What a nightmare scenario. Can you imagine being trapped inside, sitting on the ocean floor several miles beneath the surface, maybe having lost power? It’s dark as pitch. Control panels dead. Maybe you have some light from a cell phone. You try to control your breathing to conserve oxygen, but you’re all but certain this is where you’ll die, a fact that you have several days worth of air to contemplate. All the mistakes you’ll never get to right, the things you didn’t do, the family you’ll never see, the pets who’ll never understand why you abandoned them. Through the cold, narrow hull, you hear the gentle susurrations of the current, and that’s it. Could be you have a ring back home you were going to surprise your girlfriend with, and all you can think about is how long it’ll be after the air runs out before she finds it. Maybe someone weeps softly beside you.

Enough oxygen until maybe Thursday. Think about that. What must it smell like inside that cramped little sub? Sweat and body odor, obviously, but what do you do when four or five people need to piss and shit for almost a week? You can’t just contain that. Maybe someone has brought bags they can go in or something, but surely not enough for everyone for that long.

And how will everyone react? You know how you’re going to die, and make no mistake, every single person on that boat knows how horrible it is to suffocate to death, clawing at your throat for hours on end until their fingernails have broken from their nail beds. What if someone breaks? Decides they want to go out on different terms, starts fidgeting with a pocket knife or something? Do you let them? Just sit there and let it happen?

So there you are. It’s Wednesday. Power is out. Even cell phones with their little lights are dead. It’s cold, it reeks of human waste and the filth of unwashed bodies. The air, long since gone stale, is getting thin. No one noticed in the back there that Roy quietly bled out after secretly slitting his wrists, but now he’s starting to stink. Oh god, the absolute horror of a stench a rotting corpse must be in a tight space like that. A putrescence you can taste, thick like oil—which is exactly what the fat in his skin and body is turning into. Grease.

You’re essentially alone, in the dark, with a corpse, and the thinning oxygen is playing tricks on you. So much so in fact that you start to wonder if you hadn’t maybe heard Roy back there starting to move. What does his face look like there in the dark, blackening from bloat and rot? Are his eyes open, staring numbly into nothing, milky and dead?

That’s where my mind goes, at least. I don’t mean to make fun. It’s a horrible situation and I hope they’re rescued.