The Ravening

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space . . . or so they say. But I hear them screaming every night, the men and women we let out of the airlock.

We didn’t have a choice, of course. That’s what they tell us to say to ourselves — to say it until we believe it’s true. So I say the words, but I don’t believe they’re true. I never will believe that. I’m the one who pushed the button, you see, so I know beyond any doubt that I didn’t have to.

Yes, I know — we all know — that they’d been exposed, and there’s no cure. But there must have been a better way. How can we know none of them would have survived?

In my nightmares, they do, even though I saw them die and know — know for certain! — that none of them survived.

Yet, every night, they swim through space like water, latch onto the ship and begin ripping chunks off of it, their eyes bulging as they stare through the window at me indignantly, their mouths open in an eternal scream. And that’s what I deserve really. Because I pushed the button.

And here’s the part that scares me more: It’s just a matter of time before it happens again. Every time we send out a landing party, the possibility is there. So the question is, will I push the button again if they tell me to?

If I don’t, we’ll all die. At least that’s what they say. But then again, they say a lot of things. “It’s part of the job,” they say, and, “You’re not responsible.” But I am. I know it in my heart.

So I’m looking out the window right now, looking out into a section of space not filled with writhing, agonized bodies like it is in my dreams. Silent space. Empty space.

I’m carefully avoiding looking out the other side of the ship, the one where the huge planet is — the one where the landing party is.

I know each person in the landing party, of course, just like I knew each of the others. I know their names, whether they’re married or not, how many children they have, what their plans are, their likes, their dislikes.

After all, the ship’s only so big, and I’ve always been a people person. Less so now, after I killed them. I know I did, and so does everyone else deep down, beneath the company line. So they avoid me a bit now, and I avoid them a bit as well. I don’t blame them. I wish I could avoid me too.

The thing is, no one on this ship can avoid me entirely, although I know they want to. After all, I’m the medical officer. And that might be what hurts the worst. I’m supposed to save people, but they made me kill them instead.

I know exactly what I did to them. When they were expelled from the airlock, they surely panicked, even in their fevered state. Some, I’m sure, held their breath, so their lungs ruptured right away. Most probably didn’t, due to their training, so they lasted longer.

Regardless, within a few seconds, their skin must have begun to balloon outward somewhat and then, just before losing consciousness, their tongues would have begun to burn as the moisture on them boiled away. And then they were gone.

So that’s what I did to them. And I know they knew it was me who pushed the button, because they knew, just like everyone else knew, that doing that is part of my job now.

Some of them looked at me as they died. They knew, or at least suspected, that I’d be standing at the window and watching as their lives faded away. I wonder if they begged or cried out for help in those last few seconds. They almost certainly did.

And yet I believe some of them could have lived, if only we had let them. I don’t know how yet, how to even keep them quarantined long enough to find out without endangering the entire crew. Because they are quite aggressive, as well as being contagious.

We did try to quarantine them when we first encountered the disease, but that was a disaster. They broke their restraints and tore the facility apart, killing everyone there. It was a bloodbath.

We also tried keeping them sedated, but as it turns out, that’s impossible. Tranquilizers don’t even slow them down unless you put enough in to kill them, which defeats the purpose. We lost a lot of good men in the attempt.

After that, we were taught, “Kill on sight, do not approach the bodies, and destroy the bodies from a distance if you can.” It became our new mantra.

The airlock solution was only proposed recently for landing parties. The theory was that outer space would kill the virus along with the human. We can only hope that’s right.

I’m not sure what to do, what the right thing is, but when the time comes, I’m not sure I can press the button again.

“Dr. Wilkonivin,” a female voice behind me says, “I just wanted to let you know that the landing party will arrive in less than fifteen minutes.”

I look at the young woman and I see how nervous she is, how she averts her eyes from mine. I try not to show her how nervous I am as well. “Thank you,” I say, with a smile. “I’ll be ready.” But as I head for the observation deck, I wonder . . . Will I?

Author's Note: I wrote this story as part of a first-chapter challenge. I hope you enjoyed the read. If you'd like me to continue writing this story, please let me know. In fact, I'd love to hear what you think either way, so feel free to leave a comment, click the heart, and subscribe for free!