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Apocalypse Days: I Rule with Foresight and a Powerful Son

You’d think seeing the future would give me a head start on surviving the apocalypse. I had it all planned—until everything I knew shattered when my husband sacrificed himself to save me and our son. Now it’s just me, my three-year-old son Leo, and my cursed gift of foresight that only seems to kick in when it’s nearly too late. I’m doing my best to keep us safe, to find food, to make some kind of plan— “Mommy?” I glance down, trying to ignore the tug on my pant leg as I focus on our supplies. “Not now, Leo. Mommy’s thinking.” “Mommy!” I sigh and finally look down. My three-year-old is standing there, clutching… I blink. “Leo, where did you get a knife?” He shrugs, grinning like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My heart stutters. “No, really. Where did you find that?” I try not to laugh. I mean, he’s three. Maybe he just—found it somewhere? But the next day, it’s a water bottle. Then, a tiny flashlight, somehow with batteries still inside. I don’t even know what else; he’s pulling things out one by one with the pleased grin of a kid who’s just figured out his favorite game. Well, we may just survive this mess after all. Now, if only the universe could have spared me from him. I don’t even know his name, but I know his type: tall, broad, and annoyingly handsome, with an air of calm control that’s out of place in this chaos. Ex-military, if I had to guess, with a voice that’s just as infuriating as his smirk. The man has a habit of showing up at the worst—or best—possible times, with a gun at the ready and secrets buried as deep as those bright green eyes. I mean, he’s probably useful, but I’m trying to keep my eyes on the prize here: survival. For Leo and me. Because, foresight or no foresight, nothing is guaranteed in this new world—except the fact that people like him are trouble.

QuillMistress · Ficção Científica
Classificações insuficientes
60 Chs

21: The World Hides A lot From Us

City B, September 27th? Year 0 of the Great Collapse

The garage was silent except for the faint rustle of clothing as Winter shifted to lean against a cold, rusted shelf. The dim light from a small crack in the metal door cast long shadows over the scattered tools and forgotten parts strewn across the floor.

He glanced at the woman across from him. She sat like a statue, her coat wrapped tightly around her form, her eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etched on her face.

Winter turned back to his task, checking his rifle and ammunition. 

The small ration packet he had handed her earlier lay crumpled beside her, emptied. Smart woman—she hadn't touched it until he ate first. Not that he blamed her; caution was the only currency left in a world like this. Still, her thin frame and pale skin colour told him she didn't have the luxury to be picky.

Why had he run into her again?