Gale sat in the uncomfortable silence of the boat, listening to the mourning sounds of sorrow and the hacking coughs of death around him. He simply watched the water, feeling alone, lost.
The lapping of the water turns to a deep grinding of sand on wood as the boat reaches the shore and the bird-beaked doctors lead the patients off of the ship and onto the island, heading back once everyone was off, leaving them all to watch as their futures slip away and the red sickness runs its course, culling those who are weak earlier, before they can even reach the grass.
Gale walks along the beach slowly, his scleras a crimson red, sickly lines colouring his skin, his limbs thinned down to hardly more than bone as he looks out upon the waters, watching the sun set, sky matching the crimson in his eyes as smoke bellows from the chimneys to cast shadows over the already deathly, dingy island filled with the city's sick. He coughed, looking down to see some blood on his palm, probably from coughing his throat raw, his condition deteriorating, his body being eaten up as he feels the sickness chew away at his immune system. He was powerless, and so very alone.
He stared out on the ocean, wondering where he was, what he was doing, if he even knew. He wished he could have said one last goodbye, but his wishes were mere words lost to the smoke and ash.
It was here he would meet his end, here he would succumb to the red plague that was killing thousands.
He would become a mere number in the death counts... he would hardly be remembered.
He was alone, and he would die alone.
