Murder cruise; four kills; countless lucky escapes; stranded in the middle of the ocean – none of which is quite as terrifying as the awful woman that tends to the injured in sickbay. I was there for a night and a morning, but all it took was one glance at her, and I really wanted my stupid arm to get better.
Her vacant eyes were void of the empathy and compassion one would normally expect from a nurse, and her matter-of-fact approach to her role – in the middle of this entirely theatrical horror show – was unsettling. I can only wonder what God-awful tragedy has left this husk of a human to creep across the earth. I shudder at the thought.
On arrival at the sick bay, I had, in short, changed my mind – this nurse looked like a corpse.
‘Go away. I’m ish alright!’ I insisted, a little slurred, having self-medicated on half of my stash of cooking brandy (well, it works for toothache). But, to her due, the nurse only shrugged and reassured me that I was safe in the sickbay, nodding at the security camera with its baleful, red eye.
She insisted on payment for her services upfront, which I begrudgingly supplied, and by way of small talk she advised that if I were to have trouble with such fees in the future, I should try liberating the wallets and purses of the dead! Nurse? Or undertaker? How macabre. I can entirely imagine her doing her own ‘picking’ across the terminally ill, so it seems even some of the crew have their little ways of getting by in the rankings, no matter how unpleasant. Or she’s doing it simply for income…
I was drowsy from my injury and the just-being shot at and hacked at – and, you know, cooking brandy – but by God, I wasn’t going to go to sleep with that monstrosity on the ward (the Sister of the Damned, and all that). Thinking such thoughts, I probably should have stopped her injecting me, but it was too late…
‘No Lucien, that’s my cup of rabbits,’ is all I remember saying, before I dissolved into vivid dreams about a naked, womanly vampire (which sends a blush straight to my ears when I think about it).
I awoke this morning and found that the corpse of Bailey’s friend – Henry – was lying on the trolley next to mine. I’m not sure if his wounds were inflicted while he was alive, or as an attempt at an autopsy, but not much remained of his torso. Surely such barbarous things should reside behind closed doors? Is this the state we have gotten to?
I quickly left sickbay, feeling alarmed but somewhat recuperated – the nurse had, at least, bandaged me well (next to a corpse!) – and I made my way back here to my cabin, trying not to think about what could have happened to me while I slept.
At least I now know what’s in the orange syringes.