He hadn’t thought he would last this long. When it seemed the world was ending, when the stars fell, he thought this would be a fine place to die. In his home, built to enjoy that particular solitude impossible to find in a city. Then came the fires. Raging infernos that lit the horizon. At first the colors were orange and yellow, bright, even at night. Then, as the flames died, as people died, as the world died, and ash filled the air, the horizon become orange and rusted.
But he lived.
At first he ate from his stores of food. Not plentiful, enough to last him some weeks if he wasn’t careful. Maybe a couple months if he was. After the food was gone, he began to fish. Something he never expected to happen began to. It was a thing he hadn’t considered. As the years went by fishing became easier. There were more fish. It wasn’t hard to figure out why.
Less people, more nature.
He didn’t know if that was good or not. Good if he liked fish, and he did well enough. He liked other things too. Potato chips, chicken tenders, ice cream, beer, pizza, nachos, tacos. He didn’t miss people, not really. He missed what they could do together. What scores of humans are able to bring into the world. The whole reason he’d spent nineteen million on beach front property and home fifty miles from his nearest neighbor was to find peace from all that. All those lives. All their petty issues, their pointless complaints, and unwillingness to look inside themselves and fix what was broken.
Now the world was broken.
Would it ever be fixed? That seemed unlikely. Who would fix it? Who was left? Questions he had little desire to find answers to, like wondering where dreams come from. It’s almost more enjoyable not knowing—for some people anyways. He was one such person. He’d never slept better. Never had more peace.