The Thirst

A Doctor onboard a Survey Vessel in the Antarctic battles to save the crew from a horrifying condition...

     My name is Doctor Jason McAvoy, Medical Officer and last surviving member of the 40 strong crew of the SV Linderoth. I'll tell you what I can, but my memory is still pretty hazy.

 

     We had been studying the deterioration of ice shelves in the Weddell Sea in the British Antarctic Territory for the past three months. We were operating some two weeks from the nearest habitable landmass, the Falkland Islands. The disappearance of some 3900 square miles of ice since 2002 had revealed no less than 7 hitherto unidentified deep-sea trenches. Three of these are suspected to be a little short in depth of the Pacifics Mariana Trench at 6.77 miles. It was the second of these, the Shackleton-Blackborow Trench at 5.9 miles that we had been surveying. It was after the third 60 metre ice-dive that we had the first case. There had been a minor incident when one of the submerged divers collecting ice samples lost contact with his team for a few minutes (although according to Dive Master Jennings there is no such thing as a 'minor' incident in diving).

 

     Mulcahey, the diver in point, reported sick with dizziness and a dry gritty feeling in the eyes. It seemed a simple case of associated light-headedness following nitrogen narcosis (which typically produces a state similar to alcohol intoxication between 30 and 40 metres and dispels during ascent) and a touch of conjunctivitis. I prescribed 24 hours rest and the standard treatment of Chloramphenicol eye-drops and ointment for the eye condition.

 

     Two hours later I was summoned to the diver's quarters at the rush. Mulcahey had collapsed, suffering a seizure due to what appeared to be severe dehydration. Whilst in the grip of the most powerful cycle of a grand mal seizure, he gripped my arm, all but crushing the bones in my wrist and it took three of us to pull him off. Other than deep contusions and some superficial abrasions, my wrist was workable and so we transported him back to the Sickbay and placed him on an intravenous infusion. Svensson, his dive-buddy, said that Mulcahey had been drinking water almost constantly since arriving back in quarters; he stated that he thought he must have drunk close to twenty litres. This assertion, I doubted; fluid intake of that magnitude in such a short space of time would overload the kidneys, causing hypervolemia (an increased blood-plasma volume) and could prove fatal. As such, my examination revealed no excessive fluid retention; no peripheral swelling, no ascites (fluid in the abdominal cavity) and certainly no breathing difficulties attributable to fluid entering the air spaces in the lungs. All pathophysiological findings pointed, in fact, to a severe state of dehydration and hypovolemia (a decreased blood-plasma volume). Despite a desperately low blood pressure, there were no signs of haemorrhage, internal or otherwise, no cause of injury and no history of diarrhoea or vomiting. Save for some superficial grazing on the hands and forearms, an occupational hazard for ice-divers and geologists alike, no other injuries were noted.

 

     It made little sense...

 

     In spite of aggressive fluid resuscitation with four litres of 0.9% Sodium Chloride, Mulcahey succumbed to the effects of dehydration and became unresponsive at 1927 hours. Anxiously, I continued to monitor his vital signs. I catheterised him to observe fluid output and look for signs of haematuria or blood in the urine that might indicate kidney damage. He seemed completely dry, no urinary output, no sweating. Nothing. It was at that point that I began to realise that I would lose him. I knew that a Medivac via Helo was impossible due to the remoteness of our position. Our closest point of human contact was the British Royal Navy Ice Patrol vessel HMS Endurance; it was operating some three days from our location but even then we were better equipped from a medical perspective. Leaving Patricks, the Dive-Medic, in charge and nursing the bruising on my arm, courtesy of Mulcahey's vehemence in seizure, I went to see the Captain to deliver the news.

 

     Viggor Issakksson, the Captain of the Linderoth, received the news calmly but impassively and I could not help but think that his mind was elsewhere. He listened, hunched in his chair and clasping a glass of water, as I relayed the events. As I exited his cabin I noticed two empty water bottles and a container of artificial tears.

 

     It was during this time that other members of the crew had begun to complain of conjunctival symptoms, dizziness and thirst. When I returned to the sickbay Mulcahey was already dead. Patricks was grim, he was an experienced Medic of some fifteen years but still did not cope well with losing patients. We closed the door to the Resus bay and tended to four of the men, Jennings and Svensson among them, whom had reported sick. They all offered the same symptoms, dizziness, thirst and dry gritty eyes. I began to fear the worst. Patricks and I examined the men fully.

     It was during the routine eye examination of Raul Dutton, a 23 year old deck hand from Portland Oregon, that Patricks jumped back in his chair shaking his head. I asked him what it was. He blinked and removed the head of the Ophthalmoscope to clean it, complaining that he thought he had seen something squirming in the vitreous humour of Dutton's left eye. When I offered to double-check, he declined, stating that he was tired and that it had simply been dirt on the lens. I commenced the four men on IV fluids, two on saline infusions and two on a blood-plasma expander called Pentastarch, in the hope that I could at least slow the rate of dehydration.

     Jennings died at 2205 hours.

     Dutton at 2315.

     Eriksson at 2334.

     Svensson at 2352.

     We now had more bodies than we could cater for so Patricks contacted Geophysics, on 'C' Deck, to ask Burke the Glaciologist if he could free up some space in the 'E' Deck cold storage hold. After raising no answer, he volunteered to head down to that section. I argued that the chances were that Burke had retired for the night, but Patricks was adamant that he would still be working as the Team had retrieved some intriguing ice samples today. I told him to be careful and immediately felt foolish in the wake of the look of incredulity that he fired me.

      In his absence I went to recover some notes I had made on Mulcahey. Patricks had covered the body with a dark green sheet and, as is legally mandated in cases of death at sea and prior to Post Mortem examination, all invasive procedures (i.e. tubes and needles) remained in-situ. I picked up the notes and turned to leave. At that point, something caught my eye. A thin dark line ran six inches up the IV line that fed into the vein of the right arm. At first I thought it was purely blood that had back-tracked up the tube. But then it moved. Curiosity piqued, I leaned closer squeezing the tube slightly. Suddenly the thing darted backward, recoiling and retracting into the body. I leapt backwards with a shout, upending my emergency drugs tray and scattering my notes.

     Something... a tentacle, had begun to wend its way up the tubing and had shrunk back into Mulcahey's body like the retracting eye-stalks of a snail when I disturbed it.

      Something was in his body.

      Trembling, I tugged back the sheeting that covered him. Nothing I had seen in all my years of medicine could have prepared me for what I saw beneath. Mulcahey's corpse was greyed and shrivelled beyond recognition. The eyes had sunken back into the sockets, the lips had been drawn back against his teeth in a vile grimace and dried and cracked like thin leather strips. The fingers were drawn into claws, the browned nails lifting from their beds and the limbs atrophied and stick-like. The body was, for want of a better word, desiccated. Every drop of fluid had been extracted. My mind reeled as I saw, through tiny ruptures in the thin crust that once passed for Mulcahey's skin, a thousand tiny feelers breaking the surface, straining perhaps only a few inches high, sensing and seeking sustenance. Whatever sort of parasite had wormed its way into his body had grown at an exponential rate and drained every drop of moisture from his body, leaving him a withered husk. There was a sickening crunch and a ragged fissure opened up from Mulcahey's right shoulder to left groin. The uncoiling nematode shivered within its dried and tattered shell. I did not wait to see what crawled out, I fled. I slammed the door to Resus and barrelled across Sickbay, my eyes drawn to the four shrunken corpses in the ward area. Appallingly, the body of one had begun to quiver. Shaking, I locked the Sickbay door shut and ran down the passageway towards the stairs that led to 'C' Deck and Geophysics.

      At the Port access, I ran into Patricks who grabbed me and spun me about. His expression alone told me that he had seen much the same. He informed me that Burke and his Team were dead, their bodies dried out and twisted up like ruined twigs. There were others alive he was sure, but had seen only the engineers Dodd and Rehnquist and Magnusson the Radio Operator between Decks 'A' and 'C'. Dodd, he was certain, wouldn't make it as he was already clinging to the sinks in the ablutions gulping down mouthful after mouthful of cold water. He hadn't even realised that in his haste to quench his thirst that he had smashed his front teeth on the taps.

     Magnusson was the next to arrive, coming from the forward end of the Ship, his face drawn. The Captain was dead. Magnusson had found him, curled up in his shower cubicle his shrivelled face pitched upwards, the water splattering down upon him from a broken pipe and his chest cracked open as if something had hatched from within.

 

 

 

     Patricks gripped me by the shoulder and pushed me in front of him, Rehnquist, on his orders, had drawn the keys for the cold storage and was heading down to 'E' Deck. We clattered down the stairs, hearing the occasional cry and shout from other crew-members who were already succumbing to this wretched plague.

     We met Rehnquist at the access to 'E' Deck, the keys in his fist. He threw us cold weather clothing and charged down the passageway towards cold storage. Patricks plan was absurd but sound in the same breath. Magnusson had already set a May Day loop up on his VHF set. The British Ship Endurance was three days from us, if it responded it could steam towards the signal and reach us in perhaps a little less than that. In the meantime, we could hole up in cold storage and away from infected personnel. Even with the heavy Antarctic clothing Rehnquist had supplied, surviving in cold storage for up to three days would be difficult, but what other choice did we have?

     The cold storage units were housed in large cages that were lockable from inside and out.  The units themselves were airtight but measured 60 by 30 feet and so should allow us sufficient air. Patricks and I were first into the unit. I thrust myself against the freezing bulkhead, the skin of my cheek blistering and sticking on contact with the metal. There seemed to be some dispute between Magnusson and Rehnquist as they approached the cage. I saw Rehnquist shove his colleague up against the wall and back away. Magnusson was blinking wildly and rubbing his eyes. Even from my ensconced position I could see the gritty-redness that caused his discomfort. Rehnquist had seen it too.

 

 

     Taking up an ice-axe he shuffled backwards, shouting at Magnusson to stay put. The expression on the Radio Operator's face was one of panic, shock, terror and betrayal. It was a look I fear I shall never forget. Magnusson begged, advancing on the larger man, pleading his good health. Even as he did that, the words were snagging in his craw as his throat parched. Rehnquist thrust him back again but Magnusson was petrified, clinging on to the other and shaking and beseeching him. Rehnquist raised the ice-axe.

     Once...

     Twice.

     Magnusson crumpled, slumping heavily against the steel grating of the deck. Rehnquist, consumed by the frenzy and horror of it, hit him again and again. I closed my ears to the dreadful wet crunch of steel against splintering bone and shut my eyes tight against the visions of pulsing of black blood.

     When I again opened them, the unit door was shut and Rehnquist was huddled in the far corner still gripping the gore splattered ice-axe, his eyes wild. I stared at Patricks but he wouldn't meet my gaze he was looking instead at the rows of newly tagged ice samples that stood on shelves that lined the walls of the unit. And there we remained.

 

     My recollection of rescue is indistinct at best. I was deeply hypothermic and almost poisoned by carbon dioxide by the time they found me as none of us had had the nerve to crack the unit door to allow for clean air.

     Rescue teams from HMS Endurance boarded the Linderoth, responding, as we had hoped, to Magusson's distress call. Patricks was discovered with me. I have vague, fractured recollections of reaching out for my co-worker only to feel his withered hand break off and crumble into detritus in my grasp.

     Of Rehnquist there was no sign.

     My recovery from hypothermia was relatively swift although I'm certain that my full recuperation from that nightmarish ordeal has yet to begin. The deep ache in my arm continues to plague me, it has been a source of constant discomfort since Mulcahey grabbed at me those four nights ago. I have also noticed what seems to be a puncture mark in the centre of my right hand as though I fell on something sharp during my escape. It itches too, almost as if something is buried there, lurking just under my skin.

     The pain and irritation from my wounds though, is something I could ignore if I could just get some sleep.

     Lord knows I would sleep if I could; I would, I surely would were it not for this God awful thirst...

 

 

 

 

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Sweet dreams... ;-)

 

Author's Note

This one should give you nightmares...

Reviews

[NightsShade]

I highly enjoyed this piece. And I agree, you must have done a lot of work on this piece to get so much medical terminology. It appears as if this could either be a journal entry or someone talking to a reporter, I'm not sure which. Great write overall! I haven't encountered many pieces like this on WC.
(P.S. the music fit in really well.)

[Michael Anyanwu]

Howie, you're really dropping some serious gems on the forum. I hope you're copy writing this stuff. As always, your stories have an urgency to them that builds to a nerve wracking finale. This tale moved along at a cracking pace and was somewhat reminiscent of John Carpenters take on the "The Thing". I found it utterly gripping and chilling.

Keep up the great work.

[SR Urie]

Hiya Howie.
Great story, sir. How miraculous that you have endured the 'sickness,' that is taking affect on you as you speak, and relate your tale with such eloquence and accuracy. Great setting and plot, excellent description of events and characters, and what a great disease of apparent wormy, parasitic elephantitis.

If I may, as events progressed the way you described the passageways and decks of the ship started to get a tad confusing, and your description of the captain a little vague. Still a great write and I'm looking forward to reading more of your stuff. Great job, Sir! BZ

If you have a minute, please have a look at the story I posted; 'the old packets.' You may find it interesting as it has a similar theme, except the setting is up in the Rocky Mountains. S

[Sound]

Very chilling story that involved all the senses. Great job.

[Chaos X 3]

wow. i cant begin to convey just how creeped out i am right now. its a great story. your knowlegde of that area of expertise is apparent and you describe the situation so well I felt like I was the one there experiencing it.

[T. Blake Braddy]

Makes me want a drink...or not! Great story. 'The Thing' on a ship, perhaps, and damn well scary. Have you submitted this one? If not, perhaps you should. If it weren't in first person, I would say an epilogue would be unnecessary. Since it is, the one that you gave certainly fits. Great job, man. You always inspire me and challenge me to write better stories!

On a completely different note, the language is extremely authentic. The amount of verisimilitude is astounding. If you don't have a background in the subject, then I'm wowed. Excellent, man, really.

[An Ordinary Woman]

Nightmares, yeah. This will give me nightmares, but that's ok. It was worth it. I think your ending is great because you didn't tell and the reader already knows. Perfectly haunting, Howie!

[James Watts]

This was indeed a very creepy write. Love that. And yea it may even give me nightmares, but nightmares and myself are old bedfellows. Excellent work.