Words by

Charlie Winters

The end of days in the North Atlantic

Day 5012 since the great disappearance. The metal shell of this braggi rattles in the storm. It’s kept me safe for a while, but the harðfiskur is running out. Soon I’ll have to head out into the barren wastes to scavenge for food. I might not make it, so just in case, let me tell you a story: the story of how Iceland fell. 

Rising global temperatures struck the glaciers first. Mýrdalsjökull and Langjökull didn’t stand a chance. Vatnajökull was able to cling to life a little longer, but soon it too was simply Vatnavatn. It was still manageable then. They turned the once mighty ice sheet into a spa and charged tourists outrageous prices to wade in the glacial remains. There were plenty of articles online about the skin care magic that ancient ice holds. 

That was all fine and well, but we weren’t ready for the receding waters.

Iceland is unique as one of the main effects of melting glaciers is rising global sea levels – at least that’s the case everywhere except Iceland. Vatnajökul’s mass forced the ground down. As it melted, the land – like the ISK – began to inflate, raising the island and causing it to gain land. This resulted in problems for the fisheries, which were suddenly far from the sea. Large swathes of sea life died out. The tourists still found ways to fuck with the sneaker waves. It was not all bad, the land growth opened up a lot of space for potential affordable housing. Alþingi acted swiftly, allocating it for lúxus flats and five-star hotels. This would be the last mistake they would make, for the great disappearance was about to begin.

With the locals then even more reliant on the tourist industry it was horrendous when the geostorms hit. Icelanders were used to hurricane force winds and hail the size of Reykjavík’s cats. I don’t think they even noticed the worsening temperatures. But when worsening monsoons became more regular, the roads to Keflavík were permanently closed. Tourists couldn’t get into the country. Remember COVID? It was just like COVID. Everything was tourist based. And suddenly, they were gone.

With no tourists to praise them the locals went mad. Reykjavík turned into a battleground. Cars and electric scooters lay overturned on every corner. Laugavegur was split down the middle as factions were formed between the Children of the Church gang and Harbor Harbingers. Icelanders tore each other apart trying to get the last of the cinnamon rolls the Bónus staff was hoarding, I still hear the screams of those poor teens in their pig shirts in my nightmares. The city was lost.

The urbanites tried to escape to the countryside but it was hopeless. The Selfoss bandits hid under the bridges at Ölfusá and picked off careless crossers. The doomsayer cults of Akureyri began their human sacrifices not long after the North’s whale watching ships went out of business. No one who’s gone to Egilsstaðir has ever returned. 

My radio picked up a broadcast from Siglufjörður. The journey through the single lane tunnels will be gruelling but if there’s hope that anyone else is out there, I have to try. Plus, if I’m lucky, the rent might be cheap there. Alright, wish me luck, I’m going to ne—-