promise me, Topper. I promise. But you have to tell me what it means. I can't. I don't know. As soon as I say the words, they just disappear from my mind as if I never said them. I can't explain it. Okay, well, forget the words. Tell me where we are. Everywhere. Besides. Nowhere. Can I need more explanation than that, man? We were on the moon, and now we aren't. How? Why? More clanging from above. And Carlson jumps. Come on. We'll go inside. Inside? Aren't there more of them inside? More than you can possibly count. But we'll be fine. I'll look for a pocket and duck us in there. Or I can ask anything else. He pulls me down the walkway along the side of the rig. Then stops before a large hatch. Carlson peers through the porthole, nods, then opens the hatch, and usheres me inside. We walk into a nasty-looking dive bar that has to be at least a couple of centuries old. The decor screams 20th century. And I can't help but stare at everything. There are a few patrons. All dressed in the same oil rig outfit as everyone else. But they ignore us as Carlson leads me over to a large booth in the corner. You should be able to fit here. It gestures for me to have a seat. Are you kidding right now? I snap at him. Still goggling at the insanity I found myself in. Where the hell are we? Are we still on the oil rig? At the mention of the oil rig, a few patrons glance my way and glare. Then they slowly return their attention to their drinks, sitting before them. Hush. It gives me a shove. Sit down and I'll try to explain. How is any of this possible? I don't know. Sit down. But are you going to explain? Damn it, topper. Just sit the hell down and I'll tell you what I know. The heads turn again, and I see pure hatred in their eyes. Sit down. I manage to squeeze the bulk of my suit into the booth. The second I do, the patrons eyes all glaze over. And they look away as if I don't exist. Carlson sits down next to me, nudging me. With his hip to scoot over. I do, then turn and frown at him, waiting for the explanation. He starts speaking several times, but can't seem to get the words out. My suit begins to beep again, but I ignore it. So far, I haven't died of his fixation, so Carlson is right about one thing. Now he just needs to explain the five trillion other things that are happening. Spit it out. My voice brings him out of his thought loop, and he nods vigorously, almost painfully. I grab his hand and grip it in my glove. Start at the beginning. What happened to you back there? His head nodding turns into head shaking, and I give his hand a harder squeeze. He stops and takes a breath, looks around the bar, then swivels in the booth to face me and only me. I don't know. The ride here feels like centuries ago, so it's hard to piece together. But it also feels like only minutes ago, which makes it even harder to figure out. A tap at my wrist control. If this is accurate, we've been on this oil rig for six hours. I frown and check the reading again. Six hours? That can't be right. We've been here for maybe two hours at the most. You're right. I can't trust this thing. Yeah, because it's been longer than that. Way longer. Carlson rubs his face. I need a drink. We're in a bar, so... No, no, we can't drink here. This is a place to get lost and stay lost. If I even have one tiny sip, I won't be leaving here for. Well, I don't know if I'd ever leave. None of that makes sense. Now you're getting it. He rubs his face again. Yet, somehow, it all makes sense. Carlson grabs my glove and squeezes hard. We aren't on the moon. I can tell, the huge ocean was kind of a dead giveaway. The ocean. He laughs, and it's not exactly a sane laugh. There is no ocean. And yet, all there is to see is nothing but ocean. A crazy laugh burbles up out of his throat again. We aren't even on an oil rig. None of this exists. His laugh squirms and squishes itself into an anguished cry. Oh, but we exist. We exist forever. His grip becomes almost painful, which shouldn't happen since my exosuits' gloves can handle pressure a thousand times worse. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. I ink my glove away and pull back. Then I stab a finger into his chest a few times until that weird, haunted-looking-as-I changes. And he focuses on me. What do those words mean? He shrugs. Your guess is as good as mine. I can't even really think when I say them. They sort of bubble up out of me. Two patrons stand up. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. Neither patrons move nor change their behavior. They just utter the words and return to their semi-cadatonic states. Okay. What I do know is that this place, whatever it is, whenever it is, is between everything. That doesn't help. It's all I know. And I don't even really know it. It's just a feeling I have in my guts. When Carlson mentions his guts, I remember who I am dealing with again. My partner in crime, my closest friend in ally, the guy, whose instincts I have come to rely on over and over again. Okay. Keep talking. He struggles for words, and I can't help but feel sorry for the guy. It's like we're walking through the spaces between walls. Reality is on the other side. But we can't get to it. We have to get to us. Does that make sense? I don't know. He groans and closes his eyes. What I mean is, his eyes shoot open and he jumps up from the booth. Oh shit, come on. We need to go now. All of the other patrons stand as well. Then the bar's door opens and the marked man walks in. I get up quickly and stand next to Carlson, waiting for his next move. What do we have here, Carlson? Giving your friend the grand tour. The marked man wags a finger at us. And I can see words and scribbles fade in and out on his skin. Notty, notty. None of this is for him. Not until he removes that helmet of his. He takes one step forward and then is suddenly standing right in front of me. His nose almost touching my helmet's visor. My HUD comes to life and tries to warn me of his close proximity. The words begin to run together until they are just a jumble of useless lines. Until they stop and coalesce into the phrase. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. The marked man smiles and rises up onto his toes, leaning in like he can see inside my helmet and read the words digitally projected there. It's a remarkable phrase, don't you think? He lowers himself back to his souls. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. The bar patrons all turn and look at me. Their mouths opening to repeat in unison. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. What does it mean? I don't even want to ask the question, but it's like the words have to come out of me. Like something huge is pushing me forward to say them. The marked man's smile becomes twisted and cruel. That is only for me to know, Mr. Topper. I could tell you though, if you really, really want. He reaches out and wraps his knuckles on my helmet. But until you take this off, you won't be able to understand. Carlson grabs my arm and pulls me toward the bar's back hallway, where both an exit sign and a restroom sign hang over the opening. Don't go too far, Carlson. Wouldn't want you and your friend to get lost. The marked man's words follow as we hurry down the hallway toward the exit door. But Carlson turns and pulls me into the women's restroom instead. He pushes me into the middle of the small, single toilet space, slams the door closed, and shoves an overflowing trash can in front of it. That's not going to hold Carlson. I frown at the trash can. Like at all. He taps his temple. It's the thought that counts. Then his eyes widen and he smiles. That will help. It's the thought that counts. The single toilet gurgles twice, then goes silent. Both Carlson and I turn to look at it. We have to hurry. Carlson stops saying that. I know we need to hurry. I want the hell out of this nightmare. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. Carlson claps his hands over his mouth. The toilet gurgles again. It's my turn to take him by the shoulders. Carlson, focus. What do you mean? It's the thought that counts? He pulls his hands away from his mouth and blerts. There is no time or space. Only all of time in space. Think it and it will become real. Think what? What you need to think so you can finally be free. All you have to do is infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. His hands clamp back over his mouth. The toilets gurgles get louder and more urgent. Then there's a wet, slapping noise. And we both turn again. A long, thin tentacle ease is up out of the toilet. Its skin, a modeled red. Its suction cups cracked and broken and bleeding. A nasty toilet water tinged with blood and piss and shit spills out onto the bathroom floor. The tentacle continues its journey up out of the bowl. The skinny tip waiting around, almost as if it's looking for something or someone. It freezes when the tip points directly at me. Oh no, they got in. He grabs the trash can and tries to pull it away from the door. It won't budge. Help me, Tomber. But I can't. I can't help them at all. I only have eyes for the tentacle, which is now at least six feet long and shows no signs of stopping. The tip stays pointed at me as the rest folds down around the toilet. It begins to wrap itself around the base over and over again. Tomber! Carlson is still trying to get the trash can out of the way. Don't stare at it. Think of something else. Somewhere else. I laugh at his suggestion. How do I not look at it? It's a goddamn tentacle wrapping around a toilet. Now the tentacle is squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. The toilet explodes into a thousand ceramic shards, all headed straight for me. I dive to the floor and pray my suit isn't hit by any of the foul shrapnel. I angle my helmet up for a look at the damage, and all I see is a small wave of bloody shitty piss water racing at me, followed by water now three tentacles. Three that are coming for me at least. There are two others that have planted themselves against the bathroom floor and are pushing hard to bring something large up through the opening where the toilet used to be. When the three tentacles reach me, they slap against my helmet, then slide down to my collar. No! Carlson stomps on one of the tentacles. It bursts under his foot, sending red-black goose spurting across my visor. He keeps kicking at the other tentacles, but after witnessing what happened to one of their own, they rear back and wave madly in the air. I scramble up onto my feet and stare at the things slowly being revealed where the toilet used to be. I can't. I try. But the sight of whatever is coming has me transfixed. It's all I can think about. What is down below? Is it a giant octopus? The tentacles give that thought some credence. But as the body slowly shows itself, I begin to doubt that theory. Octobye don't have human eyes set in a warped and bloated human face. Go away! The creature laughs and gives me a wink. No, now Carlson. Be a teen player. It's the marked man's voice, coming from the beast's mouth. A mouth full of a trillion razor sharp teeth. The disgusting head grins though sharp teeth at Carlson. And stop trying to tell your friends to think this way out of this Carlson. You know what we say. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. Carlson grounds after saying the words. He deflates, like a heavy weight has been set on his shoulders. He looks at me. Sorry, topper. Sorry? Sorry for what? I tear my eyes away from the marked man Octopus monster thing. And see that Carlson has stopped trying to move the trash can and has taken several steps back. Oh, Carlson has only so much willpower left on the frame. And we can't have that. Too much spree thought leads to chaos. And chaos leads to, I don't know what, but nothing good. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. Carlson has frozen in place except for his eyes. They flit in my direction and I can see the pain and fear inside them. Oh, shit. I kick hard at the trash can. It goes flying to the side. I grab Carlson's hand and yank the bathroom door open. Standing in the hallway are the bar patrons all chanting. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. I lower my shoulder and shove through them, knocking several to the ground. I don't bother stepping around them. My boots fall on hands and chests and faces as I drag Carlson with me. Then I turn to the exit door and move as fast as my exosuit, my exhaustion, my panic and my grip on Carlson will let me. As we run, tentacles explode through the wall, missing us by only inches. We slam into the exit door and bounce off it like we hit a brick wall. As we fall onto our asses, Carlson groans and says an almost joking voice. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. I laugh. I can't help it. My friend is in there. Shove back up onto my feet. I lower my shoulder, take a deep breath and ram the exit door. Again, it doesn't budge. I stumble back, nearly stepping on Carlson. A tensical burst from the bottom of the wall and wraps itself around one of Carlson's legs. Then yanks him toward the wall. He's going to be shredded into tiny Carlson bits if that tentacle tries to pull him back through that hole. So I do what I have to do and walk over to the tentacle, raising my boot directly over it. Back off! The tentacle does the opposite and pulls Carlson even faster. My boot comes down and red black blood squirts everywhere. The marked man's voice bellows from the other side of the wall. You are nothing, Mr. Tower. Nothing! I hear his voice, but I also hear Garner's voice. How many times has that bastard told me the exact same thing? Too many. It's shit at all! I turn and charge the exit door one more time. This time it cracks down the middle, and all it takes is one well placed kick to split it in half. I don't even look at Carlson. I just reach behind me, feel for his leg, grab it, and drag my partner through the open door with me. We're back on an outside walkway, and I let go of Carlson the second he is clear of the door. So I can turn and slam it closed, severing a tentacle that chases after us. The piece of tentacle dances and flops on the walkway, then goes flying out over the water as I give it a swift kick into the ocean. Infinite is the horror forever is the nightmare. Carlson's eyes meet mine. One is milky, the other is clear. I focus on the clear one. Can we get out of here? Carlson sort of shrugs, then nods, then shakes his head. Fair enough. I crouch in front of him. Can you walk? Infinite is the horror forever is the nightmare. He shakes his head. Are you kidding? Are you seriously going to make me carry you? He nods. Infinite is the horror forever is the nightmare. I laugh a bit or laugh and get my arms under him. OK, enough with that shit already. I lift him up and throw him over my shoulder. I heard it the first dozen times. He mumbles and mutters the phrase over and over as I stagger down the walkway toward the stairs. This isn't the moon, that's for sure. Carlson's weight is full G, and I'm feeling the effects quickly. We get to the stairs, and I have to cautiously take each step one at a time. One foot down, the other foot down, then the next step. One foot down, then the other foot down. Step by step I go, as Carlson continues muttering. Infinite is the horror forever is the nightmare. Infinite is the horror forever is the nightmare. Infinite is the horror forever is the nightmare. Hold on, buddy. I'll figure out a way to get a spree from this. I almost say nightmare, but that word is a little overused. Uh, free from this shit. His response is predictable. Infinite is the horror forever is the nightmare. We make it down the stairs without falling and killing ourselves. Then I face the long walkway to the next set of stairs. Without pausing, because if I do, I'll just sit my ass down and call it a day. I stagger us to the next set of stairs, and the next, and the next. Until we're finally at the hatch at the bottom of the platform that leads to the ladder, which, hopefully, will take us off this thing. I set Carlson down and plop down next to him. Then I lean over and look down through the hatch. Ocean. Nothing but the ocean. That's not what I want. I say it like I'm sending a dish back at a restaurant. I want the surface of the moon back. I want to see great dust and rock and solid ground. To my surprise, the ocean below shimmers. Like a broadcast being interrupted by sunspots. But it's only a shimmer. The ocean is back to its wave crashing self in the blink of an eye. Mr. Topper, please stop what you were doing. I hear the sound of a hundred tentacles. Screw this. I climb down through the hatch. If I want the damn moon, then I'm going to get the damn moon. I reach back to the platform and grab Carlson. I slide him over to me, then carefully maneuver him onto my shoulder once more. His head smacks the side of the hatch hard. Sorry, man. Just hang on, will you? I'm getting a scorn. Infinite is the horror. Forever is the nightmare. His voice is weak. Carlson sounds sickly. Like he's only a couple of breaths away from his last. Don't quit on me now, asshole. I get him secured. Then take the rungs one boot and one glove at a time. The water continues to rage below me. And each time I look down, my insides feel like they'll turn to jelly. I want the moon. Give me the moon! Where are you going, Mr. Topper? Come back. Let's talk. I glance up and see the Mark Demand's grotesque face. It's no longer octopi related, but it sure isn't back to looking human. His face fills the hatch, and a line of bloody drool hangs from the corner of his mouth. When it breaks loose, I dodge to the side, nearly dumping Carlson for my shoulder. The drool hits a rung above me, and the metal sizzles and begins to melt. I get moving again and don't look up. No matter how much the marked man rages at me. Give me the moon! I look down, and I'm only one rung away from the crashing waves. Reality spins, and Carlson shouts, Infinite is the horror! Forever is the nightmare! Then my glove slip, and we are both falling through open air. It lasts barely a second before we crash hard, sending a cloud of moon dust flying up around us. I got her. I watch the dust settle onto my visor. I fucking did it! I roll over, careful not to squash Carlson. Then use the ladder to pull myself upright. I bend over, my gloves and my knees, and breathe deeply several times. Then I smile at my friend. We did it Carlson, for free! Carlson is silent, deathly silent. His skin is pale and gray, almost matching the moon dust, and his eyes are back to full milk status. I kneel next to him and pat his chest. Carlson? Freeze at hold, and draw we can see them. The sudden shouting over my coms sends me off balance, and I collapse onto my ass as I look for the source. About 30 yards away, an operator team dressed in sleek, military guard, Exo-suits, races toward me. Their car binds up, and aimed directly at me. I throw my hands into the air. Whoa! Chill out! I'm not a threat! I'm not a threat! You don't hear a feat now. Keep your hands in the air. Do not move. Do not talk. Stay there until we assess your threat level. I do as asked, and wait for them to reach me. When they do, I can't say I'm surprised to see a certain logo on their Exo-suits. Absalom? You guys are with Absalom, Corp. I laugh and shake my helmet. Out of the damn frying pan and into the fire. Carlson's body lurches up to its feet, spins, and screams at the security team. Infinite is the horror forever is the nightmare! They open fire, fumbling his body with round after round after round. No! My scream is worthless and too late. Carlson is a shredded mess. His body waivers for a moment, then collapses into a bloodless, dried-out husk. His eyes are no longer milky. They aren't even there anymore. All I see are empty sockets, staring up from a nearly bald skull. When I look over and glare at the team, their car binds turn from Carlson, and on me, we're gonna have a problem. One of the operators snarls at me. Even from where I stand, I can see the gleam in his eyes. He wants me to be a problem so bad that his trigger finger is twitching as he tries to keep it under control. What's your name? Why are you in a restricted area? Then he looks up and asks the more important question. And what the hell is this thing? A hundred answers come to mind. But are quashed when I look past the team and see what's coming for us. Wave! To hell with the car binds aimed at me, I raced to the ladder, realizing that I hadn't moved from the frying pan and into the fire. No, the fire hasn't even been lit yet. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.