Alive on the Burning Coast

He could tell the crew had changed in some way, and he had a sneaking suspicion it was because the ship was in site of America’s east coast.

The lock on his cabin clicked. “Meal time already?” He thought to himself.

The usual sailor entered, but instead of his gun being aimed at their prisoners face, it hung loosley in his hand as he set the dry fruit and bread on the floor, and quickly left.

The prisoner crawled over the the plate. Even the slightest move of his stiff leg made the infected wound smart with pain.

It was another hour before his door clicked open again. This time yeilding two sailors. Neither of them had guns, but both wore solemn expressions, one fighting tears.

They grabbed thier prisoners arms and hauled him down the hall and up on deck.

A quarter of a mile ahead of the yacht was the burning coast of America, strewn with giant walking spheres clambering up burning sky scrapers and tossing cars.

“I Hope it’s not too late for apologies Van”

View this story's 6 comments.