Chapter 1: The Sky Burns

The garage smelled of oil and old concrete, the kind of scent that clung to Marcus’s skin after hours of coaxing life back into the ancient generator. He was twenty-four, broad-shouldered from years of weekend hikes and impromptu gym sessions, his dark hair damp with sweat under the single bare bulb. His fingers worked the wrench with practiced rhythm when the world ended in silence and fire.

A white flash ripped across the horizon like the sun itself had cracked open. Marcus straightened, wrench still in hand, as meteors streaked overhead—dozens of them, blazing arrows against the deepening dusk. Then came the pulse. Every light in the house died at once. The refrigerator’s hum cut off mid-cycle. Car alarms that had begun to wail outside strangled into nothing. Phones in pockets went dark. The old SUV in the driveway refused to start when he sprinted to it, engine clicking uselessly.

Chaos swallowed the suburbs in seconds. Distant explosions bloomed from the city skyline—transformers, gas lines, maybe planes dropping out of the sky. Neighbors screamed names into the sudden dark. A woman two houses down ran into the street in her bathrobe, flashlight already dead in her hand.

“Marcus!” Elena’s voice cracked through the garage door.

She burst in wearing nothing but the thin white nightgown she’d slept in, the hem already torn at one shoulder from snatching emergency bags. At forty-two she was all lush, impossible curves—voluptuous in the way that made men forget their manners. Heavy DD breasts strained against the damp cotton, nipples already peaked from fear and the sudden chill. Auburn hair spilled wild down her back, and the gown clung to the generous swell of her hips and the soft, inviting belly that had carried two children. Her thighs, thick and smooth, brushed together as she ran.

“Mom—get the bags,” Marcus said, voice steady even as his heart hammered. He grabbed the rifle from the wall rack and the box of shells he’d been meaning to organize for months.

Sophia and Liam piled in behind her. Sophia, twenty-two, was the runner’s body to her mother’s softness—athletic, long-limbed, with perky C-cup breasts that rose and fell rapidly under a thin tank top already darkened with sweat. Her tight runner’s ass flexed visibly beneath tiny sleep shorts as she hauled two duffels. Liam, twenty and still growing into his lean frame, was shirtless, golden skin gleaming, carrying the lantern, a hunting rifle of his own, and every canned good he could find.