After a Storm Comes the Sun

By Henry Mars

A life of solitude in the apocalypse is dangerous--especially when the creatures hunting us are not the expected kind of apocalypse creature. Yet somehow, the most dangerous is not the lycos, but man. See, the creatures that stalk what used to be the United States of America are strong, but they're predictable; they're driven by a desire to eat and infect. Humans are...less so. The end of the world tends to bring out the crazy in people, the radical nature of man present when there seems to be nothing else left to lose. Matthew Wisemann lost his wife two years ago, and that's not enough time to get over her loss. He keeps reliving his past with her, their travels in this wasteland that has become America. The good and the bad, they have done it all together. Her loss is palpable with every step he takes. Fate takes him to a colony, filled with decent people, for once. Yet he still can't bring himself to find companionship. Not yet. Not until he can reconcile his past. Not until he can find life without her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359901166

Book preview

After a Storm Comes the Sun

After a Storm Comes the Sun

Matthew wakes up from another dream about her, and he is weary to the bone even before he can register the mold-stained ceiling and the light rain outside. He gets up from another uncomfortable night on a dusty, tiled floor, dons the jacket he used as a pillow, and hunts for a preserved-jerky breakfast. He eats it as he walks to the front door and watches for a let-up in the early spring storm, sticking his hand out every so often to catch a drink. He tries not to dwell on his dream, but how could he refuse those thoughts? He’s never been able to keep her off his mind for very long.

They were in the wilderness, in his dream. He had shot an arrow through a wolf’s eye and brought it back to a cave they were staying in for the week. She had snow-white fur in this world, with pointed alert ears and a narrow whiskered face. She prepared the wolf meat while he cleaned the pelt to use for clothing. The shadow cast a highlight onto her belly, only slightly swollen.

I was thinking Lily if it’s a girl, he was saying. And Davis if it’s a boy.

I was thinkin’ Dracis, nevermind the sex, she responded, her voice accented. I think it’s a cool name.

That...is nice for a nickname, Matthew commented slowly, but I’d rather our child have a real name.

What, like Math-hew? she retorted.

"First off, you know it’s pronounced Math-yew. Second, my name isn’t a nickname I gave myself, Xapt."

She glared at him with narrow mahogany eyes, but she returned back to the fire and the food she was cooking. The air was tense around them for a minute or so.

I’m sorry, Matthew said eventually. I didn’t mean for us to get into a spat over this.

Xapt snorted. "A spat? she repeated. Who the hell even says that?"

Hey, I say that! he responded indignantly. What’s wrong with it?

Nothin’, nothin’, she said with another brief laugh. It jus’ sounds so...dumb.

He stuck his tongue out at her. She returned the gesture. All he could think about was how much he loved her, and how much he’ll love their baby once it was born.

And then he woke up.

There’s a break in the rain, and he slowly ventures from the safety of the abandoned house. The heady scent of petrichor accentuates the weight of the Tennessee humidity, especially when the sun peeks from behind a thin layer of grey clouds to heat up the world. His footsteps are light as he moves to the next one, stocking his bag with any goods that haven’t already been raided or contaminated. He knocks on each door, his ear against the wood as he listens for rustling or growling. Sometimes, he hears them, pawing and scratching at the door they no longer remember how to open, and he hurriedly backs away before it gets curious and violent enough to break the door down.

It was a mutated rabies outbreak, according to the rumors. An experimental biological weapon leaked from a lab in the form of a lone dog, who passed it on to other dogs, then more dogs. Eventually, a human got bit, and that’s when everything ended. In a matter of hours, the infected human transformed into a furry half-beast, a hunched quadrupedal creature with ugly patches of hair and rotted skin from the infection digesting the flesh. It growled and spat and attacked and bit and then one by one by four by ten, the human population of the North American continent was converted into what is called a feral in some places, lyco in another, killbeast in another. All names for the same grotesque, violent canoid creatures that roved in packs with a desire to eat and drive to repopulate with infection.

This has been the past eight years of his life: fighting for survival against man and feral alike, living off whatever he could find and trying to survive through the days where he can’t find anything. And for the past two years, he’d been doing it alone. There are camps of survivors that he could join, or he could find a partner to work with and help each other survive, but he’s purposefully avoided doing that. He can’t risk getting close