Peterson's stomach turned over and he was violently propelled to the floor. A fountain of vomit exploded from his mouth, taking his breath away. Gasping for air and wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Peterson climbed back to his feet. He stumbled to the nearest table and attempted to compose himself.

A series of cold pains rose up his spine, out through his arms and down to his fingertips. Without warning, he lost all feeling in his arms and they flopped uselessly to his sides. "Oh no… No."

This is what happened to Benson!

Peterson ran towards the nearest intercom, desperate to call for help. He knew Harris might see him on camera, but he could just as easily be engaged in one of his many other duties. His arms flailed at his sides with every step. As he rounded an operating table one of his arms smashed into the corner, opening a deep wound. Peterson saw the bloody gash, but he felt no pain.

He ran faster.

Reaching the intercom, Peterson went to push the button, but the hand he was expecting to reach up didn't come. It was as though his arms were no longer attached. "Shit!"

He leaned forward and made several attempts to push the button with his nose, but it wasn't working. He couldn't push the button in far enough. A flash of hope surged when he remembered the medical emergency alarm. He looked across the room and saw the yellow button, which was protected by a pane of glass and labeled "EMERGENCY".

Racing across the room, careful not to smash his useless arms into any more sharp objects, Peterson planned out his next moves. After reaching the glass, he could shattered it with his forehead and push the button with his nose. Then what? He'd have to wait. Harris was the only other crew member on board, but he had medical training.

Half way across the room, Peterson reached his top speed.  That was also when his legs gave out. It felt like every sinew of his leg muscles had torn at once. He screamed as he tumbled to the floor, his dysfunctional limbs flapping helplessly.  A sickeningly sharp spasm tore into his groin and through his stomach.

He vomited a second time, only now he was unable to wipe his mouth or slide his body away from the acrid smell of his bile. Slithering on the floor like a wounded snake, Peterson did his best to cover the distance to the emergency button. It was only after twenty seconds that he realized he was no longer moving. His head moved up and down, but his torso no longer complied. He was paralyzed from the neck down, like a living statue.