The cold and blistering seawater was pelting my face and I could hear the ferociousness of the waves pounding against the metal of the rig. Nights were always the hardest shifts, but strangely enough, I found the void of darkness surrounding me and the chilling silence of the night comforting to me - it was a time I could be left by myself. It was the time that I felt most alive.

The rig operated as it did most days: Quiet, it's workers going about their business whilst minding their own. It still shakes me to my core to think of the ignorance that we all shared aboard the vessel. The very world that we knew - that we left behind - was ending, and we, the working men of Norway were, as tradition, left in the dark. Of course there were the rumors.... We knew of the initial outbreak of the virus in 2019, but since we were all offshore it really didn't phase any of us, because it wasn't happening to us.

I was always a "loner" or a "drifter" - whatever you want to classify me as... It doesn't make a difference now. I liked being by myself and it was a large part of the decision to spend the last 20 years of my life aboard oil rigs. There was peace in the quiet, and it pained me that those moments were long gone. This world was not a quiet one any longer.

The whisperings spread rapidly amongst the crew. News about a new variant ravaging through our homeland, some onboard referred to it as some sort of rabies, others justified it as some sort of "divine intervention."
As the days and weeks wained on, the whispers grew less and less, and any new information was kept quiet from high command. We were instructed to continue doing our jobs, to not panic. Some crewmembers with families and loved ones back on land argued with our Captain for more information, and the dissent amongst us grew quickly and out of control.

A month after the rumors began, it seemed like the tension aboard the rig was undeniable. Half the crew wanted to go home, the other half wanted to stay aboard, but all of us completely unaware of what was really going on. I remember the date well, it was December 19th and it had been one of the colder nights aboard the rig. Wanting to keep my nose out of politics, I went about my business as usual. The night was a blood bath. Gunfire rang out from above and it sounded like it came from the Captain's Quarters.

A scurry of workers ran up in a panic, and I quickly followed in line to see what the commotion was about. Within the Captain's Quarters, nine men, The Captain and all the Foremen aboard our vessel, laid dead on the ground. Pistols still in hand, each with a bullet hole directly through their heads. Their suicides sent a shock through my brain and I could feel my feet rooted to the spot I was standing. My eyes winced at the bloody sight and I could feel a cascade of sweat dripping past my construction helmet.

We had no leadership. No way off the rig. And no foreseeable information other than a note written by the Captain: "Oslo has fallen. Norway has fallen. The world has fallen."

That night there was a blizzard of suicides. Men who gave up hope, men who had nothing to return to back home. Using a lifeboat was a gamble that none of us wanted to take, the waves too strong and the lack of control pushed us all far away from the concept. So, we buckled down for a few weeks, devising time slots for us to each control the searchlight, in any desperate attempt for some passenger or freight boat to see our cries for help.

By the time a ship had found us, there were only six of us remaining in the crew. It was a luxury ship, expensive-looking, and large enough for a dozen or more men. The captain of the ship welcomed us aboard, explaining he was just trying to help those stranded. A good samaritan in a time like this - who would've thought? The captain explained to us the calamity of the virus but explained there was hope in the northernmost parts of Norway.

"The last I heard of Nyheim, PLIKT had set up refugee camps dotting the city. It's the best bet," he said to us, his voice shrill and full of terror.

As we set off for Nyheim, I took a place, alone, at the bow of the ship to have a moment of quiet.... I liked the quiet.