Chapter 9: Psychological Warfare

The ship was groaning again. It had been doing that more frequently lately, or maybe I was just more attuned to it now, more aware of the eerie sounds that echoed through its rusted corridors and hollow spaces. I had been pacing the deck, my mind spinning in circles of paranoia and regret. Clyde had been missing for what felt like an eternity, and every creak, every shift of metal against metal, set my nerves on edge. But this time, the sound was different. It wasn’t just the ship’s usual settling. This was more rhythmic, almost like…a clanking. Something - or someone - was moving through the bowels of the Leviathan.

My heart skipped a beat. Could it be Clyde?

I stopped dead in my tracks, straining to listen, but the sound was elusive, bouncing off the ship’s piping and echoing through the dark, making it impossible to pinpoint its source. The clanking grew louder, followed by a low groan that sent a shiver down my spine. I took off running, my footsteps pounding against the metal floor, chasing the echoes through the ship’s labyrinthine passageways.

“Clyde?” I called out, my voice trembling. “Clyde, is that you?”

There was no response, just the persistent clanking, now accompanied by a faint, ragged breathing. It was coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once, as if the ship itself were alive, taunting me, playing some cruel game.

And then, I saw it - a hand, bruised and oily, lying limp on the floor just ahead of me. My breath caught in my throat as I rushed forward, my heart hammering in my chest. The hand belonged to an arm that was wedged in a doorway, keeping it slightly ajar. A warm wind blew in from outside, carrying with it the sound of the waves crashing against the hull. He’s been outside all this time, I thought, a sickening realisation washing over me.

“Clyde!” I shouted, dropping to my knees beside him. His face was pale, his lips cracked and dry, but it was the gash in his forehead that made my stomach turn. The wound was deep, and though it had been washed clean by the seawater, it was still raw, the edges jagged and angry. His clothes were drenched, clinging to his body like a second skin, and his hands - God, his hands - were swollen and pruned, the skin split and raw from being in the water for too long.

In his other hand, he held a rope, the frayed end trailing off the side of the ship. He still hadn’t let go of it, even now, as if it were his lifeline, the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“What in God’s name happened to you?” I muttered, my voice barely a whisper. I yelled for Slade, my throat hoarse, the panic rising in my chest. “Slade! Get over here! Help me!”

Slade appeared, his face a mask of confusion and fear as he took in the sight of Clyde’s battered body. Together, we lifted him, struggling under his dead weight, and it was only when we were up close that I saw the full extent of his injuries. The gash on his forehead was deep, but it hadn’t become septic, likely thanks to the saltwater. Still, he’d been out there for days, and the thought of what he had gone through - how close he must have come to drowning - made my blood run cold.

We carried him to one of the cabins, laying him down as gently as we could. His breathing was shallow, and his eyes flickered open for just a moment, enough to meet mine with a look that was both haunted and accusing. I could feel the weight of it, the unspoken question that hung between us: How could you let this happen?

As we tended to him, Clyde began to stir, his movements slow and deliberate, as if every motion caused him immense pain. He was alive, but barely, and it was clear that something inside him had broken - something far more critical than just his body.

It was later, when he had regained some strength, that the fight erupted. Clyde had been staring at Slade with a quiet intensity, his eyes dark and unreadable, and I knew something was coming. The tension between them had been building for days, maybe even weeks, but now it was like a dam had burst.

“Tell me,” Clyde said, his voice low and dangerous, “how come you didn’t find me?”

Slade froze, his face paling. “I…I had no idea where you were” he stammered, but there was a quiver in his voice that betrayed him.

“No,” Clyde said, shaking his head slowly. “No, you knew where I was. Because you fucking left me there.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the air thick with suspicion and fear. I watched as Slade’s face crumbled, the facade of calm shattering as the truth finally came spilling out.

“I’m so sorry,” Slade blurted, his voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to - God, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!”

Clyde’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenching. “What the fuck did you do?”

Slade was shaking now, his eyes darting between Clyde and me as if searching for a way out. “I was angry, okay? You were whistling that stupid tune, and it was driving me insane. So I threw a large spanner overboard. I didn’t think… I didn’t realise…” His words trailed off, his voice a broken whisper. “Your whistling stopped but when I looked down, I saw you, I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I thought you were dead, and I - I cut the rope. I’m sorry, Clyde. I’m so, so sorry.”

Clyde’s face was a mask of cold fury, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the bed. “You left me to die,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “You cut that rope and left me to drown like a goddamn rat.”

“I didn’t know you were still alive!” Slade cried, his voice desperate. “I thought - Jesus, I thought you were gone. I didn’t want to face it, didn’t want to see your body. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

But Clyde wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on Slade, and there was a terrifying calmness in his expression, a cold, calculated rage that sent chills down my spine.

“Right, forget it. We’re going to make this work… Help me with this,” Clyde said suddenly, gesturing to a large metal pipe that had been lying in the corner of the room. Slade hesitated, glancing at me for some kind of reassurance, but I was frozen, unable to move, unable to intervene in the chaos that was unfolding before me.

Slade nodded shakily and bent down to grab one end of the pipe. But as he did, Clyde’s hand shot out, gripping the other end with a force that made Slade gasp. And then, with a single, brutal motion, Clyde swung the pipe toward Slade’s head, the metal whistling through the air.

Slade barely dodged in time, the pipe smashing into the wall with a deafening clang. The fight that followed was a blur of violence and desperation, a chaotic dance of fists and metal that sent both men crashing through the room like wild animals. I watched from the corner, my heart pounding in my chest, a sick fascination rooting me to the spot.

This was it - the culmination of everything, the moment I had been waiting for, the final piece of my story. I could see it now, the perfect ending, the tragedy that would seal their fates and mine. As they fought, I could feel my detachment growing, the last vestiges of my humanity slipping away, replaced by a cold, clinical observation.

Clyde was running on pure adrenaline, his body a mess of injuries and exhaustion, but his rage gave him strength. Slade, on the other hand, was fighting for his life, the fear of death giving him a feral desperation.

I watched it all from a distance, the clanging of metal against metal reverberating through the ship, the sound almost surreal in the stillness of the night. The absurdity of it all wasn’t lost on me - two men fighting to the death over a mistake that never should have happened in the first place. But that was the nature of this world, this mad, broken world at the edge of the universe. It was a place where meaning was as fluid as the ocean, where the line between sanity and madness was as thin as a thread.

The fight moved toward the edge of the ship, the dark waters below churning like a black void, ready to swallow them whole. Slade, cornered and desperate, managed to get the upper hand, his face twisted in a mixture of fear and rage. And then, with a final, desperate shove, he sent Clyde over the edge.

Clyde’s scream was cut short as he hit the water, the splash echoing through the night like a gunshot. Slade stood at the edge, panting, his hands trembling as he stared down into the abyss. And then he looked at me, his eyes wide with a desperate need for absolution, for some kind of acknowledgement that what he had done was necessary, that he wasn’t the monster Clyde had painted him to be.

But there was nothing in me to give. I had already detached myself from the situation, from the men who had been my companions on this doomed voyage.

This was it. This was what I had been waiting for. The perfect tragedy, the perfect ending. All that was left was for me to disappear, to leave this place behind, to vanish without a trace, just as I had always planned.

Slade must have seen it in my eyes because he suddenly lunged toward me, a frantic look on his face. “Wait! What are you - ”

But it was too late. I turned and fled, disappearing into the bowels of the ship, leaving him alone with his guilt, with the ghost of Clyde haunting him, with the madness that I knew would consume him.

As I descended deeper into the ship, I could hear the sea roaring outside, the wind picking up, and a storm finally breaking. And in that chaos, in that final, violent crescendo, I knew that I had everything I needed for my last chapter - a chapter that would end with…