A single blinking light revealed it was also upside down.
He was alive, but the ship was quickly sinking. He groped for the locks of his straps and fell in a painful heap to the inverted ceiling. And then he heard a pop.
It came from the view screen at the point of the bird’s impact. The glass had splintered under the pressure of the crash and water had begun trickling in. Robinson shook his head, pleading for it to stop, but the fissure inched its way toward the outer edges of the view screen. The trickle increased. With no place to hide, Robinson did the only thing he could; he strapped a carton of rations across his chest in the hope that they might help him survive.
The view screen exploded.
The wave hit him like a thunderbolt, slamming him against the back wall. He felt little of the impact. His body was too shocked by the freezing cold water to register anything else. The cabin filled so quickly that he barely managed a single gulp of air before the water closed in around him, the swirling deluge tossing him around like a toy.
Weightless and dazed, Robinson knew he had to move quickly, but in the torrent of water, he had lost all sense of direction. His mind floundered and debris spun around the cabin, caught in a vortex of underwater eddies. The air in his lungs quickly dissipated and the fear of drowning sent waves of panic shooting through him.
And then he felt a slight tug at his neck. At first, he thought it was debris, but as his hands touched his mother’s locket, he knew his prayer had been answered. It was pulling upward, the oxygen inside of it defying gravity in its own quest for escape. He let its buoyancy guide him.
As he passed through the view screen, Robinson felt the sting 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 he’d come that way before. The sun continued to rise—the heat along with it—until he was winded and soaked with exertion.
Mosquitos feasted on his skin and the husks of long dead trees bit at his feet. The bandages continued to unspool, forcing him to stop and retie them again and again. Finally, when he was certain he would never escape the wetlands, he saw a broken chip of road dangling limply over the far side of an embankment. He skipped the remaining way through the shallows and scaled his way to the top of the incline.
Standing atop the hill, he’d have never known the bog existed. Storefronts lined both sides of the road with faded signs Robinson was surprised he could read—the writing of the One People. Most of the windows were broken out and weeds overran everything. Other than an occasional bird passing overhead or a rodent foraging in the shadows, little else stirred.
When he reached the far end of town, Robinson found an old log to rest on. He gauged by the sun that it was mid-turn. Thirsty and tired, he opened his bag of rations. Thankfully, whoever was in charge of the emergency provisions had thought to include several candles and a piece of flint with an instruction booklet. Unfortunately, there was no water, so he went in search for it and found a small pool between the roots of a gnarled tree. Only then did he realize he had nothing to collect it in. He sifted through a number of ancient items until finally kicking a corroded cap off one of the old carriages.
The cap made the water taste of rust and earth, but it went down like wine. He had to force himself to stop after several liters to avoid getting sick. Then he took inventory of his rations. By his count, he had a three-day supply.
He needed a plan. His mother’s numbers might have led him to this continent, but not to a specific destination. He needed shelter. He also needed a weapon. He had no means of procuring either so he stalked around until he found a dead branch that could double as a walking stick or a spear before setting out again.
The two-lane road led to one with four lanes, which surprisingly led to a military base, its name still discernable on a rusty sign. The fence surrounding it had a heavy lean, but the rusty wire protruding everywhere still looked treacherous. Rather than risk cutting himself further, Robinson continued along the perimeter of the fence until he found a section that had fallen away entirely.
The base was flat and sprawling, made up of large areas of paved stone blemished by a handful of trees and shrubs that had erupted through the rubble. Sunlight reflected off something in the distance. He moved toward it.
Squadrons of flyers in a profusion of shapes and sizes littered the
area, though many seemed capable of supporting no more than a pilot or two. Looking closer, Robinson found most were outfitted with weapons, though how they worked was beyond him. Still, this brought up the questions he’d been pondering again and again: How had a civilization so replete with advancements failed to stave off its own extinction? Had the Great Rendering spread so quickly that not a single one of these flyers had gotten off the ground?
At the far end of the tarmac sat a number of cavernous hangars and the main body of the base itself. Waves of heat radiated off the pitch as the sun reached its apex. As Robinson passed the last hangar, he saw the doors were half open. Inside was another flyer that was four stories high. This one was unique. He could still make out the multiple shades of blue and white surrounding its two-dozen oval windows. It also bore a strange circular sigil with prominent words underneath. Unfortunately, they were too faded to read. Robinson wanted to step inside for a closer look, but the heat was rising and he was already out of water. His feet had also begun to burn through his wrappings, forcing him to jog the last one hundred meters to the main building.
The moment he passed through the door he froze in his steps. He was seeing the face of evil for the first time.
Chapter Thirteen
When You Quit, You Die
The metal doors had been rent open, their glass surface long gone. Inside the enormous vestibule, the walls were stained black with streaks of old blood. Mottled pools of it also covered the floor. A great many people had tried in haste to raise two fortifications to block the entrance, but it was clear by the mountain of refuse scattered around the room that they had failed. The walls and roof were peppered with holes and brass casings were scattered across the floor. Not a single skeleton had been left behind.
As much as Robinson was hoping to make this his shelter, there was no way he could spend one night inside. As he turned to leave, his foot struck the edge of the fortification, causing a rumble from above. He leaped back, narrowly avoiding the avalanche of metal chairs and boxes as they slammed into the ground with a deafening clamor.
When he regained his footing, Robinson saw that something cylindrical and metallic had spilled out from the debris. He grabbed it and gave it a shake. It felt empty and light. He tried the top, but it wouldn’t budge. He banged it against the floor. This time the cap opened. The smell inside was pungent but not entirely unpleasant. He tucked his new drinking goblet into his bag and left, relieved he wouldn’t have to drink from the rusty cap any more.
The base’s main entrance had also been heavily barricaded with carriages, but it too had been overrun. He was ready to be free of this place.
Outside the base, he entered a field of high grass and sunflowers that swayed lightly with the wind. Bees buzzed by, searching for blossoms to pollinate. For a time, he imagined if he closed his eyes, he might wake up in the tangled wolds back home and to the sound of Vareen calling him for supper.
Instead, he heard the running of water and after a spell, he came to the bank of a wide river whose waters flowed unhurriedly but looked clean and devoid of refuse. He knelt to cup some in his hands, but just as his lips parted, a fish passed by, sporting two tails and twitching spastically. His thirst quickly left him.
After a brief rest, Robinson pressed on. He was tired, but stopping felt like quitting. His father once told him that, “in the wild, when you quit, you die.”
Eventually, he came to a roadway larger than any he’d seen before. The husks of carriages dominated one side while the other was oddly empty. He wondered, and not for the first time that day, what had happened to the people driving them.
The roadway rose until it reached an elevation that allowed Robinson a view of the entire city. It sprawled out in all directions as far as the eye could see. Vast tracts were utterly vacant, as if a great flood had come through and wiped everything above ground away. But pockets here and there inexplicably remained.
Off in the distance, he saw a collection of enormous structures. There was no question these marked the city’s capitol. Standing center amongst them was a single, colossal obelisk rising high into the sky. How men had built such things was beyond him. How they endured centuries of neglect was another matter. He knew in an instant he had to see that monolith up close—to touch it with his own hands—to be certain it was real.
Unfortunately, the sun was rapidly descending. There was only a turn of light left at best. So when he spied a neighborhood of what looked like family dwellings, he quickly made his way to them. Most had caved in on themselves like ill-timed cakes, but one two-story residence remained intact. It was perched on a high cliff, its sunny side the battlefield of a languorous war between ivy and trumpet creeper, the outcome of which wouldn’t be determined for eons to come. Despite its weathered, pale exterior, there was something warm about the place that reminded Robinson of home. He moved in for a closer look.
The front of the house was dominated by a robust tree with spindly branches that jetted in all directions. The largest bore two rusty link chains that swayed in the breeze, emitting a painful, rasping ode to the seat and rider who had long ago deserted it.
After rooting the front door from its diseased moorings, Robinson entered the house, only to feel like he’d been transported to some other place and time. For every rustic piece of furniture that harkened of home, there was an article of technology with no discernable purpose. Most were crafted of black, moldable material with cords that fed directly into the walls. Bulkier furniture bore scars of termites and rot, though some were well preserved. He wiped the dust from a glass case and found a bevy of crystal figurines inside—lithe female dancers caught in resplendent repose. When a ray of sunlight caught them just right, they exploded into a kaleidoscope of colors.
A bookshelf full of titles had also escaped decay, but the dense pages held not words but abstract photos of what Robinson took to be art. The images were mystifying.
Discolored family photos hung crooked on walls decked with patterned paper that dangled in wilting spirals and gathered chipped and broken on the floor below. Robinson’s fingers traced over fine china and countertops, light fixtures and curtains. In the parlor, he found the carcass of a piano, which he had read about but had never seen. Coils of wire struck by black and white dowels were used to summon its melody, but what few times he depressed them, he was rewarded with a harsh, discordant sound or no sound at all.
As the light waned, that familiar kernel of fear began creeping its way back to the forefront of Robinson’s mind. He peeled back the curtain to look out at the street. Nothing moved. Not even the chains on the tree or the grass in the yard. Time felt suddenly leaden as if everything were withdrawing from the coming night. He assured himself that nothing was out there—that he was utterly alone—but his assertions rang as hollow as the fleeting wind. He felt like something was coming.
Building a fire was too big a risk, so he picked a warm corner to sit down in and rest. After changing the bandages of his ailing feet, he unpacked his rations. But before he ate, he realized he’d forgotten to check the second floor.
He was halfway up the stairs when the wood beneath him gave. The steps crumbled away with a deafening roar. The only thing that saved him from going with them was the newel post in the baluster. He used it to pull himself up. Water damage had been the cause, though this realization offered little relief. His narrow escape only illustrated the obvious: there were no healers here. One fractured bone or untreated wound could end his life for good.
The first bedroom on the second floor lay open to the stars. Mold and rot covered everything in sight. As he approached the second bedroom, he heard a deep, pulsing drone inside. He couldn’t identify the sound. He should have turned away, but curiosity prompted him to reach for the door. He was shocked by what he found inside. In one corner of the room was the largest beehive imaginable. The room seemed covered in honeycombs and the smell of honey was so strong it brought tears to his eyes. Sensing the invader, several bees turned in
his direction. He quickly slammed the door, hoping they had no other way through.
The last rays of sunlight were fading when Robinson approached the final door. Faded yellow tape had been strung across it with a strange symbol beneath.
He didn’t know what it meant, but it looked ominous. Still, he was too tired to turn away and there wasn’t enough light left to seek another place to hide.
So he opened the door and felt his breath catch.
Two beds had been hastily pushed together against the far wall. Lying atop them were the remains of the family he’d seen in the photographs downstairs. Two hundred years might have robbed them of skin and flesh, but the three smaller sets of skeletons intertwined with the two larger ones left little doubt. They were knotted together under deteriorated fabric, spider webs, and dust. A bedside table was strewn with small, cracked, amber containers and cloudy glasses. Had the family taken their final refuge here together in the face of death? Or had they hastened death themselves?
Robinson spent that night in the hallway, but he never touched his provisions. His appetite had abandoned him. He lay there long after the sky had turned dark, thinking not of how far he’d come, but how little he’d accomplished. He tried to convince himself there was nothing to fear. Then he heard the first cry.
It was loud and raw and seemed to carry over the entire city. It was quickly matched by another, and then another, until the night was full of thousands of such voices. Robinson was instantly paralyzed with fear. He had heard that sound before in the East Room of the Crown, but it was nowhere near as robust or infinite as this.
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