Insides
For the third time that day, Andie leaned over a bucket and half-coughed, half-vomited vile black gunk. The doctor waited until she finished then handed her a washcloth to wipe her mouth, taking the bucket away.
Andie lay back in the bed, shivering, her mouth sour.
Black smoke filled the house. She can't see, can't breathe. But she has to find them.
"Mom!"
Andie squeezed her eyes shut and then wished she hadn't, for it made the memory all the sharper.
She can't find them. The house was empty except for smoke. Then… her shoes slid on something wet, something dark and spreading in a puddle. She ran out of the house and nearly tripped on the body of Macbeth, resting as if asleep on the steps of her prefab colonial home.
The batarian that killed him is standing in front of her, four black eyes staring at her.
Andie felt her stomach convulse again. Only a little of the black stuff came out this time and she wiped it away with the cloth she still had in her hand.
Dad, Mom, Erik, Gabby, baby Isaac. Gone. All of them.
Erik shouldn't have even been on Mindoir, but he'd come home to surprise them for the Founding holiday. She could still hear his voice shouting at her to get to the safe house. Every colony had one, intended mostly for colonists whose flimsy prefabs might not withstand rough weather. No one thought they'd ever have to hide from anything. Who would attack a peaceful farming colony?
But in the end it hadn't mattered. Erik's face had started burning as she watched, the skin turning black and cracking until his insides were outside—
"Would you like to sleep now?" The ship's doctor was at her bedside again. SSV Einstein. That's where she was.
Andie looked at her silently. Sleep? No, she would never sleep again, because every time she closed her eyes, the images replayed on the back of her eyelids.
"H-have you found my aunt?" she asked instead.
The doctor nodded. "The captain spoke with her, and she's agreed to meet the Einstein at Arcturus. We should be there in a few days."
Andie nodded, but in reality she wondered if she would last that long. She felt as her family must have: bleeding out happiness, contentment, everything good and wonderful until nothing but empty veins and slack muscles remained.
A husk. That was a good word for her now: a dry vessel that used to contain something bright and good, now crumpled and hollow.