It's frightening, how quickly the water is rising. Cecil can't even see it flowing in from anywhere, and yet it seems that with every passing minute, it's noticeably higher, lapping already around his shins. He follows Albert into the storage room, takes three sloshing steps further in, just in case there's something they've missed, some port on the other side--
--and then the ship lurches. He feels the groan of the ship in his bones as much as he hears it. And then there is a more immediate sound, higher pitched, a longer, rasping groan followed by a quick pop-pop-pop-poppoppoppoppop. Cecil freezes.
And then the ceiling comes down.
He doesn't see this, of course. He's far too busy flinging himself at the farthest corner of the room, arms over his head, every part of him screaming in panic, to watch death come for them. He doesn't see the way the metal of the bulkhead crumples overhead, like giant hands were squeezing it from either side; he doesn't see it bulge, and twist, and then fall. He only hears it, vaguely, through hands clapped over his ears, over the splash of water in his face (the saltwater stinging against the scabbed-over wound at the back of his mouth).
Even when the groan subsides and the water calms and he opens his eyes, he sees nothing-- or, well. He sees dim shapes outlined against a room that is suddenly much, much darker. They are not, he notices, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, outlined against a doorway.
Without standing (he doesn't trust his legs to hold him up), Cecil raises his arm and hits the wall with his closed fist twice. A deliberate signal. I'm alive. Are you alive? Please, please be alive.
holla if I should go back and change anything!
--and then the ship lurches. He feels the groan of the ship in his bones as much as he hears it. And then there is a more immediate sound, higher pitched, a longer, rasping groan followed by a quick pop-pop-pop-poppoppoppoppop. Cecil freezes.
And then the ceiling comes down.
He doesn't see this, of course. He's far too busy flinging himself at the farthest corner of the room, arms over his head, every part of him screaming in panic, to watch death come for them. He doesn't see the way the metal of the bulkhead crumples overhead, like giant hands were squeezing it from either side; he doesn't see it bulge, and twist, and then fall. He only hears it, vaguely, through hands clapped over his ears, over the splash of water in his face (the saltwater stinging against the scabbed-over wound at the back of his mouth).
Even when the groan subsides and the water calms and he opens his eyes, he sees nothing-- or, well. He sees dim shapes outlined against a room that is suddenly much, much darker. They are not, he notices, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, outlined against a doorway.
Without standing (he doesn't trust his legs to hold him up), Cecil raises his arm and hits the wall with his closed fist twice. A deliberate signal. I'm alive. Are you alive? Please, please be alive.