The city lay in ruin. Skeletal buildings served as colossal monuments to a world long gone. Old, rusted cars lined the paths of crumbled highways, and stagnant pools filled every crevice, undisturbed, in the metropolitan graveyard.
Even so, life had begun to make its return. Moss and lichen thrived and the waters teemed with insects and bacteria. Ferns reached out from the ground, consuming the rubble of old sidewalks. A single pigeon flew from a window in search of food while its mate waited in a nest of old trash and fingerbones.
Fifty miles north, Alastor Rosewood sat on a deck chair basking in the deep red glow of the setting sun.
On the day the meteor fell, Alastor was five hundred feet underground, clinking champagne glasses with movie producers and tech giants as they congratulated themselves on surviving the apocalypse. The party continued for twenty years while automation took care of their needs, attending to the hydroponics, water treatment, and air filtration systems. After the decades-long party ended, the aristocrats emerged from their bunkers and declared themselves kings and queens of the new world.
Since that time, Alastor had built himself a quaint little country club—a 300-acre affair with a world-class golf course, tennis courts, a spa, and an opulent clubhouse with overnight suites. The country club also featured its own private airport where former oligarchs and keiretsu executives could park their private jets during their stay.
Sota Morita, grandson of such an executive, sat beside Alastor. Both men were exceptionally well dressed, as that was the price of entry to the Last Oasis Country Club. Their interests aligned particularly in watches, and they had been discussing the topic at length.
“My dear Sota, you can go on all day about this and that, but you shall never convince me that there is any watch as classic as the Rolex Submariner.”
“Of course not,” Sota said. “But design isn’t everything.”
“No?”
“The Patek Philippe Calatrava is a marvel of complexity and precision. Did you know that Calatrava watches were found in the wreckage, and with just a few turns of the crown, they started ticking again? Accurate right down to the second! We’ve even used those watches to cross-reference and verify the accuracy of our own computers!”
Alastor shrugged. “Be that as it may, the Calatrava is an everyman’s watch. It’s what doctors used to wear, desperate for an affordable touch of distinction. Now, the Nautilus is a fine design; I’ll give Patek Philippe its due respect on that matter, but I still say it doesn’t compare with the timeless elegance of a Rolex.”
“What are you two going on about?” Vivienne Ferrero asked, stepping up behind the gentlemen. She ran her fingers playfully through Alastor’s hair and sipped on a nearly empty glass of 1953 Château Margaux. “Don’t tell me Alastor is monologuing about the Royal Oak.”
“I hadn’t been,” Alastor said, “but if any watch could rival the Submariner, it would be the Royal Oak.”
“Oh please,” Vivienne said.
“The boy started it,” Alastor defended. “Apparently, he has a thing about watches.”
“Well, all mechanical devices, really,” Sota clarified.
“And despite the fact that he entered my club wearing an off-the-rack seersucker, I thought I’d humor him a bit. Perhaps even teach him a thing or two in the meantime.”
Alastor’s words were like a spear through Sota’s heart. How could he call his jacket off-the-rack? One did not even approach the Last Oasis without fitted clothing, and Sota had done just that. But he laughed off the comment, idly tugging at his cuffs.
Vivienne, bored by both jackets and watches, ventured to change the subject entirely. “It seems like the wind is picking up a bit out here, so I wondered if you two would like to join me inside for drinks? A new shipment of Dom Pérignon has just arrived, and I was eager to sample it.”
While Miss Ferrero was not the official wine steward of the Last Oasis, she was the founding member of the New Court of Master Sommeliers. Between her and its two other members, their word was law when it came to wine excellence and proper food pairing.
She led the way to the bar, passing through hallways lined with wooden mannequins dressed in popular early 20th-century styles from across the globe. The walls behind them displayed concept sketches of some of the more avant-garde silhouettes of the past two hundred years.
When they arrived at the bar, Carlton Beaumont was already there, drinking a glass of the newly arrived Dom while chatting with the AI bot who served drinks. He wore a polo shirt, chinos, and a diamond-encrusted Rolex Oyster.
“Diamond encrusted? Really, Carlton?” Alastor hissed. “Get that filth off your wrist immediately or you can remove yourself from my club.”
“Sorry, Mr. Rosewood!”
“Don’t apologize, just take it off. This isn’t a gala.”
Carlton nearly ripped the watch from his wrist and thrust it into his pocket. He smoothed back the sides of his hair and attempted to regain his composure. “You know, I saw the art pieces you added in the foyer. It appears that you were able to obtain some impressive reproductions of The Blue Boy and Pinkie. A fantastic choice.”
“I do find those pieces interesting,” Alastor said, taking a seat at the bar. “Though I’ve always found it odd that those two paintings became a pair. The boy is dressed in 17th-century Dutch fashion, while the girl is wearing an Empire silhouette! But I suppose tradition is tradition.”
“It’s all tradition and style for you, isn’t it?” Sota asked, leaning against the back of a chair. He was, by far, the youngest of the group, born just before the global emergence from the bunkers. “Do you know, I’m positive you’ll one day die in a hailstorm for fear that a rain jacket might not be in style.”
“Don’t be foolish. The right rain jacket is stylish in the rain.”
“And if you did not have the right jacket at hand?”
“That would never happen.”
“Has no one taught you the importance of aesthetics?” Carlton asked.
“There is beauty in craftsmanship. Perfectly attuned gears working in harmony with one another, creating a kinetic symphony that culminates in pure magic in motion.”
“That is true,” Carlton agreed. “Craftsmanship is important. Take the work of Thomas Gainsborough for example. He captures the texture of satin or velvet with the tiniest brushstroke.”
“And let’s not forget the craftsmanship that goes into a fine glass of wine,” Vivienne commented, passing by her companions with a glass of Dom Pérignon for each. “Mr. Beaumont, I’m aware you’ve already enjoyed half a glass, but I am certain you were not drinking it correctly. Allow me to instruct you all on how one properly samples a new vintage.”
With the help of Miss Ferrero, they savored their glasses, full-bodied with layers of fruit and a hint of spice and smoke. The mouthfeel was excellent: silky, like the satin of The Blue Boy’s finely crafted Dutch doublet.
Later that evening, on their way to the sunroom, a cylindrical robot named Pierre approached Alastor in the hall.
“Sir,” it said.
“Yes, Pierre?”
“There’s someone at the front gates.”
Alastor motioned for the others to move on. “Are they a member?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, are they dressed appropriately?”
“I am unable to determine if their outfit meets the criteria on which I was trained, sir. That is why I have contacted you.”
“Curious,” Alastor said. He nodded for Pierre to lead him to the gate, wildly intrigued as to what sort of garish costume awaited him there. Could it be that someone was playing a prank on him, or perhaps it was some new trend?
As the doors opened, Alastor caught a glimpse of the woman outside. At first glance, he wasn’t sure what to make of her. She was wearing some sort of early 21st-century working-class garb: denim and a synthetic coat. Wrapped around her lower face, a hideous floral printed scarf clashed with, well, everything, and her leather gloves were entirely too upscale for the rest of the outfit, even covered in grime as they were.
“Forgive me,” Alastor said after having taken it all in. “I don’t really host costume parties here. Masquerades, yes, but costumes, no.”
“I’m…” the woman started, pulling her scarf down. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Emily.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was just scouting,” she said, pointing toward the south. “We’ve been setting up outposts, so we can start extending our reach, and I saw your, um… I don’t know, compound?”
“It’s a club.”
“A club?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of club?”
“A country club, of course, what else?”
Emily shook her head, words failing her. She caught a glimpse of a lush rose garden behind the gate and the stately, impossibly white clubhouse beyond.
Eventually, the words came. “This is remarkable.”
“Thank you.”
“How did you manage to get the resources for all of this? I mean, this wall,” she said, backing up to get a view of the enormous wall surrounding the property. “How far does it go?”
“Well, the estate is 300 acres.”
Emily whistled. “300 acres! Hell, I don’t even know what that means, but it sounds big!” She laughed, and by some strange chance of fate, Alastor laughed too.
He took a closer look at her eyes and noticed a crinkle at the edges. She wasn’t quite his age yet, though she wasn’t much younger. “I’m sorry, Emily, what was your family name?”
“My family name? Um, Jones.”
“And which bunker do you come from?”
“Bunker?”
“Yes. Dubai? New Queensland?”
“I’m not from a bunker.”
“That’s impossible. How could you have survived?”
Emily shrugged. “Canned food. Cockroaches. Coats.”
“I can’t believe it… I’m sorry, we just… we all thought everyone had died. We thought we were the only ones left.”
“There were times when I thought that too,” Emily said. “I was barely fifteen when the dust from the impact filled the skies. It was just my mother and me back then. She didn’t make it… and for a while, I was completely alone, living off whatever I could find. Moving from one abandoned house to the next.”
Alastor was overwhelmed. A single hand rose to his silk blend button-down shirt in shock.
She went on. “Eventually, I realized that I wasn’t alone. One by one, I found other survivors. We found each other. We taught each other. We became a community. A family. I mean, it’s not much, but it’s everything to us, you know?”
Alastor nodded. He felt something strange. Something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. His eyes stung, and he didn’t understand why.
“What about you?” Emily asked, her expression turning softer. It was a look of compassion: something Alastor had nearly forgotten about.
“Me?” he asked, now stepping out of the gate, leaning against the wall as he considered his life since that horrific day. “I don’t know,” he said. “We just all went down into the bunker. And we stayed down there for ages. At first, we tried to, I don’t know, pretend like what was happening wasn’t happening, and then we just… sort of ended up separating, mostly. Retiring to our rooms to read or watch documentaries. Taking in the world that was lost: types of shoe buckles in 16th century France or the history of the Tricorn hat.”
Emily didn’t respond, but her eyes urged him to go on.
Alastor just shook his head, glancing out at the wasteland. Only it wasn’t a wasteland anymore. The hills were green, and small trees had begun to dot the land. How long had things been like that? He couldn’t recall.
“You know, it’s strange, you coming here. It suddenly makes me feel like I’ve been in a haze. But you. You’ve been out there, all this time. Struggling. Surviving. And if you’re out there, who knows how many people there are still alive?”
“I know!” Emily said. “That’s exactly how I felt each time I found someone! Like, maybe everything isn’t over.”
“Maybe there’s more to life than living in the past.”
“Exactly!”
“Yes, exactly.”
Without prompting or hesitation, Emily and Alastor found themselves embracing, laughing, and crying in a state of existential glee. Two worlds connected, one without comfort and the other without joy. A cosmic magnetism had finally brought them together, offering to make each part of them whole.
As they pulled apart, Emily said with tears in her eyes, “I can’t wait to tell the others. The nearest outpost is a few hours down the coast, so I can head back in a bit, but why don’t you show me around your place in the meantime?”
“My…” Alastor began, then backed away. “Oh,” he said, glancing behind him. Pierre stood faithfully by the door, attempting to glean from this interaction whether Emily’s outfit was acceptable or not.
“Oh?” Emily asked, adjusting a bag slung across her shoulder.
“It’s just,” Alastor said, finding it difficult to swallow. “This is… an exclusive country club.”
Emily blinked. “Pardon?”
“You see, I have worked for some time on building up a rather substantial reputation.”
Now Emily laughed in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” Alastor said, taking another step back. “And, well, you see, I can’t just let someone wearing Doc Martens and a red Uniqlo jacket walk in through the front door. You just don’t understand. All of my credibility would be lost.”
“This is unbelievable.”
“I know,” Alastor said, “but honestly, so is that scarf.”
The connection between the two worlds fizzled as Alastor took a final step back onto the grounds. He grasped at the handle of the wrought iron gate and offered a hollow smile. “Listen. If you ever raid a Wilkes Bashford, you’re welcome to come back, and then we can sit down and chat. But until then, I’m sorry… but a dress code is a dress code.
“It’s out of my hands.”