Not far inland from the sad serendipity of onlookers, some held hands, embraced, prayed, but not many. Most rioted. Looted. They never heard the phrase, "You can't take it with you." They were all dead to begin with. They were part of the problem.
Farther inland, the roads, all the roads, were jammed with those who fled. Where they would flea to? They knew not. Escape to them was an impulse. Jumping ship in premature surrender to the seas however unforgiving. They would die as they lived; preoccupied and in denial of what was to pass.
Before long, the air would thicken like fog and become charged with electrical current. St Elmo's fire. Enough to start a car. The wind and sky were to descend at sea level and the laws which previously governed the clouds would wreak havoc on all terrestrial life below 3,000 feet above the original shoreline. When all is said and done, the ocean would find its peace at that height for a few short centuries. The whole of which then becoming private bathing quarters for them two who I saw fit to spare.
There they would live unbothered by the litany of turmoil and scrutiny the human world has to offer those in pursuit of fulfilment from this thing, human condition we have lbeled as 'life'. On a high desert mountain top they will exist, oblivious to the chain of events that ran course below.
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