Nimrod Vs Apocalypse Novels & Stories

Adian POV I twisted and turned on my bed unable to sleep. It's not like I didn't try... but whenever I would close my eyes her crying face appeard making me guilty every time. I know i should have controlled myself and didn't act so rashly. But what's done is done.. it can't be undone anymore. I signed again thinking about Jes words.... How can I call this love when it has been only few days since I met her... I don't know if she is my soulmate or not or this feelings can be given a name but I know for sure that I'll make her mine..... "Amara.... You're mine and only mine" I mumbled myself and dozed off to sleep.

Adrian still had a wound on his head, so Jasper might make him even more stupid. He hesitated for a while, but in the end, he said nothing. “Lydia is back.” In the emergency access, Jasper lit up his cigarette. “Oh.” Adrian looked around and secretly took Jasper’s cigarette box and lighter. He lit up a cigarette for himself. “What?” After a long time, Adrian looked at Jasper in shock. “Is this the end of the Roman Empire? Is the apocalypse upon us now?” “Could you be a bit more normal. I said Lydia is back.” Jasper took a deep breath.

I lifted my head to see what happened to Apocalypse. To my surprise was there a big hole in the ceiling and lots of debris and rubble mixed with wooden beams. I got up and walked over to what was over of the ceiling. I heard some groans coming from under the debris. Apocalypse was barely alive and stuck under big stone pieces and wooden beams. “You have to do better and more than this to stop me, you pathetic woman.” She coughed and spitted a clot of blood.

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 obsidian eyes locked onto Ronan's proximity to me, and his face twisted into something cold and murderous. "Get your hands off her, Stone. Or I'll remove them." Ronan didn't even look at him. He kept his eyes locked on mine. "Your move, little maid." The air thickened with violence. Two Apex Alphas, ready to tear each other apart over a girl they called nothing. And in the middle of it, covered in dust and sweat, my bleeding knuckles still raised, I realized the terrifying truth: They weren't fighting over a trophy. They were fighting over a storm.

Going head-to-head with him would only end up with both parties wounded, and this might affect my survival rate during the apocalypse. The most important thing to do right now was to use the last of my time to hoard enough water and provisions to get through the heat apocalypse. The only problem I had was finding a hiding place for them. If I headed back to my hometown now, I might die on the way. I thought about this for a while and suddenly had an idea.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I looked out at the apartment building in the distance. Flames were shooting into the sky, and faint screams carried through the air. Linda and Tyler had hidden from the zombies by climbing into a dumpster downstairs. They were curled up in the reeking trash, shivering as they fought over half a moldy bread roll someone had thrown away. Meanwhile, I took a sip of hot soup, warmth spreading through my whole body. This was what apocalypse life was supposed to feel like. Over the next three days, I followed Duke’s guidance and swept up supplies from nearly half the city.

Unbearable, bone-crushing pain tore through every inch of Cyrus Knovell's body. It was no illusion. It was real. Too real. He lay sprawled on the ground, beaten by the very friends and neighbors he had once trusted and helped. Their fists, their boots, even their sticks struck him with ruthless force. In this apocalypse, where food and water meant survival, kindness no longer mattered. They cared only about tearing him apart. Through the haze, Cyrus spotted a familiar figure at the edge of the mob. It was Diana Feynor, the woman he had once worshipped as a goddess.