R.R.S. James Clark Ross

9.02 A.M, December 8th, 2004

CJ staggered into the infirmary, took two shaking steps and threw up. There was still blood mixed in with the bile and he wondered how much more he could afford to lose. He didn't care all that much, he was just curious as to how long this internal bleeding could continue before he passed the point of no return and lost consciousness and, presumably, died.

Donna was motionless on the bed. If he'd been paying attention he would have seen her chest moving, slowly, rhythmically, her breathing slow and steady, deep in sleep for the first time since all this had begun. As it was he barely saw her.

He looked down at his shivering body. His battered, wasted frame was soaked to the bone. His red survival suit was shredded and coated with ice. He struggled his way out of the jacket, and every part of his body, but especially his back exploded in white-hot sheets of agony. The pain was so extreme it dropped him to the deck and he screamed out loud in a way he never thought he was capable of.

Fresh blood ran from his mouth and spattered onto the floor, mixing with hot tears that ran freely from his eyes. A wave of dizziness washed over his brain, and he slumped further downwards as he arms gave up in their task of supporting him.

So here he was, lying flat on the deck, his cheek pressed against a slick mixture of blood and freezing water, and he began to feel his mind drifting. Intellectually he knew this was the first step on the road to death. Emotionally he just wasn't interested, beyond a sort of detached curiosity as to how long the process would take. A half-formed thought appeared in his brain and presented itself for his attention.

Three-to-one three hours. Two-to-one it happens inside of five hours. I'll put a million pounds on it.

At least I won't have to pay up if I'm right.

He sniggered, and presently the sniggering became giggling, which segued neatly into laughter, and before he knew it he was roaring hysterically, curled in the foetal position and shaking with the effort of stopping his lungs leaving him forcibly. A fresh bout of coughing put an end to that, but he remained on the deck, chuckling weakly, tears running down his cheeks and blood dribbling down his chin. For a second even the pain was forgotten.

He didn't know why he was laughing like this. Maybe it was the acceptance of death. Whatever happened next he couldn't stop it. In truth he had probably been finished the moment the Superstorm had formed up in the Artic Circle. Maybe all they had done by getting on this ship was delay the inevitable, given themselves just a few more days of life that they didn't really deserve. Death was coming for him, and whether it came in a house buried beneath a hundred feet of snow in Aberdeen, or on the floating hulk of the James Clark Ross, it was all the same.

Come in number one-six-nine, your time is up.

His mind meandered back to his home, in Yorkshire. It was August. The sun was just above the horizon, in its final moments before descending for the day, and he bathed in its rich amber light. Behind his house on the outskirts of town, a dense wood grew along the path of a long-gone railway track. In summer, it was a dense, rich, practically primeval woodland, green and lush. It was a good place to get lost in, and he often did. He enjoyed it, being lost in a vast, sylvan environment with just the sounds of nature busily going on around him and the inside of his own mind for company.

But he wasn't there right now. Instead he was sat on the mock wrought iron bench on the back patio, positioned just right to bask in the light from the evening sun. Steaks and burgers were sizzling merrily away on an ancient, rusty barbeque. The coals were now burning redly, and smoke wound into the darkening sky. He had bottles of San Miguel Especial chilling in a bucket full of iced water, along with a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka and another of coke. He draped one hand over the side of the bench and let his fingers drift idly through the water before curling around the neck of a gloriously cold bottle of Spanish lager. He pulled it out, hearing droplets cascading from its body and rippling in the bucket.

He opened the bottle and brought the rim to his lips. Gorgeously chilled lager cascaded into his mouth. As he tilted his head back the setting sun dazzled him for a second, before a shape moved before it. He couldn't make out much, just a dark figure that seemed to tower above him. But this didn't scare him. He was reassured. He was back home, and back in time before the cold and the pummelling ocean. There was no infirmary, no broken bodies scattered throughout the ship, no trail of corpses leaving a grisly trail in their wake. There was just his home, and the woman he loved.

Tomorrow he was going back to Aberdeen. Back to Uni, and this time he was going to do it right, but before then there was just one more night where he was complete.

The last night.

And the summer had been perfection. And tonight was that one final union of two bodies; his, and the woman he knew he would spend the rest of his life with.

He was so wrong about these final moments lying on the deck of the battered infirmary. The blood that decorated the room, both dry and fresh was almost unreal here. The stink of vomit and sweat and fear and misery and loneliness were much less real than the perspiring bottle of lager. The feel of the warm body that he was his alone to have. The smiling, open face that drew closer to his. The soft warm lips that pressed against his own.

The bottle tumbled from his grip, but he never heard it land. There was nowhere for it to land. The world was fading, drifting, retreating, and darkness closed in around the two bodies, locked together for all time.

Not aware of anything very much at all, he closed his eyes and felt the all-encompassing blackness well up inside of him.

And then he smiled. It was all okay. At long, long last it was all okay.

In that one, perfect moment.

Forever.