Closed

Closed.

Not a word generally considered ominous but when it’s written on the airlock leading to the last escape pod it takes on a bit more sinister undertone. There was a whoosh.

Update: formerly connected to the last escape pod.

The whoosh, that’s what kills me—I mean metaphorically—literally it’ll probably be the pirates that kill me though directly or indirectly remains to be seen. But for now it’s the whoosh that’s killing me. I mean there’s no sound in space. You understand that right? So where the hell did that whoosh come from? I’ll tell you where. It came from Dolbe 7.8 S.F.D sound system, finest sound recreation in the universe. And they’re using it to make a whoosh sound as they launch the last escape pod, a solitary parting whoosh to signal my death. Dicks.

You know it doesn’t whoosh on the other side. It’s only here in the hallway. Someone sat down in a meeting and decided that when the life pods launch there should be a sound effect for any poor bastard on the wrong side of the door when it shuts.

There’s pounding coming down the hall now. This sound isn’t courtesy of dolbe. This sound is all real. It’s the pirates in their heavy armored boarding suites banging their way towards me. Probably attracted by the goddamn whoosh sound.

I could force open both ends of an airlock but that would only annoy them and kill me. Bad Plan but there’s less than a minute to come up with a better one. So what I do is less of a plan and more of panic flailing in the general direction of a plan.

I crammed a nearby space suit into the airlock and slam the big, red button for emergency egress.

The door nearly shut itself on my arm. Woosh.

Fuck you door.

While the airlock depressurized I climbed into the now empty spacesuit locker. It’s got to let at least some of the atmosphere out otherwise when the door on the other side opens any poor sap in the airlock would be blasted away from ship like they were shot out of a cannon.

Whoosh. The door opened. They even whooshed the outside door those bastards. Now when the pirates come in they’ll see the suit floating through the window rather than me hiding in this locker and go out after it.

Whooshful thinking anyway.

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About tomkray

Tom Kray is a writer, gentleman adventurer, and the resident zombie expert (wherever he happens to be residing at the time). He believes in the oxford comma. He believes that terrible decisions make great stories and he could tell you a bit about both. He’s headstrong and a little daft but has a good heart and bounces when he hits the ground, which is fortunate as he does tend to trip over his own feet a lot. He has a history of applying percussive maintenance with moderate success.
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