Make for the escape pods

The ship twisted and moaned around her as she fled, a creature in its own right.

Each step sent sharp cramps slicing through her abdomen, the unnatural weight inside her rebelling against the **** pace. Sweat poured down her face, soaked into the rough fabric of the jumpsuit, and still she **** her body forward.

Faster. You have to move faster.

The corridors blurred past in a nightmare smear of flickering lights and rust-stained walls.

She heard them before she saw them—wet footsteps, low murmurs, the scrape of ruined boots against metal.

Former crewmates.

Or what was left of them.

Their bodies were twisted by the infection—eyes black and empty, mouths slack with soft, gurgling moans. Patches of vine-like growth pulsed beneath their skin, their limbs jerking with unnatural tics.

One of them—a man she thought might have been the ship's medic—lurched from a side corridor, arms outstretched. His face was slack, but his movements were hungry.

With a strangled cry, she pivoted, nearly slipping on the slick floor. The cramp in her gut flared so sharply she stumbled, and the medic caught the sleeve of her jumpsuit, yanking hard.

The fabric tore with a sickening rip, baring her shoulder and part of her chest.

She ripped free, elbowing him hard enough to feel something snap beneath her strike. He crumpled with a wet grunt, but two more shambled into view, blocking the main path.

Heart hammering, she ducked into a maintenance tunnel, the narrow confines scraping against her exposed skin. A tangle of wires caught the torn edge of her jumpsuit and yanked it farther down, baring one breast to the freezing air.

Forget it—just RUN.

She stumbled onward, half-naked now, her body slick with sweat, grime, and the lingering remnants of the ship’s infection. Every heartbeat sent a visible tremor through her swollen abdomen, each cramp stronger than the last, as if something inside her grew impatient.

Behind her, the infected crewmates howled—wet, broken sounds of rage and longing.

The corridor dipped sharply, spiraling down toward the lower decks.

Ahead—a battered door flickering with the universal symbol for Escape Pod Bay.

Hope bloomed, fragile and ****.

She threw herself at the controls, slamming the override with bruised fingers. The door groaned, then began to slide open at a glacial pace.

Behind her, the infected were coming—staggering faster now, driven by some foul instinct to reclaim her.

Her muscles burned, her chest heaved, her broken clothing clung to her like a brand of shame.

Almost there.

Almost free.

The door opened just wide enough for her to squeeze through, wrenching her injured body into the pod bay beyond.

Inside, rows of small, battered escape pods lined the walls. Most were dark, dead... but one flickered faintly—still online.

She staggered toward it, the sound of shrieking crewmembers growing louder behind her.

With trembling hands, she slammed the pod’s hatch open and crawled inside, wrenching it closed just as clawed, bloodied hands slapped against the outside of the glass.

The ship's automated voice, calm and merciless, purred in her ears:

"Pod launch in 10 seconds."

The infected howled, battering the tiny vessel. Cracks spiderwebbed across the viewport.

The cramps in her belly deepened, twisting her into a fetal curl against the pod’s interior.

You’re not safe yet, some grim, broken part of her whispered.

You’re taking it with you.

But it was too late.

The pod shuddered—and blasted free.

She was flung backward into the seat, weightless for one agonizing moment, then sinking into the violent pull of escape.

Alone.

Broken.

Carrying the seed of a nightmare into the void.