They move west down Nations Avenue, past the high school and the library. From inside they hear the sound of chain saws and do not slow. The Prophet appears to be praying under his breath.
“We need to check Instagram,” says Samson, thinking now of Story, of his sister. He could give a shit about God’s mission. He wants the people he loves to be safe. Wind blows in hot gusts from the west, swirling dust and ash from the fuselages of cars. They cover their mouths and noses with their hands and run, crouching low for no good reason other than it feels like the right thing to do. Three hundred miles away, in the mountains, catastrophic wildfires surge, firebrands leap miles ahead of each conflagration, starting new fires, like a lie you can’t control. Twisters of pure flame cyclone up into the clouds. Those who can, flee, but for many the fire moves too fast. Later firefighters will find the corpses of desperate people boiled alive in their swimming pools, others huddled together in grim embrace, like the victims of an atomic bomb. The mountain air fills with the sound of car tires exploding, their aluminum wheels melting in rivers that flow down sloping driveways, plastic garbage toters reduced to colored stains on the bubbling asphalt.
In Morningside Heights, the residential streets are empty now. Residents have fled or gone to ground. They pass house after house with the blinds drawn.
“Here,” says the Prophet, turning up the front walk of a single-story home. The front door is open. Samson hurries to keep up, blinded momentarily by the darkness of the interior. It is a modest house with a big-screen TV. On-screen, QVC is selling its wares—cubic zirconium necklaces, agate bracelets now at reduced prices. There is a laptop open on the kitchen table. Samson sits, turns it on.
“It’s password protected,” he tells the Prophet.
The Prophet opens the fridge, takes out a carton of orange juice, finds a glass. He fills it, drinks, gulping it down with singular focus. Samson tries 1234, then 4321. The Prophet puts down the glass.
“PraiseHim,” he says.
“What?”
“The password is PraiseHim. Capital H.”
Samson tries it. “No go,” he says.
The Prophet thinks about that. “PraiseHim exclamation point,” he says.
Samson types it in. The screen unlocks. He is looking at a desktop jigsaw filled with cats. He opens a browser, but it won’t connect.
“There’s no internet,” he says. “The internet’s down. Probably the government hit the kill switch.” He stands.
“Look for a phone or a tablet. Something with a cellular signal.”
They search the house. In a back bedroom, Samson finds a Samsung tablet. He wakes it up. There are three bars. On the wall above the bed are eleven crosses laid out in a diamond pattern. Samson finds the Instagram app, opens it. He searches for @bassethoundsrule. The Prophet wanders in and studies the crosses.
“I know you don’t believe,” he says. “And I’m not asking you to have faith. But can we agree they’ve been doing it wrong? Humanity. Two thousand years of burning bushes, of sermons on the Mount, and what do they have to show for it? The prosperity gospel? Hassidim refusing to vaccinate? Muslim honor killings? Jihadis in suicide vests? This is God’s will?”
Samson scrolls through photos of basset hounds, with their sad eyes and droopy cheeks. His heart is beating a mile a minute. The apocalypse his father warned him about is here, and he is hundreds of miles away from everyone that matters.
“These aren’t mistakes,” says the Prophet. “This isn’t Oh, I must have heard God wrong. This is opportunism. This is twisting His will to corrupt ends. Because people are corrupt. Adults. They live in a world of hypocrisy. They will do anything to be rich, to get laid, to have power.”
“And you don’t want any of that.”
“I want to disappear. I want to be forgotten. I want a little house with no electricity hidden in a dell. But what I want doesn’t matter. This isn’t about me. He’s giving us one more chance, one more chance to do His will, to get things right. A do-over. Find a new Garden and start again. Utopia.”
Samson holds up the tablet. On it is a picture of a teenage girl with a handwritten sign in front of her face. Samson recognizes the T-shirt. It’s Louise.
“They’re in Palm Springs.”
The Prophet holds up his hands, smiles. “Praise be,” he says.
Simon
Utopia is a made-up word, coined by Thomas More in 1516. It is a pun, meaning both “a good” place and “nowhere.” So even in its conception, the impossibility of finding a land free from the imperfections of human society was evident. And yet, throughout history, human beings have set out to build their perfect communities. Failure after failure, it matters not. Dreamers will always dream.