What Comes Ashore (Completed)

Seven

There's a heaviness in the air that I can't shake. It clings to me like damp wool, seeping into my bones. The ship rocks beneath my feet, the water gentle now, but I can feel the weight of the dead pressing down on us. Or maybe it's just my mind—dragging itself deeper into the darkness that's swallowed us whole.

Three of us left. Einar sits by the stern, his back against the rail, eyes half-open but seeing nothing. Gunnar still moves, still breathes, still walks like the sickness isn't scratching at the back of his throat. But it is. I can see it. I can hear it in his breathing—a rasp too deep, too wet. He hasn't said a word since dawn, but I know he's watching me.

They're both infected. Einar's gone already—might as well be a corpse. His lips move, mouthing words that never come. Maybe he's praying. Maybe he's just talking to ghosts. Gunnar's holding out, but it won't be long now. He's always been the strongest, the last one to break. But I can see the way his hand shakes when he grips the axe, the way he winces with each breath. It's only a matter of time.

I watch him from across the deck, my knife hidden beneath my cloak. I haven't slept—not with them still here. I feel it tightening around my chest—the need to finish this. Gunnar is the biggest threat, always has been. But he's slipping. His face is pale beneath the grime, his eyes bloodshot, skin stretched too thin across his bones. He knows it, too. I can see it in the way he looks at me, the way he avoids getting too close. He's waiting for me to act, just like I'm waiting for him. It's a dance, slow and deliberate, and I wonder which one of us will move first.

I glance at Einar again. He's not long for this world. He'll die on his own, but I can't leave him like this. He's breathing shallow, rattling breaths, sweat dripping from his face like the life's already been wrung out of him. He doesn't even know I'm there as I approach. The knife feels heavy in my hand, like it knows what's coming. It's not quick. It's never quick like they tell you. His eyes flutter, his body twitching as the blade slides between his ribs. He lets out a small gasp, a wheeze that barely sounds human. Then it's over. I pull the knife free, wiping the blade on his tunic, though the blood stains the deck darker than the night.

Gunnar watches from the helm. His hand rests on his axe, but he doesn't move. Not yet. We both know this is the moment. It has to be. I stand, the knife still keen in my hand, and for a long moment, we just stare at each other. The space between us feels impossibly small, like the ship itself is shrinking under the weight of what has to happen next.

"You've lost it," Gunnar says, his voice low, raspy. "I'm not sick." But there's something hollow in his words, something that says even he doesn't believe it anymore. He's sick. It's only a matter of time before it gets him too, before it turns him into whatever the others became. I can't wait for that. I can't let it happen.

"I've seen it, Gunnar," I say, and my voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else. "I know what's coming."

He tightens his grip on the axe, takes a step toward me, slow and deliberate, like he's measuring the distance. "You're the one who's lost," he says, but there's fear in his eyes now. Real fear. He swings, the axe slicing through the air, but it's a desperate swing, too slow. I dodge, barely, and the weight of it sends him off-balance. I don't wait. I lunge at him, the knife catching him in the side, just beneath the ribs. He grunts, staggers back, his hand clutching at the wound. But he doesn't fall. Not yet. He's still too strong.

He swings again, this time weaker, more desperate. I duck, driving the blade in deeper, twisting it until I feel him buckle. His breath comes in short gasps, his eyes wide with shock, like he hadn't expected it to end like this. He drops to his knees, his axe clattering to the deck. His hand reaches out, as if he's trying to hold onto something, anything. But there's nothing left for him to grab—just the cold wood beneath him, slick with his own blood. He looks up at me, his mouth opening like he's about to speak, but no words come.

I don't wait for him to finish. I pull the knife free, wiping it clean on my sleeve, though the blood sticks to my hands like it's part of me now. The ship creaks beneath us, the water slapping gently against the hull. The world feels impossibly quiet.

I step over Gunnar's body, his eyes already dimming, his breath slowing. I'm the last one. The last one left. I tell myself it's over. But deep down, I can feel it—the tightness in my chest, the ache in my bones. I'm not sick. I'm just tired. Just tired.

But the thought lingers, creeping in around the edges. What if I'm wrong? I cough, once, then twice. It's nothing. Just the cold. Just the air. I've survived.

The sky is still, painted with streaks of pale light, and the ship rocks beneath me like a cradle. There's an odd peace to it now. No more whispers, no more fevered mutterings. Just the sound of the sea, the steady creak of wood, and my own uneven breaths.

I rub at my chest, trying to ease the tightness that's settled there. It's been days since I've slept. The weight of what I've done drags behind me, pulling at my legs, making each step feel heavier. The wind bites at my skin, cold and sharp, and I pull my cloak tighter around me. It's just exhaustion, I tell myself. Just the guilt of surviving when the others did not.

I walk across the deck, passing over the bloodstains I couldn't wash away, the memory of their bodies lingering in every shadow. Gunnar's axe still lies where he dropped it, slick with salt and blood. I step around it, avoiding the sight, not wanting to remember how it felt, watching him fall.

I've only done what I had to do. There was no other choice. They were sick. I'm not. I keep telling myself that as I make my way to the helm. I'm the last one left, and it's up to me to steer us home. I can see the faint line of the coast now, just a smudge against the horizon. We're close.

I cough again, harder this time. The sound rattles in my chest, wet and thick. I swallow it down, trying to steady my breath, but the tightness in my lungs won't let go. The salt air—it's heavy today. It's clogging my throat, filling my lungs. I rub at my chest again, as if that will stop it, but the ache doesn't go away. I look out at the sea, the water calm beneath the sky, and for a moment I feel it—the pull of it, the vastness of it. I could let go, just stop, let the ship drift. But no. We're close now. I'm close.

My legs feel weak as I brace myself against the helm, trying to focus on the task at hand. The sail is still full, the wind carrying us forward, but I can't seem to keep my hands steady on the wheel. The weight of it all—of everything I've done, everything I've seen—it's pressing down on me, making it harder to breathe. I cough again, harder this time, doubling over as the air is ripped from my lungs. I spit into the sea, watching the flecks of red disappear into the water below. It's nothing, I tell myself. Just the cold. Just the wind. I'm not sick. I can't be.

But the thought is there now, a dark shadow creeping through my mind. I push it away, gripping the wheel tighter. I've survived. I've made it this far. I'll make it to the shore. But as I look out at the horizon, the land growing closer, I can't help but wonder if I'm too late. I cough again, and this time, the taste of blood lingers on my tongue.

I slump against the helm, the world spinning around me. The sky blurs with the sea, and I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. My breath comes in ragged gasps, each one a struggle. The realization settles over me like a shroud—I'm not going to make it. The sickness has me now, sinking its claws deep into my lungs.

I laugh, a bitter, hollow sound that dies in the wind. After everything—after all the blood, all the choices—I couldn't escape it. None of us could. Maybe we were doomed from the start. Maybe the sickness was never something we could outrun or fight. Maybe it was always inside us, waiting.

The ship drifts on, the sails catching the last of the wind. The coastline is clearer now, the outlines of trees and cliffs emerging from the haze. So close. I wonder if anyone will find the ship when it reaches the shore. If they'll climb aboard and see the ghosts that linger here, the echoes of what we've done.

I sink to the deck, my back against the wood, the helm spinning lazily above me. The sky stretches out overhead, vast and uncaring. My eyelids grow heavy, and I let them close, the sounds of the sea fading into the distance.

In the end, there's just the darkness and the gentle rocking of the ship. The weight lifts from me, and for the first time in a long while, I feel at peace. We tried. We fought. But some battles can't be won.

The ship sails on, carrying its silent cargo toward the shore, a lone vessel returning from a journey that never should have been taken.