The stone wall was in need of repair. As I walked down its length, I placed my hand on its cold, decaying side and thought fondly back to all the times I had walked the same path back in the college days. Ha! Only twenty and already thinking back to ‘the college days.’ But how long ago they seemed! In my mind, they stood out as a time in which I was separated from the real world, absolutely purposeless, and just coasting along with a multitude of failed classes and even more hangovers. It had all ended just a few months ago – abruptly, and very violently. So what happened, you may ask? I honestly don’t know. Maybe it was a missile strike, or a very explosive accident. Whatever it was, it turned the campus, and all of long island, into a wasteland. Where there had once been buildings, there were now jagged outcroppings of concrete and steel protruding from the cracked and seared pavement. Death and destruction were all that was left of the city. Thousands died, but I survived. Why?

Walking back into camp, I expressed these thoughts aloud for the other two survivors. “Nothing really makes sense after something like this – after you lose everything. Maybe it would have been better if I had been on the streets like everyone else, looking up at the sky, and not in the basement.” Fatigued from a day of scavenging, I lowered myself wearily into a chair. Tilting my head down and turning it away from the slowly setting sun, I examined the stub of my right arm and the patch over my right eye in the reflection offered by the window of a crashed SUV nearby. “So that’s your beef,” grunted LeMore, a kindly looking, introverted, and impressively well built African American who was sitting hunched to my left, sharpening his machete. He had found me just hours after it had happened, pinned under an iron girder. He’d informed me that the city was gone, my family was gone, and my right arm was gone. Although it took about a week of acclimation, I had grown used to being comically lopsided. I had also begun to enjoy LeMore’s company and resilient sense of humor.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, kid. It was completely out of luck that we survived and they didn’t. 100%. No doubt about it.” The third voice was sharp and higher in pitch, coming from Brueworth, a Briton that we had recently pulled out from under a bus. When the two of us found Brueworth, he wouldn’t stop muttering “stinkin’ Russians” under his breath, often mixing in various swear words for seasoning. He was a generally talkative man, inserting sly witticisms at every opportunity with his winning smile and sharp eyes. Sometimes this lightened the mood, but other times it made LeMore and I wish we’d left him under the bus. He was a proud atheist as well, and would often make comments about the chaos of life. He claimed that his mother had been a blind singer and his father a deaf painter, and that they had gotten divorced almost immediately after he was born. This statement was usually accompanied by a twinkle in his eye and the flash of a half smile.

The three of us were sitting in a small circle, on scratched and rusted folding chairs from the wreckage of the office supply company. Partially hypnotized by the flames that danced around the pile of splintered wood, we shared our survival stories. Whether luck or providence, we had each been protected by something that had left the rest of Long Island – and maybe even the U.S. – to die. Once we had grown accustomed to surviving in what we called the New World, we had made it our mission to comb the island for survivors. Unfortunately, we found no one after Brueworth. Whatever was the cause of this fiery calamity, we were certain to be the only three left.

Being a Southern Baptist, LeMore argued the case of God’s protection whenever the subject came up (and this was fairly often), but Brueworth always countered with the statement, “But if God protected us, why did everyone else die?” At this, LeMore would mutter something about a divine plan or necessary evil, or something. Being a college student, or a former college student I suppose, I hadn’t had time to think about theology very often, and wasn’t exactly sure of where I stood. On one hand, Brueworth’s arguments were very convincing, and LeMore never really gave a proper or swaying rebuttal. But on the other hand, I found it unbearable to believe that the life I was leading was completely meaningless. I decided that the answer would reveal itself eventually. And eventually, it did.

We were sitting around the post-dinner fire, reminiscing about past girlfriends and delicious meals cooked by sorely missed parents. Suddenly, LeMore stood up, pointing at Brueworth. “I’ve got it!” He exclaimed.

“What is it, the cure to hiccups?” Brueworth said, rolling his eyes.

Ignoring the interruption, LeMore went on, pacing back and forth. “I know the answer! If God didn’t exist, then it wouldn’t matter who died and who lived – we’re all going to die, aren’t we?” Catching on to the line of thought, Brueworth unfolded his arms and leaned forward, stroking his goatee. “If God didn’t exist, it wouldn’t matter that we lived. We’d be without purpose. If it wasn’t for God, the population of Long Island would be as dead before the explosion as they are now.”