Postapocalypse Now

There is, I hope, a kind of pack-a-go-bag practicality to this mini-craze. Mass destruction, after all, has been the animating bogey of American politics for more than five years, but we haven't really thought through what, on a human and social level, it would mean. Could we survive? Would we want to? Would we pull together or feed on one another? That millions can handle the question, in literature or a soft-focus made-for-CBS version, may be testament to our willingness to face the times--to put ourselves mentally, for a while, where Dick Cheney lives 24/7.

That's the charitable explanation. The more disturbing one is curiosity, fatalism, even, at some level, a measure of acceptance. We need to face our darkest possibilities. And yet, looking at Jericho's ratings, I have to wonder: Do I want America to be this comfortable with the apocalypse? In Jericho's yet-unseen outside world, millions of people in cities like mine could be incinerated, starving or in anarchy. But in at least one small town, life goes on, to a pop sound track, without us--without, in fact, much time or verbiage spent mourning us. Sitting in sight of the Manhattan skyline, I would say that's the scariest story of all.