Some of the wealthiest people in America—,in Silicon Valley, Fresh York, and beyond—,are getting ready for the crackup of civilization.
An armed guard stands at the entrance of the Survival Condo Project, a former missile silo north of Wichita, Kansas, that has been converted into luxury apartments for people worried about the crackup of civilization.
Steve Huffman, the thirty-three-year-old co-founder and C.E.O. of Reddit, which is valued at six hundred million dollars, was nearsighted until November, 2015, when he arranged to have laser eye surgery. He underwent the procedure not for the sake of convenience or appearance but, rather, for a reason he doesn’t usually talk much about: he hopes that it will improve his odds of surviving a disaster, whether natural or man-made. “If the world ends—and not even if the world completes, but if we have trouble—getting contacts or glasses is going to be a fat agony in the arse,” he told me recently. “Without them, I’m fucked.”
Huffman, who lives in San Francisco, has large blue eyes, thick, sandy hair, and an air of restless curiosity, at the University of Virginia, he was a competitive ballroom dancer, who hacked his roommate’s Web site as a prank. He is less focussed on a specific threat—a quake on the San Andreas, a pandemic, a dirty bomb—than he is on the aftermath, “the makeshift collapse of our government and structures,” as he puts it. “I own a duo of motorcycles. I have a bunch of guns and ammo. Food. I figure that, with that, I can slot up in my house for some amount of time.”
Survivalism, the practice of preparing for a crackup of civilization, tends to evoke a certain picture: the woodsman in the tinfoil hat, the hysteric with the hoard of beans, the religious doomsayer. But in latest years survivalism has expanded to more affluent quarters, taking root in Silicon Valley and Fresh York City, among technology executives, hedge-fund managers, and others in their economic cohort.
Last spring, as the Presidential campaign exposed increasingly toxic divisions in America, Antonio García Martínez, a forty-year-old former Facebook product manager living in San Francisco, bought five wooded acres on an island in the Pacific Northwest and brought in generators, solar panels, and thousands of rounds of ammunition. “When society loses a healthy founding myth, it descends into chaos,” he told me. The author of “Chaos Monkeys,” an acerbic Silicon Valley memoir, García Martínez desired a refuge that would be far from cities but not entirely isolated. “All these dudes think that one dude alone could somehow withstand the roving mob,” he said. “No, you’re going to need to form a local militia. You just need so many things to actually rail out the apocalypse.” Once he began telling peers in the Bay Area about his “little island project,” they came “out of the woodwork” to describe their own preparations, he said. “I think people who are particularly attuned to the levers by which society actually works understand that we are skating on truly lean cultural ice right now.”
In private Facebook groups, wealthy survivalists exchange tips on gas masks, bunkers, and locations safe from the effects of climate switch. One member, the head of an investment hard, told me, “I keep a helicopter gassed up all the time, and I have an underground bunker with an air-filtration system.” He said that his preparations most likely put him at the “extreme” end among his peers. But he added, “A lot of my friends do the guns and the motorcycles and the gold coins. That’s not too infrequent anymore.”
Tim Chang, a forty-four-year-old managing director at Mayfield Fund, a venture-capital rigid, told me, “There’s a bunch of us in the Valley. We meet up and have these financial-hacking dinners and talk about backup plans people are doing. It runs the gamut from a lot of people stocking up on Bitcoin and cryptocurrency, to figuring out how to get 2nd passports if they need it, to having vacation homes in other countries that could be escape havens.” He said, “I’ll be candid: I’m stockpiling now on real estate to generate passive income but also to have havens to go to.” He and his wifey, who is in technology, keep a set of bags packed for themselves and their four-year-old daughter. He told me, “I kind of have this terror screenplay: ‘Oh, my God, if there is a civil war or a giant earthquake that cleaves off part of California, we want to be ready.’ ”
When Marvin Liao, a former Yahoo executive who is now a fucking partner at 500 Startups, a venture-capital rock-hard, considered his preparations, he determined that his caches of water and food were not enough. “What if someone comes and takes this?” he asked me. To protect his wifey and daughter, he said, “I don’t have guns, but I have a lot of other weaponry. I took classes in archery.”
For some, it’s just “brogrammer” entertainment, a kind of real-world sci-fi, with gear, for others, like Huffman, it’s been a concern for years. “Ever since I witnessed the movie ‘Deep Influence,’ ” he said. The film, released in 1998, depicts a comet striking the Atlantic, and a race to escape the tsunami. “Everybody’s attempting to get out, and they’re stuck in traffic. That scene happened to be filmed near my high school. Every time I drove through that spread of road, I would think, I need to own a motorcycle because everybody else is screwed.”
Huffman has been a frequent attendee at Searing Man, the annual, clothing-optional festival in the Nevada desert, where artists mix with moguls. He fell in love with one of its core principles, “radical self-reliance,” which he takes to mean “happy to help others, but not wanting to require others.” (Among survivalists, or “preppers,” as some call themselves, FEMA , the Federal Emergency Management Agency, stands for “Foolishly Expecting Meaningful Aid.”) Huffman has calculated that, in the event of a disaster, he would seek out some form of community: “Being around other people is a good thing. I also have this somewhat egotistical view that I’m a pretty good leader. I will most likely be in charge, or at least not a sub, when shove comes to shove.”
Over the years, Huffman has become increasingly worried about basic American political stability and the risk of large-scale unrest. He said, “Some sort of institutional collapse, then you just lose shipping—that sort of stuff.” (Prepper blogs call such a screenplay W.R.O.L., “without rule of law.”) Huffman has come to believe that contemporary life rests on a fragile consensus. “I think, to some degree, we all collectively take it on faith that our country works, that our currency is valuable, the peaceful transfer of power—that all of these things that we hold dear work because we believe they work. While I do believe they’re fairly resilient, and we’ve been through a lot, certainly we’re going to go through a lot more.”
In building Reddit, a community of thousands of discussion threads, into one of the most frequently visited sites in the world, Huffman has grown aware of the way that technology alters our relations with one another, for better and for worse. He has witnessed how social media can magnify public fear. “It’s lighter for people to funk when they’re together,” he said, pointing out that “the Internet has made it lighter for people to be together,” yet it also alerts people to emerging risks. Long before the financial crisis became front-page news, early signs appeared in user comments on Reddit. “People were kicking off to whisper about mortgages. They were worried about student debt. They were worried about debt in general. There was a lot of, ‘This is too good to be true. This doesn’t smell right.’ ” He added, “There’s very likely some false positives in there as well, but, in general, I think we’re a pretty good gauge of public sentiment. When we’re talking about a faith-based collapse, you’re going to commence to see the chips in the foundation on social media very first.”
How did a preoccupation with the apocalypse come to flourish in Silicon Valley, a place known, to the point of cliché, for unstinting confidence in its capability to switch the world for the better?
Those impulses are not as contradictory as they seem. Technology prizes the capability to imagine frantically different futures, Roy Bahat, the head of Bloomberg Beta, a San Francisco-based venture-capital rock-hard, told me. “When you do that, it’s pretty common that you take things ad infinitum, and that leads you to utopias and dystopias,” he said. It can inspire radical optimism—such as the cryonics movement, which calls for freezing bods at death in the hope that science will one day revive them—or bleak screenplays. Tim Chang, the venture capitalist who keeps his bags packed, told me, “My current state of mind is oscillating inbetween optimism and sheer terror.”
In latest years, survivalism has been edging deeper into mainstream culture. In 2012, National Geographic Channel launched “Doomsday Preppers,” a reality showcase featuring a series of Americans bracing for what they called S.H.T.F. (when the “shit hits the fan”). The première drew more than four million viewers, and, by the end of the very first season, it was the most popular showcase in the channel’s history. A survey commissioned by National Geographic found that forty per cent of Americans believed that stocking up on supplies or building a bomb shelter was a wiser investment than a 401(k). Online, the prepper discussions run from folksy (“A Mom’s Guide to Preparing for Civil Unrest”) to grim (“How to Eat a Pine Tree to Survive”).
The reëlection of Barack Obama was a boon for the prepping industry. Conservative devotees, who accused Obama of stoking racial tensions, restricting gun rights, and expanding the national debt, loaded up on the types of freeze-dried cottage cheese and beef stroganoff promoted by commentators like Glenn Beck and Sean Hannity. A network of “readiness” trade shows attracted conventioneers with classes on suturing (practiced on a pig trotter) and photo opportunities with survivalist starlets from the TV showcase “Naked and Afraid.”
The living room of an apartment at the Survival Condo Project.
Photograph by Dan Winters for The Fresh Yorker
The fears were different in Silicon Valley. Around the same time that Huffman, on Reddit, was watching the advance of the financial crisis, Justin Kan heard the very first inklings of survivalism among his peers. Kan co-founded Twitch, a gaming network that was later sold to Amazon for almost a billion dollars. “Some of my friends were, like, ‘The breakdown of society is imminent. We should stockpile food,’ ” he said. “I attempted to. But then we got a duo of bags of rice and five cans of tomatoes. We would have been dead if there was actually a real problem.” I asked Kan what his prepping friends had in common. “Lots of money and resources,” he said. “What are the other things I can worry about and prepare for? It’s like insurance.”
Yishan Wong, an early Facebook employee, was the C.E.O. of Reddit from 2012 to 2014. He, too, had eye surgery for survival purposes, eliminating his dependence, as he put it, “on a nonsustainable outward aid for flawless vision.” In an e-mail, Wong told me, “Most people just assume improbable events don’t happen, but technical people tend to view risk very mathematically.” He continued, “The tech preppers do not necessarily think a collapse is likely. They consider it a remote event, but one with a very severe downside, so, given how much money they have, spending a fraction of their net worth to hedge against this . . . is a logical thing to do.”
How many wealthy Americans are truly making preparations for a catastrophe? It’s hard to know exactly, a lot of people don’t like to talk about it. (“Anonymity is priceless,” one hedge-fund manager told me, declining an interview.) Sometimes the topic emerges in unexpected ways. Reid Hoffman, the co-founder of LinkedIn and a prominent investor, recalls telling a friend that he was thinking of visiting Fresh Zealand. “Oh, are you going to get apocalypse insurance?” the friend asked. “I’m, like, Huh?” Hoffman told me. Fresh Zealand, he discovered, is a favored refuge in the event of a cataclysm. Hoffman said, “Saying you’re ‘buying a house in Fresh Zealand’ is kind of a wink, wink, say no more. Once you’ve done the Masonic handshake, they’ll be, like, ‘Oh, you know, I have a broker who sells old ICBM silos, and they’re nuclear-hardened, and they kind of look like they would be interesting to live in.’ ”
I asked Hoffman to estimate what share of fellow Silicon Valley billionaires have acquired some level of “apocalypse insurance,” in the form of a hideaway in the U.S. or abroad. “I would guess fifty-plus per cent,” he said, “but that’s parallel with the decision to buy a vacation home. Human motivation is sophisticated, and I think people can say, ‘I now have a safety blanket for this thing that scares me.’ ” The fears vary, but many worry that, as artificial intelligence takes away a growing share of jobs, there will be a backlash against Silicon Valley, America’s second-highest concentration of wealth. (Southwestern Connecticut is very first.) “I’ve heard this theme from a bunch of people,” Hoffman said. “Is the country going to turn against the wealthy? Is it going to turn against technological innovation? Is it going to turn into civil disorder?”
The C.E.O. of another large tech company told me, “It’s still not at the point where industry insiders would turn to each other with a straight face and ask what their plans are for some apocalyptic event.” He went on, “But, having said that, I actually think it’s logically rational and appropriately conservative.” He noted the vulnerabilities exposed by the Russian cyberattack on the Democratic National Committee, and also by a large-scale hack on October 21st, which disrupted the Internet in North America and Western Europe. “Our food supply is dependent on G.P.S., logistics, and weather forecasting,” he said, “and those systems are generally dependent on the Internet, and the Internet is dependent on D.N.S.”—the system that manages domain names. “Go risk factor by risk factor by risk factor, acknowledging that there are many you don’t even know about, and you ask, ‘What’s the chance of this cracking in the next decade?’ Or invert it: ‘What’s the chance that nothing cracks in fifty years?’ ”
One measure of survivalism’s spread is that some people are beginning to speak out against it. Max Levchin, a founder of PayPal and of Affirm, a lending startup, told me, “It’s one of the few things about Silicon Valley that I actively dislike—the sense that we are superior giants who stir the needle and, even if it’s our own failure, must be spared.”
To Levchin, prepping for survival is a moral miscalculation, he chooses to “shut down party conversations” on the topic. “I typically ask people, ‘So you’re worried about the pitchforks. How much money have you donated to your local homeless shelter?’ This connects the most, in my mind, to the realities of the income gap. All the other forms of fear that people bring up are artificial.” In his view, this is the time to invest in solutions, not escape. “At the moment, we’re actually at a relatively benign point of the economy. When the economy goes south, you will have a bunch of people that are in indeed bad form. What do we expect then?”
On the opposite side of the country, similar awkward conversations have been unfolding in some financial circles. Robert H. Dugger worked as a lobbyist for the financial industry before he became a playmate at the global hedge fund Tudor Investment Corporation, in 1993. After seventeen years, he retired to concentrate on philanthropy and his investments. “Anyone who’s in this community knows people who are worried that America is heading toward something like the Russian Revolution,” he told me recently.
To manage that fear, Dugger said, he has seen two very different responses. “People know the only real response is, Fix the problem,” he said. “It’s a reason most of them give a lot of money to good causes.” At the same time, however, they invest in the mechanics of escape. He recalled a dinner in Fresh York City after 9/11 and the bursting of the dot-com bubble: “A group of centi-millionaires and a duo of billionaires were working through end-of-America screenplays and talking about what they’d do. Most said they’ll fire up their planes and take their families to Western ranches or homes in other countries.” One of the guests was skeptical, Dugger said. “He leaned forward and asked, ‘Are you taking your pilot’s family, too? And what about the maintenance guys? If revolutionaries are kicking in doors, how many of the people in your life will you have to take with you?’ The questioning continued. In the end, most agreed they couldn’t run.”
Élite anxiety cuts across political lines. Even financiers who supported Trump for President, hoping that he would cut taxes and regulations, have been unnerved at the ways his insurgent campaign seems to have hastened a collapse of respect for established institutions. Dugger said, “The media is under attack now. They wonder, Is the court system next? Do we go from ‘fake news’ to ‘fake evidence’? For people whose existence depends on enforceable contracts, this is life or death.”
Robert A. Johnson sees his peers’ talk of fleeing as the symptom of a deeper crisis. At fifty-nine, Johnson has tousled silver hair and a soft-spoken, avuncular composure. He earned degrees in electrical engineering and economics at M.I.T., got a Ph.D. in economics at Princeton, and worked on Capitol Hill, before injecting finance. He became a managing director at the hedge fund Soros Fund Management. In 2009, after the onset of the financial crisis, he was named head of a think tank, the Institute for Fresh Economic Thinking.
When I visited Johnson, not long ago, at his office on Park Avenue South, he described himself as an accidental student of civic anxiety. He grew up outside Detroit, in Grosse Pointe Park, the son of a doctor, and he observed his father’s generation practice the fracturing of Detroit. “What I’m observing now in Fresh York City is sort of like old music coming back,” he said. “These are friends of mine. I used to live in Belle Haven, in Greenwich, Connecticut. Louis Bacon, Paul Tudor Jones, and Ray Dalio”—hedge-fund managers—“were all within fifty yards of me. From my own career, I would just talk to people. More and more were telling, ‘You’ve got to have a private plane. You have to assure that the pilot’s family will be taken care of, too. They have to be on the plane.’ ”
By January, 2015, Johnson was sounding the alarm: the tensions produced by acute income inequality were becoming so pronounced that some of the world’s wealthiest people were taking steps to protect themselves. At the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, Johnson told the audience, “I know hedge-fund managers all over the world who are buying airstrips and farms in places like Fresh Zealand because they think they need a getaway.”
Johnson wishes that the wealthy would adopt a greater “spirit of stewardship,” an openness to policy switch that could include, for example, a more aggressive tax on inheritance. “Twenty-five hedge-fund managers make more money than all of the kindergarten teachers in America combined,” he said. “Being one of those twenty-five doesn’t feel good. I think they’ve developed a heightened sensitivity.” The gap is widening further. In December, the National Bureau of Economic Research published a fresh analysis, by the economists Thomas Piketty, Emmanuel Saez, and Gabriel Zucman, which found that half of American adults have been “completely shut off from economic growth since the 1970s.” Approximately a hundred and seventeen million people earn, on average, the same income that they did in 1980, while the typical income for the top one per cent has almost tripled. That gap is comparable to the gap inbetween average incomes in the U.S. and the Democratic Republic of Congo, the authors wrote.
Johnson said, “If we had a more equal distribution of income, and much more money and energy going into public school systems, parks and recreation, the arts, and health care, it could take an awful lot of nibble out of society. We’ve largely dismantled those things.”
As public institutions deteriorate, élite anxiety has emerged as a gauge of our national predicament bondage. “Why do people who are envied for being so powerful show up to be so afraid?” Johnson asked. “What does that truly tell us about our system?” He added, “It’s a very odd thing. You’re basically observing that the people who’ve been the best at reading the tea leaves—the ones with the most resources, because that’s how they made their money—are now the ones most preparing to pull the rip cord and leap out of the plane.”
On a cool evening in early November, I rented a car in Wichita, Kansas, and drove north from the city through slanting sunlight, across the suburbs and out beyond the last shopping center, where the horizon lodges into farmland. After a duo of hours, just before the town of Concordia, I headed west, down a filth track flanked by corn and soybean fields, winding through darkness until my lights lodged on a large steel gate. A guard, dressed in camouflage, held a semiautomatic rifle.
He ushered me through, and, in the darkness, I could see the outline of a vast concrete dome, with a metal blast door partly ajar. I was greeted by Larry Hall, the C.E.O. of the Survival Condo Project, a fifteen-story luxury apartment sophisticated built in an underground Atlas missile silo. The facility housed a nuclear warhead from 1961 to 1965, when it was decommissioned. At a site conceived for the Soviet nuclear threat, Hall has erected a defense against the fears of a fresh era. “It’s true refreshment for the ultra-wealthy,” he said. “They can come out here, they know there are armed guards outside. The kids can run around.”
Hall got the idea for the project about a decade ago, when he read that the federal government was reinvesting in catastrophe planning, which had languished after the Cold War. During the September 11th attacks, the Pubic hair Administration activated a “continuity of government” plan, transporting selected federal workers by helicopter and bus to fortified locations, but, after years of disuse, computers and other equipment in the bunkers were out of date. Thicket ordered a renewed concentrate on continuity plans, and FEMA launched annual government-wide exercises. (The most latest, Eagle Horizon, in 2015, simulated hurricanes, improvised nuclear devices, earthquakes, and cyberattacks.)
“I began telling, ‘Well, wait a minute, what does the government know that we don’t know?’ ” Hall said. In 2008, he paid three hundred thousand dollars for the silo and finished construction in December, 2012, at a cost of almost twenty million dollars. He created twelve private apartments: full-floor units were advertised at three million dollars, a half-floor was half the price. He has sold every unit, except one for himself, he said.
Most preppers don’t actually have bunkers, hardened shelters are expensive and complicated to build. The original silo of Hall’s sophisticated was built by the Army Corps of Engineers to withstand a nuclear strike. The interior can support a total of seventy-five people. It has enough food and fuel for five years off the grid, by raising tilapia in fish tanks, and hydroponic vegetables under grow lamps, with renewable power, it could function indefinitely, Hall said. In a crisis, his SWAT -team-style trucks (“the Pit-Bull VX, armored up to fifty-calibre”) will pick up any holder within four hundred miles. Residents with private planes can land in Salina, about thirty miles away. In his view, the Army Corps did the hardest work by choosing the location. “They looked at height above sea level, the seismology of an area, how close it is to large population centers,” he said.
Hall, in his late fifties, is barrel-chested and talkative. He studied business and computers at the Florida Institute of Technology and went on to specialize in networks and data centers for Northrop Grumman, Harris Corporation, and other defense contractors. He now goes back and forward inbetween the Kansas silo and a home in the Denver suburbs, where his wifey, a paralegal, lives with their twelve-year-old son.
Hall led me through the garage, down a ramp, and into a lounge, with a stone fireplace, a dining area, and a kitchen to one side. It had the feel of a ski condo without windows: pool table, stainless-steel appliances, leather couches. To maximize space, Hall took ideas from cruise-ship design. We were accompanied by Mark Menosky, an engineer who manages day-to-day operations. While they motionless dinner—steak, baked potatoes, and salad—Hall said that the hardest part of the project was sustaining life underground. He studied how to avoid depression (add more lights), prevent cliques (rotate chores), and simulate life aboveground. The condo walls are fitted with L.E.D. “windows” that showcase a live movie of the prairie above the silo. Owners can opt instead for pine forests or other vistas. One prospective resident from Fresh York City dreamed movie of Central Park. “All four seasons, day and night,” Menosky said. “She dreamed the sounds, the taxis and the honking horns.”
Some survivalists disparage Hall for creating an sensational refuge for the wealthy and have threatened to seize his bunker in a crisis. Hall swinged away this possibility when I raised it with him over dinner. “You can send all the bullets you want into this place.” If necessary, his guards would comeback fire, he said. “We’ve got a sniper post.”
The swimming pool at Larry Hall’s Survival Condo Project. These days, when North Korea tests a bomb, Hall can expect an uptick in phone inquiries about space in the sophisticated.
Photograph by Dan Winters for The Fresh Yorker
Recently, I spoke on the phone with Tyler Allen, a real-estate developer in Lake Mary, Florida, who told me that he paid three million dollars for one of Hall’s condos. Allen said he worries that America faces a future of “social conflict” and government efforts to deceive the public. He suspects that the Ebola virus was permitted to come in the country in order to weaken the population. When I asked how friends usually react to his ideas, he said, “The natural reaction that you get most of the time is for them to laugh, because it scares them.” But, he added, “my credibility has gone through the roof. Ten years ago, this just seemed crazy that all this was going to happen: the social unrest and the cultural divide in the country, the race-baiting and the hate-mongering.” I asked how he planned to get to Kansas from Florida in a crisis. “If a dirty bomb goes off in Miami, everybody’s going to go in their house and congregate in bars, just glued to the TV. Well, you’ve got forty-eight hours to get the hell out of there.”
Allen told me that, in his view, taking precautions is unfairly stigmatized. “They don’t put tinfoil on your head if you’re the President and you go to Camp David,” he said. “But they do put tinfoil on your head if you have the means and you take steps to protect your family should a problem occur.”
Why do our dystopian urges emerge at certain moments and not others? Doomsday—as a prophecy, a literary genre, and a business opportunity—is never static, it evolves with our anxieties. The earliest Puritan settlers eyed in the awe-inspiring bounty of the American wilderness the prospect of both apocalypse and paradise. When, in May of 1780, unexpected darkness lodged on Fresh England, farmers perceived it as a cataclysm heralding the come back of Christ. (In fact, the darkness was caused by enormous wildfires in Ontario.) D. H. Lawrence diagnosed a specific strain of American fear. “Doom! Doom! Doom!” he wrote in 1923. “Something seems to whisper it in the very dark trees of America.”
Historically, our fascination with the End has flourished at moments of political insecurity and rapid technological switch. “In the late nineteenth century, there were all sorts of utopian novels, and each was coupled with a dystopian novel,” Richard White, a historian at Stanford University, told me. Edward Bellamy’s “Looking Backward,” published in 1888, depicted a socialist paradise in the year 2000, and became a sensation, inspiring “Bellamy Clubs” around the country. Conversely, Jack London, in 1908, published “The Metal Heel,” imagining an America under a fascist oligarchy in which “nine-tenths of one per cent” hold “seventy per cent of the total wealth.”
At the time, Americans were marvelling at engineering advances—attendees at the 1893 World’s Fair, in Chicago, beheld fresh uses for electrical light—but were also protesting low wages, poor working conditions, and corporate greed. “It was very much like today,” White said. “It was a sense that the political system had spun out of control, and was no longer able to deal with society. There was a meaty inequity in wealth, a stirring of working classes. Life spans were getting shorter. There was a feeling that America’s advance had stopped, and the entire thing was going to break.”
Business titans grew awkward. In 1889, Andrew Carnegie, who was on his way to being the richest man in the world, worth more than four billion in today’s dollars, wrote, with concern, about class tensions, he criticized the emergence of “rigid castes” living in “mutual ignorance” and “mutual distrust.” John D. Rockefeller, of Standard Oil, America’s very first actual billionaire, felt a Christian duty to give back. “The novelty of being able to purchase anything one wants soon passes,” he wrote, in 1909, “because what people most seek cannot be bought with money.” Carnegie went on to fight illiteracy by creating almost three thousand public libraries. Rockefeller founded the University of Chicago. According to Joel Fleishman, the author of “The Foundation,” a investigate of American philanthropy, both boys dedicated themselves to “changing the systems that produced those ills in the very first place.”
During the Cold War, Armageddon became a matter for government policymakers. The Federal Civil Defense Administration, created by Harry Truman, issued crisp instructions for surviving a nuclear strike, including “Jump in any handy ditch or gutter” and “Never lose your head.” In 1958, Dwight Eisenhower broke ground on Project Greek Island, a secret shelter, in the mountains of West Virginia, large enough for every member of Congress. Hidden underneath the Greenbrier Resort, in White Sulphur Springs, for more than thirty years, it maintained separate chambers-in-waiting for the House and the Senate. (Congress now plans to shelter at undisclosed locations.) There was also a secret plan to whisk away the Gettysburg Address, from the Library of Congress, and the Declaration of Independence, from the National Archives.
But in 1961 John F. Kennedy encouraged “every citizen” to help build fallout shelters, telling, in a televised address, “I know you would not want to do less.” In 1976, tapping into fear of inflation and the Arab oil embargo, a far-right publisher named Kurt Saxon launched The Survivor , an influential newsletter that celebrated forgotten pioneer abilities. (Saxon claimed to have coined the term “survivalist.”) The growing literature on decline and self-protection included “How to Prosper During the Coming Bad Years,” a 1979 best-seller, which advised collecting gold in the form of South African Krugerrands. The “doom boom,” as it became known, expanded under Ronald Reagan. The sociologist Richard G. Mitchell, Jr., a professor emeritus at Oregon State University, who spent twelve years studying survivalism, said, “During the Reagan era, we heard, for the very first time in my life, and I’m seventy-four years old, from the highest authorities in the land that government has failed you, the collective institutional ways of solving problems and understanding society are no good. People said, ‘O.K., it’s flawed. What do I do now?’ ”
A dental chair in the Survival Condo Project’s “medical wing,” which also contains a hospital bed and a procedure table. Among the residents, Hall said, “we’ve got two doctors and a dentist.”
Photograph by Dan Winters for The Fresh Yorker
The movement received another boost from the George W. Pubic hair Administration’s mishandling of Hurricane Katrina. Neil Strauss, a former Times reporter, who chronicled his turn to prepping in his book “Emergency,” told me, “We see Fresh Orleans, where our government knows a disaster is happening, and is powerless to save its own citizens.” Strauss got interested in survivalism a year after Katrina, when a tech entrepreneur who was taking flying lessons and hatching escape plans introduced him to a group of like-minded “billionaire and centi-millionaire preppers.” Strauss acquired citizenship in St. Kitts, put assets in foreign currencies, and trained to get through with “nothing but a knife and the clothes on my back.”
These days, when North Korea tests a bomb, Hall can expect an uptick of phone inquiries about space in the Survival Condo Project. But he points to a deeper source of request. “Seventy per cent of the country doesn’t like the direction that things are going,” he said. After dinner, Hall and Menosky gave me a tour. The complicated is a tall cylinder that resembles a corncob. Some levels are dedicated to private apartments and others suggest collective amenities: a seventy-five-foot-long pool, a rock-climbing wall, an Astro-Turf “pet park,” a classroom with a line of Mac desktops, a gym, a movie theatre, and a library. It felt compact but not claustrophobic. We visited an armory packed with guns and ammo in case of an attack by non-members, and then a bare-walled room with a toilet. “We can lock people up and give them an adult time-out,” he said. In general, the rules are set by a condo association, which can vote to amend them. During a crisis, a “life-or-death situation,” Hall said, each adult would be required to work for four hours a day, and would not be permitted to leave without permission. “There’s managed access in and out, and it’s governed by the board,” he said.
The “medical wing” contains a hospital bed, a procedure table, and a dentist’s chair. Among the residents, Hall said, “we’ve got two doctors and a dentist.” One floor up, we visited the food-storage area, still unfinished. He hopes that, once it’s fully stocked, it will feel like a “miniature Entire Foods,” but for now it holds mostly cans of food.
We stopped in a condo. Nine-foot ceilings, Wolf range, gas fireplace. “This dude wished to have a fireplace from his home state”—Connecticut—“so he shipped me the granite,” Hall said. Another possessor, with a home in Bermuda, ordered the walls of his bunker-condo painted in island pastels—orange, green, yellow—but, in close quarters, he found it oppressive. His decorator had to come fix it.
That night, I slept in a guest room appointed with a humid bar and beautiful wood cabinets, but no movie windows. It was eerily silent, and felt like sleeping in a well-furnished submarine.
I emerged around eight the next morning to find Hall and Menosky in the common area, drinking coffee and watching a campaign-news brief on “Fox &, Friends.” It was five days before the election, and Hall, who is a Republican, described himself as a cautious Trump supporter. “Of the two running, I’m hoping that his business acumen will override some of his knee-jerk stuff.” Watching Trump and Clinton rallies on television, he was struck by how large and enthusiastic Trump’s crowds appeared. “I just don’t believe the polls,” he said.
He thinks that mainstream news organizations are biased, and he subscribes to theories that he knows some find implausible. He surmised that “there is a deliberate stir by the people in Congress to dumb America down.” Why would Congress do that? I asked. “They don’t want people to be wise to see what’s going on in politics,” he said. He told me he had read a prediction that forty per cent of Congress will be arrested, because of a scheme involving the Panama Papers, the Catholic Church, and the Clinton Foundation. “They’ve been working on this investigation for twenty years,” he said. I asked him if he truly believed that. “At very first, you hear this stuff and go, Yeah, right,” he said. But he wasn’t ruling it out.
Before I headed back to Wichita, we stopped at Hall’s latest project—a 2nd underground sophisticated, in a silo twenty-five miles away. As we pulled up, a crane loomed overhead, raising debris from deep below the surface. The elaborate will contain three times the living space of the original, in part because the garage will be moved to a separate structure. Among other additions, it will have a bowling alley and L.E.D. windows as large as French doors, to create a feeling of openness.
Hall said that he was working on private bunkers for clients in Idaho and Texas, and that two technology companies had asked him to design “a secure facility for their data center and a safe haven for their key personnel, if something were to happen.” To accommodate request, he has paid for the possibility to buy four more silos.
If a silo in Kansas is not remote or private enough, there is another option. In the very first seven days after Donald Trump’s election, 13,401 Americans registered with Fresh Zealand’s immigration authorities, the very first official step toward seeking residency—more than seventeen times the usual rate. The Fresh Zealand Herald reported the surge underneath the headline “ Trump Apocalypse .”
The shooting range at the Survival Condo Project. Hall said that the hardest part of the project was sustaining life underground. He studied how to avoid depression (add more lights) and prevent cliques (rotate chores).
Photograph by Dan Winters for The Fresh Yorker
In fact, the influx had begun well before Trump’s victory. In the very first ten months of 2016, foreigners bought almost fourteen hundred square miles of land in Fresh Zealand, more than quadruple what they bought in the same period the previous year, according to the government. American buyers were 2nd only to Australians. The U.S. government does not keep a tally of Americans who own 2nd or third homes overseas. Much as Switzerland once drew Americans with the promise of secrecy, and Uruguay tempted them with private banks, Fresh Zealand offers security and distance. In the past six years, almost a thousand foreigners have acquired residency there under programs that mandate certain types of investment of at least a million dollars.
Jack Matthews, an American who is the chairman of MediaWorks, a large Fresh Zealand broadcaster, told me, “I think, in the back of people’s minds, frankly, is that, if the world truly goes to shit, Fresh Zealand is a Very first World country, downright self-sufficient, if necessary—energy, water, food. Life would deteriorate, but it would not collapse.” As someone who views American politics from a distance, he said, “The difference inbetween Fresh Zealand and the U.S., to a large extent, is that people who disagree with each other can still talk to each other about it here. It’s a lil’ little place, and there’s no anonymity. People have to actually have a degree of civility.”
Auckland is a thirteen-hour flight from San Francisco. I arrived in early December, the beginning of Fresh Zealand’s summer: blue skies, mid-seventies, no humidity. Top to bottom, the island chain runs harshly the distance inbetween Maine and Florida, with half the population of Fresh York City. Sheep outnumber people seven to one. In global rankings, Fresh Zealand is in the top ten for democracy, clean government, and security. (Its last encounter with terrorism was in 1985, when French spies bombed a Greenpeace ship.) In a latest World Bank report, Fresh Zealand had supplanted Singapore as the best country in the world to do business.
The morning after I arrived, I was picked up at my hotel by Graham Wall, a cheerful real-estate agent who specializes in what his profession describes as high-net-worth individuals, “H.N.W.I.” Wall, whose clients include Peter Thiel, the billionaire venture capitalist, was astonished when Americans told him they were coming precisely because of the country’s remoteness. “Kiwis used to talk about the ‘tyranny of distance,’ ” Wall said, as we crossed town in his Mercedes convertible. “Now the terror of distance is our greatest asset.”
Before my excursion, I had wondered if I was going to be spending more time in luxury bunkers. But Peter Campbell, the managing director of Triple Starlet Management, a Fresh Zealand construction hard, told me that, by and large, once his American clients arrive, they determine that underground shelters are gratuitous. “It’s not like you need to build a bunker under your front lawn, because you’re several thousand miles away from the White House,” he said. Americans have other requests. “Definitely, helipads are a big one,” he said. “You can fly a private jet into Queenstown or a private jet into Wanaka, and then you can grab a helicopter and it can take you and land you at your property.” American clients have also sought strategic advice. “They’re asking, ‘Where in Fresh Zealand is not going to be long-term affected by rising sea levels?’ ”
The growing foreign appetite for Fresh Zealand property has generated a backlash. The Campaign Against Foreign Control of Aotearoa—the Maori name for Fresh Zealand—opposes sales to foreigners. In particular, the attention of American survivalists has generated resentment. In a discussion about Fresh Zealand on the Modern Survivalist, a prepper Web site, a commentator wrote, “Yanks, get this in your goes. Aotearoa NZ is not your little last resort safe haven.”
An American hedge-fund manager in his forties—tall, suntanned, athletic—recently bought two houses in Fresh Zealand and acquired local residency. He agreed to tell me about his thinking, if I would not publish his name. Brought up on the East Coast, he said, over coffee, that he expects America to face at least a decade of political turmoil, including racial strain, polarization, and a rapidly aging population. “The country has turned into the Fresh York area, the California area, and then everyone else is frantically different in the middle,” he said. He worries that the economy will suffer if Washington scrambles to fund Social Security and Medicare for people who need it. “Do you default on that obligation? Or do you print more money to give to them? What does that do to the value of the dollar? It’s not a next-year problem, but it’s not fifty years away, either.”
Fresh Zealand’s reputation for attracting doomsayers is so well known in the hedge-fund manager’s circle that he chooses to differentiate himself from earlier arrivals. He said, “This is no longer about a handful of weirdos worried about the world ending.” He laughed, and added, “Unless I’m one of those weirdos.”
Every year since 1947, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists , a magazine founded by members of the Manhattan Project, has gathered a group of Nobel laureates and other luminaries to update the Doomsday Clock, a symbolic gauge of our risk of wrecking civilization. In 1991, as the Cold War was ending, the scientists set the clock to its safest point ever—seventeen minutes to “midnight.”
Since then, the direction has been inauspicious. In January, 2016, after enlargening military tensions inbetween Russia and NATO , and the Earth’s warmest year on record, the Bulletin set the clock at three minutes to midnight, the same level it held at the height of the Cold War. In November, after Trump’s election, the panel convened once more to conduct its annual confidential discussion. If it chooses to budge the clock forward by one minute, that will signal a level of alarm not witnessed since 1953, after America’s very first test of the hydrogen bomb. (The result will be released January 26th.)
Fear of disaster is healthy if it spurs act to prevent it. But élite survivalism is not a step toward prevention, it is an act of withdrawal. Philanthropy in America is still three times as large, as a share of G.D.P., as philanthropy in the next closest country, the United Kingdom. But it is now accompanied by a gesture of capitulate, a quiet disinvestment by some of America’s most successful and powerful people. Faced with evidence of frailty in the American project, in the institutions and norms from which they have benefitted, some are permitting themselves to imagine failure. It is a gilded despair.
As Huffman, of Reddit, observed, our technologies have made us more alert to risk, but have also made us more panicky, they facilitate the tribal temptation to cocoon, to seclude ourselves from opponents, and to fortify ourselves against our fears, instead of attacking the sources of them. Justin Kan, the technology investor who had made a halfhearted effort to stock up on food, recalled a latest phone call from a friend at a hedge fund. “He was telling me we should buy land in Fresh Zealand as a backup. He’s, like, ‘What’s the percentage chance that Trump is actually a fascist dictator? Maybe it’s low, but the expected value of having an escape hatch is pretty high.’ ”
There are other ways to absorb the anxieties of our time. “If I had a billion dollars, I wouldn’t buy a bunker,” Elli Kaplan, the C.E.O. of the digital health startup Neurotrack, told me. “I would reinvest in civil society and civil innovation. My view is you figure out even smarter ways to make sure that something terrible doesn’t happen.” Kaplan, who worked in the White House under Bill Clinton, was appalled by Trump’s victory, but said that it galvanized her in a different way: “Even in my deepest fear, I say, ‘Our union is stronger than this.’ ”
That view is, in the end, an article of faith—a conviction that even degraded political institutions are the best instruments of common will, the devices for fashioning and sustaining our fragile consensus. Believing that is a choice.
I called a Silicon Valley sage, Stewart Brand, the author and entrepreneur whom Steve Jobs credited as an inspiration. In the sixties and seventies, Brand’s “Whole Earth Catalog” attracted a cult following, with its combination of hippie and techie advice. (The motto: “We are as gods and might as well get good at it.”) Brand told me that he explored survivalism in the seventies, but not for long. “Generally, I find the idea that ‘Oh, my God, the world’s all going to fall apart’ strange,” he said.
At seventy-seven, living on a tugboat in Sausalito, Brand is less struck by signs of fragility than by examples of resilience. In the past decade, the world survived, without violence, the worst financial crisis since the Excellent Depression, Ebola, without cataclysm, and, in Japan, a tsunami and nuclear meltdown, after which the country has persevered. He sees risks in escapism. As Americans withdraw into smaller circles of practice, we jeopardize the “larger circle of empathy,” he said, the search for solutions to collective problems. “The effortless question is, How do I protect me and mine? The more interesting question is, What if civilization actually manages continuity as well as it has managed it for the past few centuries? What do we do if it just keeps on chugging?”
After a few days in Fresh Zealand, I could see why one might choose to avoid either question. Under a cerulean blue sky one morning in Auckland, I boarded a helicopter beside a thirty-eight-year-old American named Jim Rohrstaff. After college, in Michigan, Rohrstaff worked as a golf pro, and then in the marketing of luxury golf clubs and property. Upbeat and certain, with shining blue eyes, he moved to Fresh Zealand two and a half years ago, with his wifey and two children, to sell property to H.N.W.I. who want to get “far away from all the issues of the world,” he said.
Rohrstaff, who co-owns Legacy Fucking partners, a boutique brokerage, desired me to see Tara Iti, a fresh luxury-housing development and golf club that appeals mostly to Americans. The helicopter nosed north across the harbor and banked up the coast, across lush forests and fields beyond the city. From above, the sea was a sparkling expanse, scalloped by the wind.
The helicopter eased down onto a lawn beside a putting green. The fresh luxury community will have three thousand acres of dunes and forestland, and seven miles of coastline, for just a hundred and twenty-five homes. As we toured the site in a Land Rover, he emphasized the seclusion: “From the outside, you won’t see anything. That’s better for the public and better for us, for privacy.”
As we neared the sea, Rohrstaff parked the Land Rover and climbed out. In his loafers, he marched over the dunes and led me down into the sand, until we reached a spread of beach that extended to the horizon without a soul in look.
Sways roared ashore. He spread his arms, turned, and laughed. “We think it’s the place to be in the future,” he said. For the very first time in weeks—months, even—I wasn’t thinking about Trump. Or much of anything. ♦
Evan Osnos joined The Fresh Yorker as a staff writer in 2008, and covers politics and foreign affairs. He is the author of “Age of Ambition: Pursuing Fortune, Truth, and Faith in the Fresh China.”