(As told by survivors of the incident)
Interview with Sergeant Michael Barnes, U.S. Coast Guard (Ret.)
I was stationed off the coast of New York, near Montauk Point, when we got the call. At first, it sounded routine. A cargo ship, the Herald of Night, had gone silent. No radio contact, no distress signals—just dead air. That’s the kind of thing that makes your stomach turn, but it happens sometimes. Ships lose power, or their radios fail. You don’t assume the worst.
But this one? Something was off.
We approached in our cutter, the James Harp, just before dusk. The sun was dipping low, and the ocean was this calm, glassy expanse. We could see the Herald on the horizon, drifting slowly. No signs of movement on deck, no lights, nothing. Just this hulking, black shape against the fading light.
The first thing we noticed when we got closer was the smell. Saltwater has its own stink, you get used to that, but this was something else. Rotten. Like decaying meat left out in the sun for too long. We put on our respirators right away, even before boarding.
Once we boarded, the real nightmare began. The crew was… gone. Not dead, not missing, just gone. We searched every inch of that ship, from the bridge to the engine room, and there wasn’t a single soul on board. But there was blood. Smears on the walls, handprints, bloody trails leading to nowhere. I’ve seen a lot of ugly things in my time, but this was different. It felt... deliberate.
The cargo hold was our last stop. That’s where we found it. This black sludge, thick and gelatinous, coating the entire floor like a spilled oil slick. At first, we thought it was fuel, maybe a leak from one of the containers, but it moved. I swear to God, it moved, like it had a life of its own. It pulsed, shifted, and as we watched, tendrils of the stuff began to reach out, like it was searching.
We backed up fast, radioed for extraction. I didn’t care what protocol said—whatever that thing was, it wasn’t natural. As we waited for the chopper, one of the guys, Petty Officer Ramirez, got too close. He was just trying to check the perimeter when one of those tendrils shot out and latched onto his boot. In seconds, it was climbing up his leg, consuming him. His screams… they didn’t stop until he was nothing but bones.
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We barely made it off that ship. I still don’t know what it was. The Coast Guard marked the Herald as lost at sea. But that thing? It’s still out there, waiting.
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Interview with Dr. Evelyn Tsu, Marine Biologist
I was brought in as part of a government team after the Herald of Night incident. The official report classified it as an "unidentified biological hazard." But that doesn’t even begin to cover it.
When we got the samples, they were still active. Imagine that—something as simple as exposure to air should have killed it, but it survived. Not only survived, but thrived. We watched it under controlled conditions, but that sludge—what we called the "Black Tide"—reacted like a predator. It moved toward warmth, toward living tissue, like it was feeding.
The cells were... alien. I don’t mean that in the sci-fi sense, but biologically, there’s nothing like them on Earth. They multiplied rapidly, regenerating even when we tried to destroy them. Fire, chemicals, even freezing temperatures—none of it worked.
The more we studied it, the more I realized this wasn’t some random accident or natural phenomenon. The Black Tide wasn’t just some mutation. It had intent. It was looking for something. Or worse, it was waiting.
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Interview with Captain Laura Maddox, U.S. Navy (Ret.)
I was in command of the quarantine effort, which we initiated the moment we confirmed the Black Tide's presence. You know the drill: containment zones, no-fly zones, restricted waters. We set up shop around the Herald of Night, waiting for the order to destroy it completely. But by then, the Tide had already spread.
The first incident came from a fishing trawler off Long Island. One of the crew members had taken a dinghy to salvage supplies from the wreck. He didn’t know what he was walking into. A week later, that entire fishing village was gone. Not dead—gone. Houses were empty, boats drifting, no bodies.
After that, the Black Tide started showing up in more places: isolated islands, coastal towns, even inland lakes. It was like it could travel beneath the surface, through cracks in the seabed or underground rivers. No place was safe.
We were helpless. Every time we tried to engage, it slipped away. And every time, it came back stronger, more aggressive. The last mission I led was off the coast of New Jersey. We thought we had it contained—air support, ground units, the works. But the Tide overwhelmed us. We watched as our own ships sank beneath the weight of it, as the men screamed, fighting to get free. I barely escaped with my life.
After that, the brass called it quits. They withdrew all forces and let the Black Tide have its way. It’s still out there. Growing. Adapting. And one day, it’s going to come for us all.
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Final Report from the CDC
The Black Tide is classified as a Level-5 Biohazard. All attempts to eradicate it have failed. The spread has been slowed, but not stopped. It is not a question of if it will make landfall again, but when.
Prepare accordingly.