Post Apocalyptic Setting Novels & Stories

“That we survived the end of everything?” “That we began it.” He blinked, and for the first time in a long while, he laughed — a full, startled sound that filled the clearing. “Of course you’d find poetry in the apocalypse.” “It’s not poetry,” she said softly. “It’s truth.” She rose to her feet, brushing dust from her palms. Around them, the land was healing itself — flowers pushing through ash, the scent of rain returning. The horizon shimmered with color. Kaelen joined her, standing close enough for their shoulders to touch. “So what now?”

Being stuck in the same cramped space day after day got old fast. After the New Year's, the holiday officially ended. Bundled up in layers, Hughie's group planned to head outside for some fresh air before they all went stir-crazy. "Nicole, you coming?" Three years into the apocalypse, Nicole had already adapted to this kind of life. "It's too cold." Not long after the three of them left, the walkie-talkie crackled. "The cold-resistant potatoes sprouted." Life had gotten so painfully boring that even potato sprouts managed to spark Nicole's interest.

Trust. Trust in me. “More food is already on the way.” I announced. “The women and children remain safe in the northern shelter. We will rebuild what was lost.” Murmurs spread through the crowd. I drew a slow breath. “Listen to me. this attack will not be the last. there are powerful people who do not want this camp to exist. They will try again.”

It was the smile of a predator who had finally been turned loose in a pen of defenseless sheep. This is what I love about post apocalypse the most: they no longer check your crime records. I adjusted my grip on my pack, feeling the familiar weight of the tools I had kept hidden beneath the mundane supplies. I wasn't just here to survive. I was here to thrive. The wall that kept the dead out also kept the living in, locked in a cage where the rules of civilization had evaporated, and where the only thing that mattered was not whether you were a good person, but whether you were still breathing.

The world slowly returned to normal. But the heat-damaged soil would take decades, maybe centuries or even millennia to recover. Everyone had to keep wearing cooling suits just to survive. The shelter continued growing as people established a city around it. Three years after the apocalypse, individual nations had ceased to exist. All races now lived together as one. Dozens of representatives formed an organization called the Federation to lead us. There was no discrimination, only the mutual understanding of survivors who'd lived through hell together. Everyone worked together and had enough to eat. The problem was that most of Earth's plants and animals had mutated after the extreme heat.

The adrenaline from the docks still clung to my skin long after I returned to the penthouse. Even after locking the door behind me, I couldn’t shake the memory of the Stalker’s shriek echoing through the fog. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those dead white eyes lunging toward me through the snow. The apocalypse had started early. Which meant every second mattered now. I crossed the dark penthouse slowly, the city lights of Oakhaven glowing beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows like a dying constellation. Somewhere below, people were laughing in rooftop bars, arguing in traffic, planning weddings and business meetings…

The transition from "Gods of the Code" to "Leaders of the Ash" was a brutal education in logistics. Within forty-eight hours of the Apex takeover, the Needle City had transformed. The upper tiers remained a lush, high-tech garden, but the lower tiers—the "Mechanical Gut" of the spire—were now a teeming, chaotic metropolis of millions. The refugees from the Stack were waking up to the three horsemen of the Real: Cold, Hunger, and Scarcity.

And then everything went dark. Present Day I’m lying down. Awake, but unwilling to move. I know I can’t stay in one place for long. Today’s refuge is an abandoned, water-damaged house, where the makeshift bed of cardboard and filthy pillows is at least dry. You’d think that a year after the apocalypse, people would have adapted. Nope. They just became worse. Men rule the world now. Most women were taken—by the demons of hell, as the survivors call them. The destroyers of our world.

"I am not 'moral lubricant.' I loved him. I stayed by that bed for twenty years because I believed there was a man in there worth saving. You didn't just farm data, Vivienne. You Raped a Soul." "Clara, honey, let’s keep it professional," Vivienne sighed, checking her watch. "The 'System/Apocalypse' transition starts in ten minutes. We need to get you into the 'Battle-Hardened Survivor' wardrobe. We’re moving the setting to a post-Paris wasteland. It’s going to be gritty, it’s going to be sexy, and you’re going to be a star." "No," Julian said. He walked to the edge of the soundstage, where the "Director’s Station" was set up. A dozen monitors displayed the "Simulation" worlds he had just lef

As much as his mom tried to teach him, Meph gets into all kinds of trouble because he doesn’t know when to back off. Run when the hair on your arm stand up. That’s one of the many survival lessons she taught Meph. But she is no longer in the picture. She left him alone in this merciless, post apocalypse world. At least he won’t suffer the trembling fear when death knocks. Standing calmly in front of the door, Meph waits, an arm’s length away from the malicious voice. Rule number one of the Soul Trial: Everything can be a trial. A question. A conversation. Anything. And just like any trial, there is reward in passing, and punishment in failing.