The Cyclops



Dr. Sampson Keanner
Under the supervision of:
Lt. General Mikail Lipson
April 27, 2102
IVT 199776BLE-2102


Investigation of the U.S.S. Cyclops
Last seen March 4, 1918
Reappearance: April 22, 2102
Location: Baffin Bay, Arctic Ocean

    Samson paused after typing the last line.  He hadn’t stopped to question why the university was sending him with the Navy to investigate the ship.  He was a history professor not an investigatory specialist.  He had never been called to a site, not once in his entire profession.  He only traveled to give lectures and occasionally research the next book.  Now he was on a plane to the bitter coldness of Smith Sound, the only open waters that time of year in Baffin Bay, and he hadn’t the slightest inclination as to why.
    He was astonished that the Navy was flying him first class; he supposed it was their subtle apology for interrupting his summer vacation in much warmer climates.  As almost the only authority on 20th Century Naval disappearances it was obvious that the U.S. government intended to kiss up to him in any way possible for this one little favor.  Samson took a sip of champagne and continued with his report.

The U.S.S. Cyclops has been found floating at 78.25‘N  074.00‘W.  This is the first visit to the site since its recognition by a Canadian research team traveling overhead by aircraft.  The report describes the ship as almost or wholly intact, a perfect specimen of early 1900s design.

    This part was the real delight for Samson.  He had never had the opportunity to board such an iconic piece of naval history.  The last surviving vessel from the 20th century had sunk with the receding coastlines.  Soon its walls would be corroded by the sea.  However, he knew that he should have been contemplating how a nearly two hundred year old ship could reemerge in any type of identifiable condition.
    On April 23rd he had received an urgent message to report to the Jeffersonian Institute, he had only been on vacation for three days.  He was quite familiar with the history of this particular ship, but he was still confused as to why the Navy had allowed him to be privy to the supposedly classified information.  Everything was conducted under the strictest confidence.  No one outside the government had been informed of the ship’s reemergence.  No one had offered a guess as to how the ship resurfaced, not to mention why its remains had emerged so far away from its last known location.
    The Lieutenant General Lipson had informed Samson that the investigatory mission was of the utmost importance to the U.S. Government.  Samson had not been informed as to why.  He peeked up from his input device and glanced around the plane.  They would be landing at the site any time now and he decided to wait on his report until he had more information.
“Lieutenant Lipson, you’re going to have to give me some sort of an idea of what’s going on here.  If I’m going to classify the wreckage properly…”
“Wreckage? Oh, Dr. Keanner there is no wreckage.” The Lieutenant paused and looked out the window. 
    Below them Samson could see that they were approaching a massive vessel.  It was in perfect condition, almost as if it had just set sail from Bermuda less than a week before.  As the plane hovered and then landed on the water next to the ship, Samson could make out the clearly printed letters on the ship’s above water hull.
U.S.S. CYCLOPS.
    Samson put his device into his pocket and unbuckled his seat belt.  He guffawed at the pristine condition of the ship as he made his way through the windowed cabin.  Several Naval officers had already extended the walk pad and were boarding the Cyclops cautiously.  With the Lieutenant in the lead the team boarded the ship.
    The hull was in exceptional condition.  The deck looked like it had spent no time whatsoever underwater.  It was incredibly unlikely that the Cyclops had reemerged from the waves. 
Where had it been all this time? 
Samson urged himself to examine only the facts; there would be time for speculation later.  Once the main cabin’s door was pried open a strange and foul smell leaked from within the confines of the lower deck.
“Sewage?” Samson pinched his nose while forcing himself below deck.
“Doesn’t smell like sewage…” the Lieutenant barely had time to respond as soon it was abundantly apparent where the smell was coming from.
    The main cabin was plastered with a strange gooey purple substance emitting a faint glow.  Perhaps some form of phosphorescent bacteria had accumulated itself in the musky environment of the old ship.  The purple glow lit the cabin well enough for the team to fully examine their surroundings.  The tacky substance clung to every nook and cranny, along counter tops, plastering the ceiling.  In the far corner of the cabin Samson spotted a curious shape.
“Over there-” with flashlights in hand, the crew approached Samson’s discovery.
Bones. 
It was a pile of bones, not recognizably human.  Not recognizably any animal Samson was acquainted with.  They too glowed an eerie purple.  Badly decomposed flesh still clung to the majority of them; Samson knelt to recover a sample.  Using his flashlight as a probe Samson shifted the pile, a large angular bone protruded from the center.  It almost appeared to be a human femur, but the proportions were wrong.  As Samson poked and prodded the pile further a skull tumbled forward.  Definitely not human.  It was about the size of a beach ball.  Eight empty sockets stared back at Samson and a jagged jaw of filed teeth sneered at him menacingly.  The officers glanced to each other and readied their weapons.
“Where the hell has this girl been?” Samson did not take his eyes off of the skull; he knew his question would be perceived as rhetorical.
    As larger waves began to lap at the hull a faint trembling arose from the deck beneath their feet.  The odor seeping through the ship’s cracks grew to an unbearable stench.  The deck quivered and Samson had to stand to hold his balance.
“Let’s search the next cabin.” The Lieutenant seemed eager to get the investigation further under way.  Though the other officers appeared calm, Samson could make out their trembling hands in the dimly lit cabin.  A rustling sound echoed through the deck above them.  The team simultaneously glanced upwards, all of them sure that someone was above deck.  Heavy foot steps pounded through the ceiling above them, they were obviously not alone.
“Glassen.. Kansas, head up deck and see what’s going on up there.”  The Lt. barked the orders and the officers responded hesitantly. 
    Officer Glassen and Officer Kansas paced slowly upwards out of the cabin.  Samson waited with intense anticipation.  Soon the remaining crew could hear the officer’s footsteps on the deck above them.  The heavier footfalls had subsided.
“Who’s up there?” The Lt. demanded a response.  He was greeted by only more footsteps, “Kansas?  Glassen?  Respond!”
    Hearing only the light footfall of the unresponsive officers above them, Lipson ordered everyone above deck to investigate.  As the crew ascended the ladder sharp scuffling noises echoed down the walkway.  All seven of the remaining crew members reached the upper deck just in time to see the boots of Officer Kansas slip over the side railing and disappear into the thick fog that had suddenly surrounded the vessel.  Lipson ran to the officer’s aide only to find himself starring blankly into fog as thick as rice pudding.  The heavy thunk of something being dragged along the side of the ship bellowed up from the fog.  Samson rushed to the Lieutenant’s side just in time to see a grayish webbed claw poke out of the fog and then disappear again.
“What was that?” Samson backed away quickly from the edge of the ship.  Glassen was no where in sight and the crew, led by Lipson, frantically ran below deck once more.
“Let’s get to the bridge.  There should be some type of captain’s log there.” Samson sputtered as he fumbled through his pocket for his input device.  Once it had been retrieved he opened his blue print application and found a map of the U.S.S. Cyclops.  He pointed in the direction that the crew would need to head.
    Once inside the bridge Samson fumbled through the darkness hoping that any entrees left by the captain of the U.S.S. Cyclops would be as neatly intact as the ship itself.  More of the glowing purple substance was spattered against the darkened walls.  It was impossibly dark outside the cabin; the fog had set in so deeply that it was difficult to determine whether or not the sun had set.  Another loud set of footsteps echoed through the entirety of the ship.  This time they seemed to be emanating from the sides of the ship, something was climbing up the hull from the deep waters below.  Remembering the terrifying claw that everyone had seen dragging Kansas into the deep the officers readied their weapons once more.  The group huddled closer together, Samson still fumbling along the counters for any inclination as to what was going on aboard the old ship.
    A loud crash, like that of brittle bones cracking, closed in around them.  A slithering noise followed and then, other than the lapping waves, the vessel was silent again.
    Samson located the log.  He found a stack of notebooks near the navigation system and called one of the officers over to help shine some extra light for him to read with.

February 12, 1918
Coordinates: [Bermuda area]
    Several of the shipmates have reported seeing strange lights on the Horizon.  We left port more than four days ago and should be arriving back on U.S. soil within a week or so.  The weather has been accommodating although we have heard via radio that storms may be heading our way.  We picked up more Manganese Ore for munitions in Bermuda and will be caring the shipment back to the U.S….

    Samson scanned the document for anything off kilter.  Standard history texts aligned with the captain’s log as it appeared so far.  Samson read on eagerly, looking for something out of the ordinary.  Then, fifteen pages into the log, he found it.
February 20, 1918
Coordinates: [close to Maryland]
    Though we have had visual confirmation of our anchorage for the last twenty four hours, as we draw nearer to the shore it has become abundantly apparent that our equipment must have led us astray.  The coast of Maryland lies [coordinates] however, the shoreline is all wrong.  At 5 hundred this morning we encountered bizarre weather patterns.  A thick fog encapsulated this U.S.S. Cyclops, disrupting our navigation equipment, yet we weathered the storm completely unscathed and now the sea is steady again.  A chain of unrecognizable islands is present to our East, approximately at coordinates [look up].  No such land mass should be present if our navigation system is accurate.  We should be docking in Maryland within 72 hours.

    Samson flipped to the next page hoping to find the log collaborating with the date February 21.  Instead what he discovered were pages of hurriedly scrawled notes, not resembling any captain’s log Samson had ever encountered.

    “They’re everywhere.  We have barricaded ourselves aboard the U.S.S. Cyclops.  The officers who were immediately sent ashore have still not returned, nor do we expect them to.  To send a search party would be a suicide mission.  Dear Jesus, the things we have seen.  Large beasts, beyond size… unfathomable.  Strange towering buildings, not those of [city in Maryland, port] lay in ruins.  What has happened here….. May God save our souls.”

    This was the last entry of the U.S.S. Cyclops captain’s log.  Samson, having read this last section aloud, noticed the naval officers clearly growing uneasy.  Samson noted that it was amazing the log had survived for approximately 200 years, especially in the thick moisture of the bridge.  As Samson prepared to bag the log as evidence he noticed that the counter below him seemed to be quivering.  The table shook slightly in the calm sway of the ocean waves around them.  The Lieutenant stepped forward and brushed Samson aside.  Weapon raised he fumbled with the latch of the cabinet.  With slightly trembling hands he was able to undo the latch and open the door.  Inside was a sight no one had expected to see, even considering the unbelievable circumstances.
    It was a man, in a tattered 20th century Naval Officer uniform.  The man appeared to be nearly mummified, yet he was clearly moving ever so slightly in the beam of the flashlights.  His dried blackened lips curled away from exposed gums and teeth in an almost malicious snarl.  His arms had the consistency of venison jerky, spattered with more of the phosphorescent purple material.  The officers loomed in around the body, all with weapons drawn.  As the crew held the man with unbelieving eyes, Samson noticed that the man’s hands were twitching.
    “Is it… he, alive?” One of the officers looked to the Lieutenant for an answer.  Before anyone could respond the man’s eyes shot open.  Cloudy, blinded, but still those of a human being.  The eyes darted frantically back and forth and the man began to shake violently.  Samson rushed passed the officers and knelt beside the mummified man.  He shined the flashlight into the unblinking eyes.  The eyes darted about in an even more chaotic manner and the man’s dried lips and exposed teeth began to twitch and chatter.  The man’s jaw opened and closed as if the mummy were attempting to speak.  Almost every inch of the body was covered in an unsavory purple glow.
    “This man is alive…” Samson forced the sentence through his lips, even though he himself was not entirely sure that it was accurate.  The lieutenant leaned down next to Samson, he used his weapon to prod the tattered uniform and uncover a faded name tag.
    “It’s the captain.  Worley… but how?”  As the lieutenant said Worley’s name aloud, the man’s eyes began to blink rapidly.
    “Captain Worley?”  Samson noticed that there was a pattern to the mummy’s blinking.  He was attempting Morse code.  He blinked “yes” meanwhile his limbs jittered uncontrollably.   It was impossible.  A ship reappearing after all this time was unbelievable, but possibly scientifically explainable.  It could have been adrift at sea, or landlocked until receding coastlines lodged it free, all explanations were extremely unlikely, but more probable than a mummified 250 year old body communicating with them via Morse code.
    “We need to get this man safely aboard the plane.  Reiger.  Candice.”  The lieutenant motioned toward the two officers. “Get this man to the plane.  We’re getting him back to the mainland.”
    “Wait,” Samson waved his arms in front of the Lieutenant, “he’s attempting to tell us something.” Samson looked closely at the blinking eyes. “There’s something here.  He’s telling us there is someone else aboard the ship.”
    “Alright, men, stay here with the captain.  Samson and I will look around for any more…. Survivors.” The Lieutenant was hesitant to label this man as any type of survivor; he was only a stone throw from the grave as it was.
    Samson and the lieutenant scurried back up the hatch and onto the main deck.  The fog surrounding the Cyclops was still thick, but now the two men could see the tip of the plane they had arrived in.  Understanding that the vastness of the ship would make it difficult to search out and find any other survivors in a timely fashion, the Lieutenant informed Samson that they would give themselves one hour.  If nothing turned up, they would return to the crew and get the captain on the plane.  They could send an additional party to the Cyclops upon their return to the mainland.
    The two men walked steadily to the next cabin.  As the Lieutenant pried open the doors leading below, Samson stopped and knelt to the deck.
    “What is it?”
    “Scratch marks…” Samson traced his fingers against the indentations on the deck, “a fingernail…” He drew his hand back in surprise.
    “Someone’s fingernail?”
    “It looks as though someone was dragged from the bridge to this next cabin.  Look, the marks disappear through the door and below deck.”  As the two men conversed a sudden jolt shook the ship violently.  Another loud crack burst through the fog and the sound of rushing water flooded the lower deck.
    “We need to hurry.  I think the vessel is taking on water.”  The Lieutenant said.  As the two looked around, they realized that the once pristine condition of the ship was quickly deteriorating.  Rust had formed on the main towers and the railings.  Cracks sprawled across the deck and the once abundant purple glow had decreased to only a few sporadically placed splotches.  The Lieutenant intercommed his men below deck and informed them to get the captain aboard the plane as quickly and carefully as possible.
    Busting through the secondary cabin’s doors, Samson followed the scratch marks below deck.
    “Lieutenant, hurry!  I found something.”
    Another shriveled body was tucked under the stairs.  Upon approaching the body it became apparent to Samson and the Lieutenant that this man was not a survivor.  No purple glow was present and, aside from the clothing, a withered mummified skeleton lay coiled tightly.  Lying on the deck beneath it was a small notebook.
    Samson glanced over the mummy.  This man had also worn a crisp and shiny uniform initially, but now all that was left of the shirt and pants were small patches of decomposed cloth.  Samson plucked the notebook from the ground.  He looked to the Lieutenant and then began to read aloud from the single page entry.
    “We saw the light for the final time this morning.  It grew and grew, stretching from the horizon to the starboard bow of the ship. 
Then…
Nothing.
The black swallowed us up.  It was chaos, it was cold and then it was over.  It was unlike any storm I have ever experienced.  But other than some strange substance that seemed to have splashed aboard, the vessel was completely unscathed.  The Captain ordered that we prepare the ship for dockage.  Soon we were back in port, or at least we assumed.  The land was so different.  The port shined like the ore we were tasked with delivering.  We were greeted by no one.  The sky was dark, strange clouds hovered above our heads.  They were red, they seemed to be bleeding.  It was a thick red fog that encapsulated the land.  Several men went ashore.  At 1200 today they disappeared into the maze of bizarre rounded towers.  Some thought they were buildings, others convinced they were stationary spacecrafts of some massive design.  Everyone agreed, however, that this was not the Maryland we had once left port from.”
    Samson stopped reading.  This was the end of the last completely readable entry.  On the faded page below the entry were words scrawled in a thick red ink.  Samson guessed it may have been wax, or something methodically more sinister.  Samson read the only intelligible sentences aloud to the Lieutenant
    “It’s the purple glow.  Something we picked….” Samson couldn’t make out most of the line save for the last few words, “the storm, it’s working as a conductor.” 
    Samson shook his head, unsure of what the sentence meant.  His unease had now fully escalated to frantic terror.  The purple glow, it was strong when they had arrived on the ship, the captain was still covered in it.  But the ship’s deck had been completely clear when he had noticed the scratch marks.  Utterly free of the glow, yet increasingly more deteriorated.  And now the ship was clearly taking on water.  The extreme whooshing noises from below were now at bellowing heights.  Samson forced himself to read the only other sentences he could decipher.
    “I went ashore.  Oh God, it’s home.  But it’s not.  Monstrous demons are everywhere.  Some fly, others walk the land.  The buildings are in ruin, human remains lay in intermittent charred ash everywhere.  No power, it’s dark.  See the numbers 2109 every where.  Is this the year, is this the future?  How did we get here?  A beast the size of an elephant emerged from the fog, tens of rubbery pitchforks, the color and consistency of oil, dripped from its sides and extended ferociously towards me.  Ran back to the Cyclops……” and then at the bottom of the page, “Two have gotten into the ship, hands so large, webbed with claws.  They have laid eggs in the steam house.  We have set sail to freezing waters to perish at sea; it is our final duty for the country we serve.  We will not let them get back to our time.”
    Samson and the Lieutenant had remembered the hand that had dragged Kansas into the thick mist below.  Samson snatched the notebook and darted back above deck.  The Lieutenant followed.  Now the upper deck was in frightening disrepair.  Large bits of the deck had decomposed so badly that the two found it almost impossible to make it back to the plane.  The fog was lightening and it was obvious that the rest of the crew had also made it aboard their rescue vehicle.  Just as the Lieutenant and Samson dashed aboard the plane, a massive crack jarred through the entirety of the ship’s deck, fracturing the U.S.S. Cyclops briskly in half.  Within minutes the ship had taken on enough water that both ends of the vessel towered vertically and then dipped below the waves into the icy waters below.
    As the plane traveled high over Canada, several medics rushed to the Captain’s aide.  The flesh that had been left intact was now in advanced stages of purification, yet his eyes were still blinking frantically.  Samson had been examining the jarred specimen of the strange purple bacteria when he noticed the captain’s rapidly fading condition.  He rose from his seat and leaned over the nearly deceased 250 year old naval captain.  The man’s blinking occurred too quickly to fully interpret but Samson could make out a few words.

It is the purple.
It is the conductor.
Transporting them to our time.
This is our future.

Then the captain’s eyes desiccated into dust followed shortly by the rest of his skeleton.
Then Samson’s hand began to itch.  The purple had eroded the glass jar and sprawled upwards along his right arm.  Then the present quickly propelled itself forever into the forewarned unavoidable future.