Apocalyptic Worlds Novels & Stories

I let the low melody of the music playing over the radio invade the sepulchre of that moment, after all, that's what we looked like. Two dead people. The harmony of What's Left from Three Doors Down resonated ironically, almost like a punch of truths scattered through every word Brad Arnold sang. "It's time for me to let you go, that's what we have to do. It's time to give this up, I think we already knew that. There's nothing left for us to talk about, there's nothing left to prove." Perfect timing, isn't it? Life is a succession of debauched events that play out right in front of you, leaving you only to accept that perhaps nothing can be done except accept the rules of the game.

He zoomed in on the three red worlds, each one filling the projection with horrifying detail. "First is The Abattoir. A slaughter world. Everything there exists for one purpose, to kill. The environment is toxic, corrosive, designed to break down organic and non-organic matter. The creatures are biological killing machines, evolved specifically for murder. Even the air itself is poison, slowly eating away at anything that breathes it. You'll need to move through it in under six hours or you'll start to deteriorate on a cellular level. Skin will slough off. Organs will fail. You'll quite literally dissolve from the inside out."

I argue, “On Earth, we have war, pollution, starvation, and pain. It is full of inequities. Nothing is balanced.” “It isn’t perfect,” she admits. “But it isn’t as bad as it could be. Maybe things are not quite peaceful, but imagine a world where entire continents are burned to ash and all humans, wolves, and witches are enslaved to the whims of the warlocks while the daemon holds the keys to the shadow roads, keeping the fae locked in Tara.” “I get it, WWIII and global warming mixed with a whole lot of hellfire,” I joke. “Apocalypse, Ragnarok etc etc.”

in the sky held the power to snuff out a city with a song. "It’s a total social blackout," Emma whispered, her hands shaking as she scrolled through the feeds. "Religious cults are claiming the Apocalypse has begun. Stock markets have flatlined because no one cares about currency when dragons might be real. The 'Terrified Awareness' is hitting Stage Four." By the time the shuttle reached the "Zenith Sanctuary" - the LNI’s fortified headquarters in the St. Louis Arch - the world’s governments had stopped trying to shoot them down and started trying to dial their number.

"Mary and I decided we had to leave so we cleaned you up and packed up everything that we could in a hurry. I packed the car and called to Mary to hurry up. I could hear screaming in the distance and knew Golden Sun were working their way through every house. As humans we would have never survived. The last thing I did was grab a bottle of kerosene and setting our home on fire before driving us away. I couldn't help but feel my life was about to change forever.

"There is no going north. Half the fields are burnt, and what folks are left are walled up inside their holdfasts. One bunch rides off at dawn and another one shows up by dusk. King Nrikawn can be the King now, but there are still people who worship his brother like a God." "That's nothing to us," the Seller insisted stubbornly. "Nrikawn or Moriah or the Legend, makes no matter. We take no part." Celandine chewed her lip and kept quiet, listening with rapt attention. "It's more than the King and the Lord of Life," the innkeeper said. "There are wild men down from the Mountains of Anceps, try telling them you take no part." "Fool's talk." The Seller spat. "The man I heard it from, he saw it h

I didn't quite understand her and where exactly she's heading to. She was still staring at me, not even blinking her eyes or breaking the eye contact. She looked all serious and tears were in her eyes and I could tell she was fighting it from flowing down her cheeks. I just stared at her dumbfounded, not having any words to say. "I'm not from Earth and what I told your mom wasn't all a lie – it was the truth. I'm from a place more like another world called Marazona. There, we don't have cars, we don't have clothes like this, we wear leaves. We don't know what a TV is or look like. And the most shocking part is that, we don't have male over there. I've never seen people of your gender before

Electric lamps illuminated quiet walkways, while children laughed in distant courtyards, unaware of the monsters that ruled the world beyond their borders. To them. The apocalypse was a story. To those who governed this place. It was a memory they refused to repeat. At the heart of the settlement stood the Council Citadel. Its towering white walls overlooked the entire city, its architecture untouched by war. Marble columns rose toward a vaulted ceiling where intricate murals depicted humanity's rise, its fall, and the solemn vow to preserve what remained.

"They say the Earth is a 'nursery' that has reached its expiration date. They say the soil is poisoned by too much history. If we don't cross now, we stay here for the sterilization of the next cycle. They won't stop until the Gene is gone." ​I looked out through the shattered windows of the Spire at the horizon. The red fire of the Architects' field was gone, but the world below was a chaotic mess of smoke, fire, and societal collapse. Aethelgard was a broken cage, the Red Wasteland was a vast graveyard, and the pack was scattered across a planet that now knew we existed—and likely feared us more than they feared the Hive. We were monsters in the eyes of the people we had just saved.

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