![]() ![]() While survival is vital, it isn’t enough. But, as I ripped through the book, I realised it was offering what other apocalyptic fiction never seemed to even bother with. It’s a mess, it’s lawless, it’s chaotic and it’s brutal. It’s not the world we know, or would want to. Mandel switches between the day the pandemic hits her native Canada and the world 20 years later.Īnd while the ground zero stuff is as terrifying and horrible as you’d expect, the revelation comes in the chapters set two decades after the supposed end of the world. Station Eleven’s apocalypse is wrought by the Georgia Flu, a virulent disease that races across the planet, kills within hours and wipes out 99% of the world’s population. I must have been feeling particularly bleak one day, because I sat down to read it. No more trains running under the surface of cities. No more porch lights with moths fluttering on summer nights. ![]() No more diving into pools of chlorinated water. ![]() But I kept picking it up again, and flipping through, even as Mandel’s “incomplete list” of things that the post-ruin world has lost forever chilled and depressed me: ![]()
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