The Bizarre Detective Agency

Chapter 405: Survival

Cough... cough... The sound echoed through the cramped hold.

"This damned... cough... cold," Oliver muttered. Soaked to the bone, he huddled in a corner, wrapping his arms around himself. He had on only a single shirt and was trembling violently.

He felt as if he'd stumbled into an ice cellar. The surrounding metal radiated an unbearable cold, and he'd nearly lost all sensation in his legs.

The oil lamp before him offered only meager warmth. The heat his palm felt as he held it near the flame seemed almost illusory.

Oliver was trembling—from the cold, not from fear.

It was safe here. Eerie ficus trees lined the river, and Oliver had witnessed how they dispatched anyone foolish enough to disturb them. Like hundreds of snakes, they would entwine their prey, constricting and piercing flesh to drain the very life from it... No monster would dare approach this place, except for the ones already guarding it.

"But... but... it's... like a frozen hell in here," Oliver stammered, his teeth chattering as he scanned the hold.

The space had likely once served as crew quarters, but there was no trace it had ever been lived in. All that remained were the bare iron frames of bunk beds, stripped of mattresses and blankets. Otherwise, Oliver, chilled to the bone, could have at least found something to dry himself with and wrap up in.

The rusty, flaking walls were reminiscent of seaside cliffs. The single round porthole was blocked with Oliver's coat, a meager attempt to avoid attracting the attention of whatever lurked outside.

Oliver sniffled; his nose had gone almost completely numb. He didn't need a mirror to know it must be as red as a clown's.He had managed to endure the icy hold for about fifteen minutes before his nose started to clog and his cough grew worse.

Oliver understood what was happening—he was getting sick.

Getting sick in the heart of a swamp was a death sentence. He could lose his strength, slip into a coma, and simply die, unaware of his own end.

On top of that...

Oliver glanced down at his shoulder. It was hard to see the wound clearly in the gloom, his own nose obstructing his view, but when he touched it, his fingers came away slick with a sticky, mucus-like fluid.

The wound was festering.

Maybe the bone knife had been cursed...

Lost in grim thoughts, Oliver found he could no longer sit still. He knew that inaction would lead to a miserable end, so he gritted his teeth and forced himself to his feet.

The ship was probably safe. He might be able to find warm clothes, food... maybe even medicine...

A flicker of hope for survival drove Oliver to push open the creaking cabin door. Oil lamp in hand, he started down the dark corridor, the echo of his footsteps mingling with the gurgle of the stream outside.

Oliver had once worked as a sailor for a few weeks, but unfortunately, seasickness had forced him to abandon life on deck.

He knew where to find the most valuable items—in the first-class cabins and the captain's quarters on the upper deck.

But his goal now was survival, not treasure. He had no intention of going up—at least, not yet.

From the looks of it, this was an ocean liner, which explained the rows of doors lining the corridor. Oliver couldn't fathom how such a massive vessel had ended up deep in a swamp, but he was certain it had been empty of passengers on its final voyage. Otherwise, on a ship this rusty—one that had clearly been here for at least a decade—he would have found human remains.

To conserve his strength, Oliver bypassed the cabins, heading instead for the galley or the dining hall, which ought to be on this deck.

The dining hall would be easier to find; designed to seat over a hundred people, it was bound to be large and conspicuous.

The reddish-brown walls, corroded by layers of rust, made the corridor feel like the innards of some gargantuan beast.

Creeping silently down the lower deck corridor, Oliver found the dining hall fairly quickly, guided by a barely legible plaque on the wall.

The dining hall looked like a tavern in disarray. Tables and chairs were heaped on the left side of the room amid shattered dishes and bottles, as if the ship had once listed violently to one side.

Oliver didn't hope to find any delicacies. The ship had been abandoned for at least fifteen years! Any food left for that long would have... turned into...

Well, Oliver had seen his share of spoiled food, but never anything that had been sitting for fifteen years. He and Joan usually scavenged for something a little "fresher."

Entering the dining hall, Oliver headed toward where the galley should be, but as he drew closer, a sense of unease washed over him.

On the rotted floorboards, he saw clothes, shoes, and discarded suitcases strewn about... Things that shouldn't be on an empty ship...

Could the belongings have been the crew's?

Oliver fought down the rising panic, telling himself not to jump to conclusions. He pushed open the door to the galley.

The sound of the stream grew louder, filtering in through a breach in the hull.

The tense silence was broken, and Oliver, feeling a little calmer, stepped inside.

He tried to ignore it, but there were bones scattered among the belongings, just as there had been in the dining hall. Cow bones, sheep bones, pig bones... and others he couldn't identify.

Oliver groaned.

The ship had passengers when it went down...

Thinking back to the rows of cabins he'd passed, Oliver felt his limbs go stiff.

And there had been a lot of passengers.

Oliver was afraid to turn around, certain that silent shadows were standing right behind him at the galley entrance.

He didn't know if he should turn. He told himself it was just his imagination, but at the same time, he could have sworn he heard someone breathing.

After several long minutes, Oliver slowly, deliberately, turned around. Everything was exactly as it had been.

Oliver took a few deep breaths. Not daring to linger, he snatched a few sealed cans from a cupboard, grabbed his lamp, and scrambled back to his cabin at the end of the hall.

The door slammed shut behind him. The cans clattered to the floor, rolling across the hold.

Panting, Oliver wiped his forehead—he couldn't tell if it was cold sweat or just water. He took a few steps into the room, then spun back around, his eyes fixed on the door.

A minute passed. Then another. Only when the flush of adrenaline faded and the bone-deep chill returned did Oliver finally allow himself to believe that nothing was chasing him.

After that first venture, Oliver was less afraid to explore the ship.

He forced himself not to think about what had happened to the passengers. He returned to the dining hall, muttered a prayer for their souls, and gathered what dry clothes he could from the suitcases. In the galley, he found kerosene and coal. He took the rest of the canned food and returned to his sanctuary.

He didn't dare disturb the cabins lining the corridor. The rows of doors, like tombs, reminded him of the ficus forest beyond the hull.

He closed the door, leaving just a crack for ventilation. Then he approached the pile of coal, doused it with kerosene, and with a trembling hand, struck his last match.

The blooming fire brought with it warmth and hope. Oliver finally relaxed, sinking to the floor before it.

Now, he didn't have to simply wait for death.