Say you’re stranded on a ship in deep space. The rest of the crew is dead. You’re the sole survivor. Most human beings are social animals. So the question is how long could you survive all alone? Would you be willing to do anything to survive? How long could you keep it together? The new short story I’m working on, Adrift, attempts to answer those questions. Here’s a sneak peek:
The first thing I did was to puke up a lungful of cryo-fluid. Sorry, but you’ll never convince me that humans were meant to breathe like fish. Just because something is possible doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.
I’ve been stuck on this rig for two weeks. Of course, that’s not counting the three years I spent in cryostasis like something preserved in a jar of formaldehyde. So, to clarify, I’ve been awake on this huge chunk of metal for two weeks. I’m the only survivor of a crew of thirty. Does that make me extremely lucky? Depends on how you look at it, I guess. Maybe it’s better if I give you some of the backstory first…
Two Weeks Ago…
So I wake up choking to death. One minute I’m knocked out in my cryo-unit, and the next I’m suffocating on a bad mix. I’m not a scientist, so I don’t have any answers as to the how or why of it, but my lungs were on fire, and it doesn’t take a person long to realize that things are going to shit fast.
I did what anybody with a grain of survival instinct would do: I panicked. Started beating the shit out of the door of my cryo-unit, nearly using up everything I had left as I pounded uselessly on the reinforced glass. It was dumb luck that in all my punching and kicking around, I accidentally hit the ejection button. If I hadn’t, I’d have joined the twenty-nine other crew members who are each still floating dead in their personal cylinder of green fluid that looks a lot like peppermint flavored Listerine.
I spilled out onto the floor, coughing and choking, which is also when I started to puke my guts out.
Long story short, I lived.