Elohims wrath

The narrow keyhole passage twisted and turned like a maze, its slippery cables snaking in every direction. The darkness was oppressive, clinging to the men as they crawled forward on their hands and knees. Bjorn, Mikkel, and Arne moved in near silence, the only sounds being their strained breathing and the occasional creaking of the ancient ship around them. The air was thick and stagnant, the stale smell of decay lingering in the narrow space. Every few minutes, the ship groaned, a deep, unsettling sound that made them stop in their tracks, hearts pounding, afraid that the tunnels might collapse and bury them alive.

The cables were slick with condensation, tangling around their arms and legs as they pushed forward. Sometimes the tunnels went up, forcing them to scramble on all fours like animals; other times they dipped down, dragging them into deeper, more claustrophobic spaces. Every now and then, one of them would get stuck, caught on a twisted wire or jagged piece of metal, and the others would have to wait while they freed themselves.

It had been hours—more than seven by now—and each of them was on the edge of exhaustion, their muscles burning and their minds frayed by the constant tension. The darkness seemed to press in tighter with every minute, and the old air within the ship felt thick and heavy in their lungs.

Mikkel was leading the group, his body moving steadily forward despite the strain. Bjorn and Arne followed close behind, their nerves on edge. Every sound, every creak, felt like a threat. There was no telling when or if the ship would finally give out, trapping them forever in these forgotten tunnels.

Suddenly, Mikkel stopped. "I think I found something," he called back.

Bjorn and Arne froze. They could hear the excitement in his voice, but also the weariness. They scrambled forward, their hearts pounding with a mix of hope and fear. Mikkel had reached an opening, this one much larger than the cramped tunnel they had been crawling through. It led to a broader section of the ship—a part of Altera that had been hidden from them until now.

They crawled out, their bodies stiff from hours of being hunched over, and rose to their feet, breathing in the stale but free-flowing air of the new space. A cold breeze blew through the hall, sending a shiver down their spines. Before them stretched a massive hallway, wider than any they had seen on Altera so far. On either side, dozens of doors lined the walls, their faded paint barely visible beneath layers of grime and age.

The walls themselves were a horrifying sight—painted in deep, blood-red hues with streaks of white and blue. The paint had peeled and flaked away over the years, leaving jagged, exposed patches that gave the hall a scarred, broken appearance. It was as if the very walls had suffered through the decay of time, mirroring the twisted remnants of the ship.

"What is this place?" Arne asked, his voice trembling as he scanned the hallway.

Bjorn didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on something much more disturbing. Scattered across the hallway were old papers, weathered and yellowed by age, and candles placed in the corners, each adorned with strange, cryptic symbols. Some of the candles had long since melted away, leaving waxy trails across the floor, while others looked as if they had been placed more recently. The symbols painted around the candles—twisted and arcane—were unlike anything they had ever seen.

Mikkel frowned, his eyes scanning the eerie scene. "Whoever left this… they weren't just trying to survive."

But it wasn't the symbols or the decaying candles that filled them with dread. It was the scratch marks—dozens of them—carved deep into the blood-red walls. Long, jagged lines ran down the surface, as if someone or something had clawed desperately at the walls, trying to escape. They were frantic, chaotic, and all too human.

Bjorn swallowed hard, his throat tight with fear. But before he could say anything, his gaze fell on something far worse—the corpses.

Frozen bodies, twisted and skeletal, lay crumpled against the walls and slumped near the doors. They were the remains of people who had once been trapped in this part of Altera, their emaciated forms a grim reminder of the ship's dark history. Their clothes were ragged, and their faces were contorted in expressions of terror and despair, mouths open in silent screams.

"They starved," Mikkel muttered, his voice low and hollow. "Buried deep within the ruins, where no one could find them."

"They were never part of the survivor group," Bjorn added, staring at one of the corpses, his mind struggling to comprehend the horror of it all. "They must have been down here for... years."

Arne took a step back, his face pale as he scanned the hall. "Do you think… they knew?"

"Knew what?" Bjorn asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

Arne pointed toward the symbols, his hand shaking slightly. "Whoever did this… they left the scratches. The bodies. The marks. It's like… they were driven mad."

Mikkel turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the strange markings. "It wasn't madness. It was fear. These people knew they weren't getting out. This was their last stand."

The cold air seemed to grow heavier around them, as if the ship itself was breathing, exhaling the forgotten despair of those who had perished in its depths.

Bjorn's chest tightened. He knew they had to keep moving. This part of the ship held nothing for them but ghosts, and the longer they lingered, the more those ghosts would creep into their minds.

"We need to keep going," he said finally, his voice strained. "We can't stay here."

Mikkel nodded, though his eyes lingered on the corpses for a moment longer. "There's more to this ship," he said. "And whatever's down here… we haven't seen the worst of it."

The three men walked slowly down the vast, eerie hallway, their footsteps echoing in the empty space. Mikkel led the way, his sharp eyes scanning the markings and signs above each door they passed. Most were illegible or irrelevant to their needs. "Maintenance," "Data Archives" none of these would help them now. They needed food, weapons, something—anything—that could aid their survival. But door after door, there was nothing.

"No armory. No kitchens. No storage," Mikkel muttered, his voice edged with frustration. "It's no surprise these people died here."

Bjorn, his stomach knotted with unease, had been quiet since they'd left the corpses behind. But the tension that had been building inside him finally forced him to speak. "What did you mean when you said these symbols and markings were their last stand?" His voice was low, as if he was afraid of the answer.

Mikkel glanced over his shoulder at Bjorn, his face grim but composed. "These aren't just random scratches or markings," he said. "They're prayers. Prayers to something far beyond their comprehension. Do you remember the engine room? How thousands of these same papers were hung from the ceiling?"

Arne, who had been walking silently beside Bjorn, nodded. "I remember," he said, his voice distant. "You and Lars, have you two hung those in hopes of survival too, you know when you two were stuck in engine room"

Mikkel sighed, his breath visible in the cold air. "We never wrote those prayers," he said, his tone tinged with something between regret and exhaustion. "But the reason the prayers were hung in the engine room was to ensure Altera could fly."

Arne furrowed his brow, clearly struggling to wrap his mind around what Mikkel was saying. "So… you're saying the prayers were meant for the ship itself? To make it… work?"

Mikkel gave a slight nod. "It's an old belief one that dates back to when the ship was first built. It's said that even a machine, something as cold and mechanical as Altera, has a soul. And by decorating the engine rooms with prayers, you allow it to function properly. It was a way of honoring the machine, of keeping it alive."

Bjorn let out a bitter, sarcastic chuckle. "You really believe that? That a machine has a soul?"

Mikkel turned to face Bjorn, his eyes tired but unwavering. "I once did," he said quietly. "Before the crash. Before we were trapped here. Back then, we all believed in something—anything—that would keep us alive."

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. Arne and Bjorn exchanged a glance but said nothing. There was no point in arguing with Mikkel. They had seen too much, endured too much, to question anyone's beliefs at this point. If Mikkel believed that the ship had a soul, that it needed prayers to function, who were they to challenge him?

Mikkel continued, his voice steady but filled with a deep sense of resignation. "These people," he said, gesturing to the corpses they had left behind, "they must have believed the same thing. They thought if they prayed to the machine—if they begged it for mercy—it would start to function again. That it would save them. But instead…" He trailed off, his gaze hardening as he looked down the hallway. "It devoured them. Left them to starve in the dark."

Arne's voice was barely above a whisper when he finally spoke. "So… all this was for nothing? They prayed, they died, and the machine stayed dead."

"It's the cruelest irony," Mikkel said, his tone dark and bitter. "They put their faith in the very thing that consumed them."

Bjorn clenched his fists, the weight of Mikkel's words settling over him like a lead blanket. It was all too much to process—the symbols, the prayers, the corpses. The idea that these people had spent their final moments begging a dead machine for salvation, only to die in its cold, metallic belly. The thought made his stomach churn.

"So that's what all of this is," Bjorn muttered, staring at the strange markings on the walls. "Their last hope. Their last desperate attempt to survive."

Mikkel nodded. "They were trapped here, just like us. And when there was no food left, no way out, they turned to the only thing they believed could save them. The machine."

Arne and Bjorn both fell silent, the gravity of Mikkel's words sinking in. The cold air bit at their skin, but the chill they felt now came from something much deeper—a creeping sense of dread, of hopelessness. The walls around them, once strange and unsettling, now felt like a tomb. A graveyard for the souls who had died here, praying for a miracle that never came.

And now they were walking through that graveyard, just as lost, just as desperate.