World War III lasted only six days. Within the first few hours, my farm in Manitoba burned to the ground. The blast that destroyed our home came from the same mushroom cloud that killed my wife. I wish it had nuked me, too, but those heartless robots saved me.

They also rescued my daughter, so I can’t damn them. She was the only thing keeping me alive… until the metaverse took her away.

Yes, I’ve tried to kill myself. I may do it again. But that purple Domesticbot with its pompous British accent keeps on interfering.

The robots won’t let us go to heaven and the humans have made Earth a living hell. As an alternative, the United Nations has offered our minds a virtual purgatory in the metaverse, while our bodies are preserved in synthetic amniotic fluid like overgrown babies. One billion survivors “live” in those pods — hard-wired to the internet — forced to dream a digital fantasy where flowers never wilt and wither.

Well, I refuse their faux flowers. So what if they burnt up all the real ones?

Still, how can I accept this post-apocalyptic world? Can I endure being cloistered on this desolate mountaintop on the northernmost tip of Norway with an unhinged robot that wears a suit and tie and aspires to be a poet?

My name is Peter Stevens, the last of the Luddites. But I don’t know if I can remain awake when… all the humans are sleeping.