The scream still echoed faintly by the time people started moving.
"Shit! Get him out, get him out!" one of the crew yelled, fumbling at the side of the rope rig.
**Clank** **Whirr—clack** The winch activated with a mechanical groan, yanking the rope upward in rapid spurts.
Charles turned slightly, glancing at Don from the corner of his eye. Don wasn't reacting. Not even flinching.
Seeing that, Charles decided not to react either. He simply stood there, arms still loose at his sides, gaze fixed on the rig.
The rope spun up fast.
Seconds later, the man came into view.
He looked worse than panicked—he looked peeled back. His jumpsuit was soaked, patches of it stained dark with thick greenish mucus. His face was splattered with the same goop, hair matted down like he'd bathed in a swamp.
Strands of something vine-like clung to his arms and shoulders. Worse still, there were bits of red tangled in it—shredded tissue or blood, it wasn't clear.
