The following is a recovered transcription of a recording that was made by the captain of the recovered ship found thirteen days ago. While the legitimacy of the account is questionable, none of our top analysts can find any record of what happened to the ship and its survivors.

<Entry 1>

Since our ship has crashed here in this backwater planet three days ago, our situation has become more and more dire. There are only three of us left now, and if our situation persists, then it could very well go down to two.

Our spaceship’s wreckage has become our shelter in this dark and satanic forest. There are sounds that we hear on a day to day basis. Crunching, snapping, growling. It seems almost that the forest is sentient, and malevolent.

But I shouldn’t describe that. It worries me. That’s why I decided to start recording this tape. It calms me. And if and when we die and anyone finds our remains, then I want us to be remembered. We will not be some accident in the news. We will live on in name.

Anyways. There are three of us left now. Most of our crew died on impact. Only three are left, and as I stated about a minute ago, we could be left to around two by the next day.

Burton is the one in immediate danger. His leg was twisted in the crash. Now it’s mangled, bloody, and beaten to a pulp. There are several places where I can see the white of his bone. Much of his skin hangs on like meat on ribs – just by a thread.

Thomas has a half-sister that went into the medical field, and while he knows little, it’s safe to say that he knows more than Burton or myself combined. And that’s okay with me, because I don’t want to look at that thing. But we’ve wrapped it in leaves, and stopped the blood flow. It’s possible that Burton could be okay, albeit permanently crippled.

<Entry 2>

Hello again. It’s been roughly 19 hours according to my watch since the last time I spoke with you. That being said, it’s a nuclear watch, and much of the radiation that I’m sure the wreck is giving off is altering the time on the watch. But it feels like around 19. Can’t be less than 15 at least.

Time is different in this place. The days are very long. We crashed here in what I think was the morning, and despite this being our fourth 24 hour period, the sun has yet to set. This makes it hard to use the sky as a time guide.

Not that we can really see the sky. These trees are purplish blackish, including the trunk and leaves. These trees are what I estimate to be hundreds of meters tall. Because it’s rather dark, we can barely see our expressions. The underbrush, the canopy, and the bushes make this a very dark and hostile place. We can barely see the star that this planet orbits – a shining diamond peeking through the top of the trees.

I’m hoping that the days here are thousands of 24 hour periods long, but I severely doubt it. The sun is dipping in the sky, and in a few more 24 hour periods, (that’s what we’re calling Earth Days now, if you haven’t noticed), it will be night. For how long, I don’t know. We’re not looking forward to it.

As for Burton, my faith that he’d get better has made a liar out of me. He’s not getting better; as a matter of fact, I am sorry to report that he is getting worse. Thomas said to me that his leg is infected, and that he needs serious antibiotics. We don’t have serious antibiotics. It is entirely possible that Burton might not survive through the next week.

Burton isn’t really that negative. I think he recognizes that we’re all doomed to die anyway eventually, provided that nobody finds us. Rather, he’s cheerful and has been making jokes. He still feels feverish and has told the same Amish Robot joke eight times since we’ve spoken last. He definitely isn’t negative, but his fate may be sealed.

<Entry 3>

Thomas has privately told me that Burton’s left leg is beyond repair, and that if we are to save him, his leg will have to go.

I didn’t process it at first. I asked him what he meant by the leg has to go until he gave me a meaningful look, and I questioned him no further.

We haven’t told Burton yet. But I think that he will be glad to have the leg gone, to be honest. His leg is so shredded that it isn’t going to be much use to him, even if it wasn’t infected. The amputation itself is going to be the thing he won’t want.

I now record this as I walk around the ruins of the spaceship, looking for a sharp object from the wreckage to perform the amputation. If you listen closely, you may hear Thomas talking quietly to Burton. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but it probably is the news about the amputation. I suggested that he simply say something like Oh, hey, Burton, take a sniff at this chloroform!, but Thomas insisted that Burton have a say in whether or not his leg got chopped.

I don’t think we have chloroform either.

<Entry 4>

Well, the plans for the amputation have been modified.

I picked up a shard of metal from the wreck, and found it was extremely hot. I then tried to pick it up with some cloth, but it lit it on fire.

Neither Thomas nor I is willing to work with anything from the wreck now that it’s been shown that this metal is still hot.

I have elected to go and look for something sharp in the surrounding area. This is where I speak to you now, during my search. Thomas has stayed behind to watch over Burton. I am alone with nothing but a flashlight. The diamond in the sky has intersected with the ground, and it appears that night will come. I will need the flashlight to navigate the forest when it becomes dark. I am already using it due to the shades of dark gray that the trees cast. I need to find something. Anything.

I’m now passing by this pool of water. It might have some sort of fish we can eat in it. But no, forget that idea. My stick that I have thrust in is crumbling. It appears to be some sort of acid. This planet is a chemical and toxic waste hellhole, and it will kill us.

Fog has rolled in. I can only see 40 or so feet in front of me, with the flashlight. As night falls, the viewing distance only shrinks.

I heard a snap. I think there might be something here. I will be silent and end the recording now.

<Entry 5>

According to my watch, there has been roughly four hours since I last spoke. Whatever I heard didn’t exist or meant no harm. But my mind does play tricks on me, and I want to get back to the ship as soon as possible.

But I haven’t found anything. And I don’t think I will. The fog limits my visibility, and even my faithful companion, the flashlight, has abandoned me. Its light no longer penetrates the fog. Its light no longer penetrates anything, not even the bulb inside.

My footsteps turn from the sound of me stepping on some squishy mud to stepping on rocks. I suppose that I am in a rocky area filled with boulders. If it’s so – it seems it is, I just felt with my hand, then it’s entirely possible that I may be able to find a sharp and jagged stone.

I am feeling around on all fours, but I can’t find anything. I hear heavy breathing, and other footsteps in this place. It’s probably some sort of extraterrestrial squirrel type thing, but I’m nervous.

Due to the flashlight being gone, I can’t see anything under normal circumstances, but I really can’t see my own fist in front of me, my own legs or the ground they walk on. I have to rely on touch to move around. I consider using echolocation, but that would require me to make a sound above a whisper. If you can’t decipher this, sorry, mate.

I can hear something moving. That’s it. I gotta go. I’m running. I’ll speak with you later.