Post Apocalypse Truck Novels & Stories

He returned a few minutes later, carrying cartons of food and gesturing toward a vehicle in the back parking lot. "Guy inside lent us this," Thatcher said. "Does it run?" Stefano asked uncertainly, assessing the old truck. It looked like it would have been in its prime about half a century ago. The rusted frame and peeling paint didn't lend it a lot of confidence. "Yeah, it will run," Thatcher said as he sat in the driver's seat and gestured for them to get in the passenger side. There was no backseat so Ellie slid into the middle and Stefano got in behind her. She squeezed in between them as Thatcher started the engine and passed food to her and Stefano.

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."

Its brake lights cast a red glow across the misty dawn, painting streaks of crimson across mounds of rotting waste and twisted metal. The engine rumbled, and then the truck’s hydraulic system roared to life. With a mechanical groan, the back of the truck tilted, releasing its foul cargo. Black bags, dented cans, cracked bottles, and torn paper tumbled into the ravine below. One of the larger bags—torn and heavy—burst open mid-air. Its contents spilled down the

I shrugged and trudged up the stairs. After I was ready for work, I headed out to the truck. It was a big, black, 1998 lifted Chevy Silverado, with a crew cab. It had huge spotlights on the top of the truck. It made it easier to drive in the dark. River had this truck since he was fifteen. He did a lot of work on it. I didn't blame him for not getting rid of it. ***

We made our way further towards the trap when we heard a voice, it was a female voice and mind you it was the most beautiful voice I've heard, even in her scared state....she started blabbing about how she doesn't taste sweet or how the gods won't accept her flesh, the most funny one was her sayings no one will buy her organs as they won't work without her, she thought we were carnivores, she must have really been scared, my parents and sister fell into a fit of laughter but I just managed a smile, the soul must have been scared and I was the one

The road stretched before us, empty and endless. I sat beside Adrian in the old truck, watching the landscape roll by. The world was healing. The scars of the apocalypse were fading, replaced by new growth, new life, new hope. The ruins of the old world stood as silent reminders of what had been lost, but they were no longer monuments to despair. They were monuments to survival. To resilience. To rebirth. And now, we were traveling through it. Together. "Scarlett."

Alexander and Atlas leaned over the back, firing their shotguns point-blank into the faces of the infected trying to climb into the truck bed, knocking them down onto the road where they were crushed beneath the heavy rear tires. Up in the cab, Hawthorn slammed his boot onto the accelerator. The heavy military truck roared down the frozen estate driveway, picking up dangerous speed. Straight ahead, the reinforced steel perimeter gates of the Ashford Pack estate were locked shut. "Hold on to something!" Alexander shouted, wrapping his broad arms around me and pulling my back flat against his hard chest, locking us tightly against the front wall of the truck bed. Hawthorn didn't slow down. He

These weren't the polished agents from the pier; they were the dregs of the local Georgia chapters men with nothing to lose and a bounty to claim. I vaulted into the driver's seat of the truck, my hands shaking as I jammed the key into the ignition. The heavy diesel engine groaned, coughed once, and then roared to life with a guttural scream that felt like a challenge to the forest. I checked the side mirrors. The trailer was still hitched, but the flames were licking at the rear tires. "Dax, get in!" I screamed, leaning out the window.

The headlights of a third vehicle cut through the smoke screen. It wasn't a police cruiser. It wasn't an SUV full of feds. It was a massive, armored transport truck, its iron grille caked in fresh mud, its heavy tires tearing through the construction barricades at fifty miles an hour. The truck didn't slow down as it entered dock four; it slammed straight into the side of Matteo’s black sedan with a deafening, metallic crunch that sent the luxury vehicle spinning into the dark river channel below. The driver's side door of the transport truck flew open before the frame even stopped shaking.

They want me, but they know I am a heart breaker. Finally the two weasels riding with me are ready, so we load up in my GMC extended cab. I love my 2019 truck. It is beautiful and big. I call her my Big Bitch or BB when my parents are around. She is red, shiny, and has a spacious back seat. I crank up my music to drown out my two little brothers from talking.