I woke up in a dream. The seas cast a radioactive orange haze over the shadow of a once-tourist-rife season. All that’s left now, debris from their pre-packaged civilization: a milk carton ($8 a half-gallon!), computer-generated messages in a bottle, a child’s headless doll float by.
Soon, I, too, will cease to exist as the very last breath overtakes me, not a cell phone in sight.
My last thought is of Stephen King’s last book, the one where the people turn into a murder of crows.