Read Online Robinson Crusoe 2244 by E.J. Robinson - Free Book Online
Authors: E.J. Robinson
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of glass bite into his leg, but the pain was nothing compared to the fire in his lungs. He kicked and the pressure lessened, but then his chest started to convulse from the carbon dioxide building in his lungs. With each stroke, the underwater tide pulled him farther out to sea. Just when he was certain he would drown, his head burst through the surface of the water.
Robinson managed one great intake of air before a wave struck him. Saltwater flooded his mouth and he retched, but he kicked hard for shore until his feet struck sand. Exhaustion overtook him. He lumbered up the beach and collapsed as the night closed in around him.
Chapter Twelve
The Forbidden Continent
Time returned in a flash as the frigid surf washed over Robinson’s legs. His eyes vaulted open and he gasped. He was alive. He tried to sit up, but every muscle in his body screamed in protest. The pain was so intense he feared he might pass out again.
It was morning, but the sun was obscured by fog so he couldn’t guess at the time. His clothes were wet from the high tide. Not surprisingly, his shoes had been torn from his feet. The pain there was intense. Only when he dredged several small pieces of coral from the wounds did he understand where the pain was coming from.
He looked for the flyer, but it was nowhere to be seen. What did fill his vision shocked him. On a reef, several kilometers from the shore, was a graveyard of ancient sea vessels—hundreds of ships of incomprehensible sizes and shapes. They congealed like driftwood, spines exposed, innards spilt out, noses jutting hundreds of feet into the air while others lay splayed at odd angles or felled like trees. All bore the scars of salt and time. It was a daunting sight.
Robinson saw another curious thing not far from the waterline. There were two metal markers atop a rusty pole peeking out of the sand. Both were greatly eroded, but he could still make out one faded word: Avenue. It wouldn’t be until much later that he remembered the sign was written in his own language.
Farther to the north, scores of buildings protruded from the ocean like broken teeth in a waterlogged mouth. Most were rotted and had collapsed in on themselves. Man might have tamed this area once, but nature had reclaimed it.
Robinson was too dazed and weak to process the devastation around him. He felt starved and searched the beach for the rations he’d strapped to his chest. He found them bobbing near the waterline. To his relief, they were dry. He opened the first pack and inhaled three servings of sour biscuits.
Afterward, he attended to his feet. Saltwater was one of the earth’s great antiseptics, so he went back to the surf to scrub his feet clean. Then he took off his jacket and tore long strips to bandage them until walking was bearable.
When he was done, he looked around to decide his course. In that moment, he felt a terrible loneliness. The sight of so much destruction—of a mighty empire so hastily felled—made him feel small and insignificant. For the first time, he wondered what chance he had of surviving here. Civilization had been undone. This continent stood in ruin. Had the victor that had wrought death by air and engineered diseases survived? Could water or food contaminate him? Or had the disease already invaded his lungs?
His started west across the hot sand with his rations strapped to his back and his mother’s locket securely around his neck. After a while, the dry sand became wet marsh, with soggy earth, verdant grass, and tall reeds. Through the ankle-high water, he saw all manner of life existing above and below the surface. There were snakes, insects, tadpoles, and frogs. Since he didn’t know what was poisonous, he avoided everything.
In time, the marsh became a bog with shallow water falling away to indeterminate depths that rippled, bubbled, and churned with unseen life. Several times he was forced to double back, crossing levees and narrow peninsulas only to realize
Robinson managed one great intake of air before a wave struck him. Saltwater flooded his mouth and he retched, but he kicked hard for shore until his feet struck sand. Exhaustion overtook him. He lumbered up the beach and collapsed as the night closed in around him.
Chapter Twelve
The Forbidden Continent
Time returned in a flash as the frigid surf washed over Robinson’s legs. His eyes vaulted open and he gasped. He was alive. He tried to sit up, but every muscle in his body screamed in protest. The pain was so intense he feared he might pass out again.
It was morning, but the sun was obscured by fog so he couldn’t guess at the time. His clothes were wet from the high tide. Not surprisingly, his shoes had been torn from his feet. The pain there was intense. Only when he dredged several small pieces of coral from the wounds did he understand where the pain was coming from.
He looked for the flyer, but it was nowhere to be seen. What did fill his vision shocked him. On a reef, several kilometers from the shore, was a graveyard of ancient sea vessels—hundreds of ships of incomprehensible sizes and shapes. They congealed like driftwood, spines exposed, innards spilt out, noses jutting hundreds of feet into the air while others lay splayed at odd angles or felled like trees. All bore the scars of salt and time. It was a daunting sight.
Robinson saw another curious thing not far from the waterline. There were two metal markers atop a rusty pole peeking out of the sand. Both were greatly eroded, but he could still make out one faded word: Avenue. It wouldn’t be until much later that he remembered the sign was written in his own language.
Farther to the north, scores of buildings protruded from the ocean like broken teeth in a waterlogged mouth. Most were rotted and had collapsed in on themselves. Man might have tamed this area once, but nature had reclaimed it.
Robinson was too dazed and weak to process the devastation around him. He felt starved and searched the beach for the rations he’d strapped to his chest. He found them bobbing near the waterline. To his relief, they were dry. He opened the first pack and inhaled three servings of sour biscuits.
Afterward, he attended to his feet. Saltwater was one of the earth’s great antiseptics, so he went back to the surf to scrub his feet clean. Then he took off his jacket and tore long strips to bandage them until walking was bearable.
When he was done, he looked around to decide his course. In that moment, he felt a terrible loneliness. The sight of so much destruction—of a mighty empire so hastily felled—made him feel small and insignificant. For the first time, he wondered what chance he had of surviving here. Civilization had been undone. This continent stood in ruin. Had the victor that had wrought death by air and engineered diseases survived? Could water or food contaminate him? Or had the disease already invaded his lungs?
His started west across the hot sand with his rations strapped to his back and his mother’s locket securely around his neck. After a while, the dry sand became wet marsh, with soggy earth, verdant grass, and tall reeds. Through the ankle-high water, he saw all manner of life existing above and below the surface. There were snakes, insects, tadpoles, and frogs. Since he didn’t know what was poisonous, he avoided everything.
In time, the marsh became a bog with shallow water falling away to indeterminate depths that rippled, bubbled, and churned with unseen life. Several times he was forced to double back, crossing levees and narrow peninsulas only to realize
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