He threw his head back and laughed like a hyena howling in the gray sky, then put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, its last flash bathing him in a halo of orange magnesium and smoke. He fell overboard. If there was any sound when it hit the water, it was absorbed by the fog.
I stood there for a moment, which turned out to be quite long. Slowly it dawned on me that I was standing alone, the silent audience dispersed to their stands, and together with them, they probably scattered this dark story throughout the team. I was afraid of morale, of absurd anxiety, now I understand that, but I couldn't move, as if willpower alone would make the sea bring back this man, my friend.
The first shot made me think.
I found a handful of signal pistols in the emergency rooms and stuffed one into each pocket as I entered the dark passage leading to the lower deck. Above the empty sounds of gunfire, other muffled sounds began to be made, suffocating sobs, screams of pain and anger, all reinforcing the sickening impression of the coppery smell of blood.
The darkness was oppressive and thick, like a rose in my heart. The dim pale light from the chemical candles flickering at regular intervals illuminated the empty corridor, and I headed for my cabin.
She was robbed, and my service weapon was missing. In the next two cabins, there were dead junior officers, their broken bodies still stuck in their bunks, their skulls opened like blooming flowers at point-blank range.
I felt a clear and irrational desire to go up to the upper deck and jump overboard to get off the ship into unknown waters. I grabbed the signal pistol and pulled it forward, more like a talisman than a real weapon, and slowly walked down the corridor to the sailors' berths.
The door was wide open, and the smell of blood and shit was nauseating. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noticed a field of bodies torn, crumbled, and smashed by bullets and makeshift sticks. A few people were still moving, twitching slightly. I looked confused until one man with a face covered in blood and rage turned to me and started silently pushing his arms in my direction, dragging his broken and broken leg with him.
Coming out of the shadows, a different shape fell on him, the shoe dented into the back of the beaten man with a wet crack. I recognized the attacker's face in the chemical, greenish twilight, it was a young, quiet bookworm. Like the captain, he wasn't the man I knew before, it was a beast dressed in his skin.
He bent and grabbed the poor guy by the jaw, put his thumb in his mouth. A crazed roar-it was a wild, thoughtless sound-and tried to bite, but the attacker grabbed him tightly and pulled him.
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