Dr. Keane ran into one of his examination rooms and shut the door. His heart was thumping, an old engine trying to keep up but the parts were aged and worn out. Every breath caused his sternum to ache. His shoulders hunched forward, thin like a coathanger. His skin was pale, purple veins striking through like the roots of a sick tree. He was old, but he seemed to have aged ten more years in the last few days. Hell, he didn't even feel alive anymore. Consider him a walking corpse, a shell of who he once was. Slivers of muscles stretched from joint to joint, allowing his skeleton to stay in motion.

He turned toward the examination table and grabbed it by the foot of the bed. He was able to pull the table an inch before his back felt like it would snap in two. He rested on one arm and took a breath. He moved to the head of the examination table instead. There was just enough room between the table and the wall for someone to sit with their knees to their chest. Dr. Keane crawled between the space until he was on the ground. With what flexibility he had left, he brought his knees up and placed both of his feet against the wall, his shoes leaving bloody prints on the white paint. He closed his eyes and harnessed as much strength as he could and then pushed off the wall. His quads flexed, becoming rigid beneath his slacks. His bottom lifted from the ground and his back pressed into the examination table. His muscles bulged from his neck, thin wires supporting what was left of his leathered, swollen head.

The examination table began to slide. Dr. Keane continued to push until the table was blocking the door. When he couldn't push anymore, his body went limp, his back crashing into the floor. His chin rested against his chest, neck bent against the table. His skin was damp, the kind of sweat that didn't drip, thick and clinging to his body. He felt like an oven, every organ was in overdrive.

Reaching up for the corner of the table, he pulled himself to his feet like someone learning to walk for the first time. Everything comes full circle. I'm exiting this world the same way I came in. Using both hands, he pushed the examination table a bit further to completely block the door. Moving to the front of the table, Dr. Keane seated himself against the drawers. Nothing will get in now. But more importantly, nothing will get out.

"It's better this way," Dr. Keane said to himself. "It's what's best."

Moments before, Dr. Keane had just closed his office. He had a few appointments in the evening—follow-ups with crewmembers that came in contact with the body—but they never showed. After giving them some time, he closed the office and headed back to his cabin for the night. He felt terribly ill. His head was pounding and he felt drained. He needed to sleep. He needed to sleep for days. But something kept telling him he wasn't just tired, that this wasn't just the flu. He thought of the body they found in the ocean, head completely ripped off from the impact. He thought of the crew and Tom Miller that hauled the body onboard and the headaches that followed. He thought of William Reeds' melted face from the flare gun, his brain matter exploded across the engine room. And then he began connecting the dots with the mysterious lesions. Dr. Keane reached back to feel his own, swollen and sensitive to touch, running along his spine. How were the rest of the crew? How was Tom? Would Dr. Keane soon find himself in the same unbearable pain, one so bad he would rather choose to end his life?

Dr. Keane had walked across the main deck, the sky purple as ever. It brought a smile to his face. No matter how awful things felt, there was always some good he could find in the world. Well not for everyone. He passed a woman and a man. They were yelling at each other. Dr. Keane couldn't catch the entire conversation but what he did hear was the woman yelling that she couldn't marry him. The man grew quiet after that. What could someone say to those words? The man walked away from the woman, turning toward a flight of stairs, while she leaned against the railing, looking out across the ocean.

But something stopped Dr. Keane in his tracks. Screams and lots of them. They were coming from the theatre. What was tonight's show? A hell of a thrilling performance, Dr. Keane guessed. But he knew that was wrong. He knew those screams were different. He could feel the terror emanating from them, the horror clawing at his chest, sending his heart racing. He turned, seeing the woman heading to the theatre, and followed closely behind her. Then the people started spilling out like water breaking through a dam. Red water.

People and blood, those were the two things he took in. Everyone emptied the theatre and trampled out onto the deck. Dr. Keane pushed through the crowd, moving against every bone in his body. He watched the woman get knocked to the ground and he decided to move along the wall instead. Dr. Keane was a bit more fragile than she was at her age. The screams cut through his mind like a knife, magnifying his headache to an incredible scale, his body almost collapsing under the pain. He held onto the wall for a few seconds until the searing feeling subsided.

He looked through the theatre doors, trying to catch glimpses as they opened and closed. Then he saw something that connected the final dot in his mind. The body, the crew, Tom Miller, the headaches, the lesions—his face went pale. A lifetime of experiences never prepared Dr. Keane for what he saw. A man approached the theatre doors, his legs and limbs moving as if wading through molasses. From his neck came not a head, but a storm of tentacles. They swung and twirled in the air, reaching for people and tearing their limbs apart. A man crawled toward the theatre doors and the creature reached out with its long tentacle and dragged him away. Dr. Keane ran his fingers along the back of his neck, the lesion now scabbed but the pain as fresh as ever. The headache seemed to worsen. He knew he would soon be walking around like some great tentacle beast.

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Dr. Keane started moving with the crowd. Some people immediately headed for the lifeboats, others went back to their cabins to gather their belongings. Dr. Keane headed back to his office, it was significantly closer than his cabin. His headache grew heavier with each step, his body grew wearier. He knew what was to become of him. The thing was in him. Feeding on his brain. Feeding on what makes him human until he was no longer one. He was a host and he was a threat to others. When did the creature slip inside of him? Has he caused it to spread to others? I can't remember a thing. It's taken a hold of my mind, my memories. That thing. It came down in the crash. It came from space.

Dr. Keane would lock himself inside one of the examination rooms, where it was safer for everyone else. Where the creature couldn't get out. It was better that way. It was safer that way.

And now Dr. Keane sat against the examination table, blocking the door into the room. No one could enter. No one could exit. Now he would wait. Wait for the pain to get worse. Wait for it to be unbearable. Wait for it to maybe go away. Maybe he was overreacting. No, it's in me. I feel it, I hear it inside my head. He could take medication to ease the pain. He knew what doses could cause him to slip away if he wished. But would it let him slip away? Or would his body continue to move against his will? An empty vessel with no other purpose but to feed until there was nothing left to give. Then it would spread to someone else and feed on them too. Not in this room.

Hours passed and Dr. Keane sat in the same spot against the examination table. He was clutching his head, a puddle of sweat forming beneath him. The pain only worsened. He knew then the pain wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. He dry swallowed some painkillers, the same ones he gave Tom, but they had no effect. The pain was so excruciating the only way to stop it would be to slip from consciousness. And he felt like he would several times already.

Dr. Keane looked to his watch. The sun would be rising soon and then the ship would be lit up in all its bloody glory. Bodies would be littered across the ship. Countless people would be infected. This creature, this alien, reproduces or even multiplies at an incredible rate, far beyond the speed of any living organism on earth. After millions of years, the state of life on earth is still primitive in comparison. Our bodies are no match for such a thing. Perhaps our minds, but even then...

Flashes of white light. That's what Dr. Keane started seeing as the pain magnified, pulsing out from the center of his skull. It felt like an infection brewing in his head, causing his brain to swell, filling with puss and blood until it popped like a pimple. A pain so concentrated, a pain so real, Dr. Keane felt it had manifested a physical form. He reached out as if to swat it away, but his arm went limp after the attempt.

Steps. Did he hear footsteps? A voice. Someone speaking. Just outside the door. And something dragging on the floor, just outside the examination room. Dr. Keane lifted his ear curiously, trying to hear anything. But it went quiet. No more steps. No more of that dragging. Then he heard something else, the door handle. It twisted and released. Twisted again. The door moved slightly but was blocked by the examination table. Dr. Keane pressed his back against the table, holding the door shut. It's not safe, he wanted to shout. But what if they too were infected. What if it was the creature? It was too risky. Way too risky.

The handle released. Dr. Keane had a few seconds to relax before something slammed into the door from the other side. The examination table shifted. Dr. Keane scrambled on the ground to inch the table back against the door. The thing outside rammed into the door even harder, but this time Dr. Keane was pushing back. The table didn't budge and the door hadn't opened enough to peek in.

Whatever was on the other side of the door began moving. He heard the footsteps again and that dragging. Dr. Keane pictured the lifeless corpse walking, tentacles dragging a body behind it. It moved toward the other examination room and everything grew quiet. It was another ten minutes until he heard the steps leaving the office. Was it waiting for me? Was it hoping I would open the door and welcome it in? I'm already a dead man, but I'd rather be a host than a victim.

Regret immediately rushed over Dr. Keane as the pain worsened, so bad he could barely open his eyes. He started hitting himself in the head to make it stop. Perhaps this pain could ease another. If he hit his head hard enough, maybe the pain on the outside would help him forget the pain on the inside. He crawled across the floor until he was before a counter, reaching up for the bottle of painkillers. He popped the orange bottle open and emptied it into his mouth, his teeth mashing through bitter white pills, chalky and crumbling beneath his teeth.

The pain quickly became bearable. Then he couldn't feel much at all. His breathing was short. His vision was fading. His body was cold. But the pain was gone. He reached up onto the counter and grabbed his notepad and pen. He should share what he knows about the creature. He should leave something behind.

He brought the tip of the pen to the paper and froze. Dr. Keane was gone. But the thing inside was not.