After the Apocalypse

In case the Mayans are right...

Photo: Foley

STRATEGY: “My first move is to grab my bug-out bag—if you don’t know what that is, Google it. [We did! It’s a portable kit containing the items needed in the first 72 hours after a disaster. –Ed]

Then I’d make base camp near water. I’d find a cave in Waimea Valley, on the higher ground so I could see what’s going on around me. I could hunt for birds, pigs, and gather fruit. Then I’d sit back, let them come to me. I’d be on red alert. They would come. If guys are trying to kill me, if it’s just survival and friends are no longer friends, if it’s the end of the fucking world—then I’m just going hunter-gatherer. No surfing. Once everyone else is dead, then I can go surf.”

EPILOGUE: It is a clear, blue morning when the beloved leader finally passes. Around him, the bustle and orderly progress of a vigorous, healthy community. Flocks are tended. Gardens are grown. The madness has passed, and a new generation of men thrive, free from the compulsion to kill one another.

Only the elders still remember the darkness, the screams, the killing, the machines that came before it all. The children know only of simpler things: food, shelter, land, sky, sea. Kai Garcia draws in his last breath, his body wizened by age, his mind haunted by bloodshed. As he exhales one last time, he finds solace in a simple fact: much of the world’s sins will pass away with him.