I hauled meself up slow-like, ma legs wobblin' like a newborn foal's, the shock from the helicopter crash still poundin' through ma skull. The platform shuddered under me, echoes o' the explosion ringin' in ma ears, and smoke billowed up from below like the breath o' some infernal beast. Flames licked at the edges o' the rig, castin' flickerin' shadows that danced mad across the deck. "This is hell," I thought, ma mind reelin'. "Pure hell. Most o' ma mates deid or missin', monsters roamin' the place like it's their own bloody playground. What did we unleash?" I steadied meself on the railin', the cold metal bitin' into ma palms, and staggered doon the stairs back inside the rig. Nae way was I goin' ootside again – nae wi' that fog and whatever lurked in it. This side o' the structure was quieter, but that didnae mean safer; the corridors stretched oot empty, lit by sputterin' emergency lights that buzzed like angry wasps.
Deep inside, the air was thick wi' the stench o' burnin' plastic and oil, makin' ma eyes water. I pressed on, boots echoin' soft on the grated floor, when a shrill ring cut through the silence – a phone, ringin' insistent from a nearby room. I froze, heart leapin' into ma throat. Who the hell could that be? I crept toward the door, pushin' it open careful-like. It was one o' the comms rooms, consoles flickerin' faint, and the phone on the desk trilllin' away. I snatched it up, pressin' it to ma ear. "Hello? Who's this?"
"Scot? Thank Christ, it's Ray! What the fuck happened oot there? I heard the crash – the whole rig shook like a quake!"
I leaned against the wall, relief mixin' wi' dread. "Ray, ye big lump, ye're alive. The chopper... it got hit by somethin' from the sea, went doon in flames. We're stuck here, pal – nae evac, nae way off. It's chaos."
Ray's voice crackled, heavy wi' fear. "Stuck? Aye, well, there's the emergency boats doon under the rig – lifeboats, ye ken? If ye can get to 'em, maybe we can make a break for it."
"I'll try, mate. Hold tight – I'll come for ye if I can." I disconnected, the line goin' dead wi' a click, but nae sooner had I set it doon than it rang again, jarrin' me. I answered quick. "Ray? What now?"
"Nae Ray, it's Finlay! Scot, I managed to escape that generator room – snuck oot when the shakes opened a vent. I'm headin' up the pontoon now, tryin' to get topside."
"Finlay, ye mad bastard! Watch yerself if ye go on deck – Wiley's oot there, turned into some tentacled horror. Dinnae let him catch ye!"
"Aye, I'll be careful. Stay alive, Scot." The line went quiet as I hung up, ma mind racin'. Emergency boats? Pontoons? Maybe there was hope yet. I left the room, steppin' back into the corridor, the dim lights castin' long shadows that made every corner feel like a trap.
Further doon, the ceilin' had collapsed in a heap o' twisted metal and wires, sparks dancin' and a fire cracklin' hungry across the debris, blockin' the way. "Bloody hell," I muttered. Lucky for me, a fire extinguisher was mounted on the wall nearby, its red canister gleamin' like a beacon. I yanked it free, pullin' the pin and blastin' the flames wi' a whoosh o' foam, the fire hissin' and dyin' oot in puffs o' smoke. The path was still a ruin, but I dropped to ma hands and knees, crawlin' under the wreckage, shards scrapin' ma back and the heat lingerin' like a bad memory.
On the other side, I reached another room – more fire here, lickin' at the walls, and panels ripped apart like paper, great gashes where somethin' powerful had torn through. The air was acrid, chokin', and I coughed hard. To avoid the main corridor – just in case more o' those beasts were lurkin' – I slipped into one o' the adjoinin' rooms, a storage closet or summat, and started movin' room to room through connectin' doors. In one, the floor was smeared wi' blood, long streaks like someone had been dragged along, fightin' all the way. "Did someone survive this?" I wondered, a chill runnin' down ma spine. "Or is this just what's left?"
Then, from the forecast room ahead – a wee office for weather charts – another phone rang, insistent and piercin'. I pushed in, grabbin' it. "Who is it?"
"Scot... it's Scoob," came a whisper, scared and shakin'. "I survived... but somethin's in the walls. Huntin' me... and whoever's left. It's comin' – "
The line cut oot abrupt, static buzzin' in ma ear. "Scoob? Scoob, ye there? Answer me, ye wee nyaff!" Nothin'. I slammed the receiver doon, paranoia creepin' in like the fog outside. Somethin' in the walls? Huntin'? I stepped back into the corridor, walkin' slow, head swivellin' left and right, every creak makin' me jump.
I headed doon a set o' stairs, the steps clangin' under ma boots, when a crash exploded behind me – the wall smashin' open in a shower o' debris. I spun round, and there he was: Douglas, or what the bastard had become. He was massive now, his head swollen like a bloated pumpkin, veins pulsin' black, and tentacles sproutin' from his torso, carryin' him forward wi' wet slaps. His eyes glowed feral, mouth twistin' in a snarl. "Youuu... fired... now... deid!"
"Shite!" I bolted doon the stairs, legs pumpin', leapin' three at a time. Douglas's tentacles lashed oot, grazin' ma heel, but I dove through a gap in the wall where the structure had buckled, emergin' into a side passage. He roared behind me, smashin' after, but I didnae look back.
I burst into the toilets, gaspin', the door slammin' shut. But the sight inside stopped me cold: one o' the lads – couldnae even tell who – impaled on a jagged pipe, his body disassembled into pieces by tentacles and writhin' flesh, limbs torn and scattered like broken dolls, blood paintin' the tiles in gruesome streaks.