The gang was all there: Stewart, Falecia, Pete, Brianna. Wearing swimsuits, flip flops, sunglasses.

Didn’t give a damn about the monsters of the deep.

It was advertised as “performance art.” A gaggle of 20-year-old rich kids flouting the rules and having a beach party, like folks used to do a hundred years ago.

They would die, of course. It would be a one-time-only performance.

Crowds formed behind the fences as the troupe marched in. The performers had all taken meds for any anxiety so they were ready for some free-wheeling fun.

This was what the world looked like at one time, they knew. And what the world had lost, by nuking the planet and turning ocean creatures into the monstrous life forms they had become.

The young dazed actors cavorted on the sand, playing volleyball, eating ham sandwiches, splashing in the surf, until the monsters got them all one by one.

Soon the sounds of partying were silenced and a few flip flops and swim trunks floated out to sea in the soft waves.

The onlookers turned away from the fence and made their way home.