Apocalypse Rider Novels & Stories

There, a Dusk Rider with his sword drawn snuck up behind and advanced at him, mouth agape and yelling a quiet cry. He was surprised but he had already sensed the Dusk Rider's approach. Keron thrusts the bayonet of his rifle at the chin of the green skinned alien; the spinning jagged knife of his Blast Rifle visibly pierced through the roof of the Rider's mouth and flooded blood to its throat and out of its lips. The faceplate of the Protectorate was splashed with dark red but Keron cared not. He squeezed the trigger thrice, sealing the Dusk Rider's facial orifices shut with its own melted skin. He withdrew his rifle and sent the butt against the armored chest of the Rider, sending the corpse

I didn’t expect the patch to come so soon. In the second month after the battle, the rooftop radio suddenly crackled to life with a crisp broadcast voice. "The Atlas Geothermal Initiative is now active. Surface temperatures will gradually recover. Rescue is on the way." Rhys and I just stared at each other. So this wasn’t a solo survival game after all. It was online, and the admins had finally logged in. A week later, a military helicopter landed in the open lot. Registration and verification went quickly. The officer in charge clapped me on the shoulder. "Turning the apocalypse into a warehouse operation! You’re one of a kind."

"The gate is exposed!" Silas turned his massive wolf head back to look at me one last time, his amber eyes flashing with a predatory triumph that mirrored my own. He let out a deafening roar of command, and with a thunderous clash of hooves and heavy paws, the three thousand northern riders plunged down the hill, descending like an unstoppable dark plague onto the golden gates of the capital. The War of the Eclipse had finally reached the High Council’s doorstep, and paradise was out of time.

Some doors still hung open. Others had blood smeared across them. No military. No police. No rescue convoys. Only silence, which was broken occasionally by distant sirens echoing through the valley below. The apocalypse had moved beyond panic. Now came the collapse. Evelyn stepped over scattered belongings near the edge of the motel lot while Rowan crouched briefly beside an abandoned SUV. “Tank’s empty,” he muttered. Of course it was. Fuel had already become survival. The electronic tone rang softly through Evelyn’s skull.

I would not beg. A motorcycle engine cut through the air, slow and deliberate. The sound pulled everyone's gaze toward the center of the yard. A sleek, black bike rolled forward, and my breath caught in my throat. The rider moved with a calm that spoke of power and control, as if the world bent around him. He dismounted with unhurried control. Kade Cross, they called him Ruin.

Gasps and snarls erupted, but the rider only said, “From Alpha Cassian. His challenge.” Kade stepped forward, his body radiating command. He didn’t look at the scroll, not yet. He looked at the rider. “You ride into our mourning ground,” he said, his voice like steel dragged over stone. “You trample our dead. If you were not messenger, you’d already be ash beneath my claws.” The rider’s smirk faltered, but only for a moment. “Cassian knew you’d say that. He said to tell you—” He paused, his voice shifting to a mockery of reverence. “He said to tell you he’ll make room in his graveyard for more of yours.”

“Not yet. He’s fighting… Somehow, he is fighting.” Bishop stepped forward, pale under the electric storm, his arrogance cracking. “You fools don’t understand! He’s beyond control. Azrael’s seed—it’s the apocalypse in a body!” Vex’s face twisted into something dark, a smile with no humour. “Then why aren’t we celebrating?” Because, I realised with icy clarity, that victory was impossible. Luca’s energy surged outward, consuming cars, tearing buildings, and ripping chunks of asphalt into the air. The Serpents we had seen arriving moments before were obliterated by mere proximity.

Handwriting from twelve years ago — the strokes heavier than they were now, the flourishes drawn wide and loose, like someone who wasn't afraid of wasting paper. I turned to page twelve. A layout diagram of the bunker. Seven bunks, one incubation unit, the storeroom at the end of the hallway, the concrete-sealed door nearly two feet thick. In the bottom right corner of the diagram, a note in my own handwriting: "The apocalypse has to feel real. Push the heat up, make the water filthy — let the audience practically smell it. Rotate the insiders every season, keep one genuinely unwitting participant — protects the ratings." After "genuinely unwitting," there was a note in parentheses. Just one

“His name is… Rider.” “Rider?” Mercy repeated the name, not just because she wanted to make sure she heard him correctly but also because she wanted to see how that name fit on her tongue. She reached into her mind for a memory, any memory, of someone by that name. But she came up empty. “Who is he?” “He’s from another pack… a nearby pack. One on the other side of the river.” “The river I came through to get into your pack lands?” August nodded. “He says that he bought you, and that your name is… Pandora.”

I was right behind them now. The first-place rider suddenly slowed slightly, just enough to force the mysterious rider to pull right. Another rider appeared from nowhere, speeding toward her side like he wanted to send her flying. But they weren’t backing off. This was way too deadly. I felt dread wash over me. Then I saw it—the rider at the back. He suddenly raised his arm. Something metallic glinted in his hand. A launcher. A small one. “What the actual fuck is going on?” Then the homing rocket shot forward. But it moved too fast, glowing red and blue as it launched straight for the mysterious rider's bike.