One of the interesting things about post-apocalypse fiction, besides the vicarious thrill of seeing civilization laid low, is how the sub-genre enables writers to tailor the scope of the catastrophe and what survives it to suit their personal preferences.
For instance, an archery enthusiast will, in all probability, create a world where knowledge of bowmanship, scorned as as an eccentricity before the bombs fell, is not only a necessary tool for survival, but the means by which society will reorganize itself. Think of it as vindication through mass annihilation, and if the results are less than logical plot-wise, they at least serve a therapeutic purpose for the authorial fan of kickboxing, medieval weapons, biplanes, obscure contact sports, and what have you.
With this in mind, I have gathered together some excerpts of post-apocalyptic fiction as written by less representative fandoms for your edification and enjoyment:
Jon could hear the raiders’ warcries and sounds of gunfire getting closer to the Elder’s hut. The Elder looked very small and frail on his cot. He beckoned to Jon to come closer.
“Son, there isn’t much time, for me or for our village. I must tell you something. The reason why the raiders have come. A secret I have guarded since the time before the Bomb…
“Listen close, child. Two slices of cured cold ham, minced into small cubes. A quarter cup of minced sweet pickles. Two tablespoons of mayo. Stir until uniform.” - from Ham Salad in Year Zero
*****
By the time he earned guild status at sixteen, Razor had killed twenty-three people. Nine of those were children, including two babes who hadn’t yet been weaned from their mothers’ tits. His casual ruthlessness was considered remarkable even within a brotherhood of paid killers, and even his guild-brothers gave him a wide berth.
This contract, which came down from a Prime Mover in the Philly hab-dome, seemed like a natural fit for Razor, then — some killing, some vandalism, with a dash of arson thrown in for good measure.
Razor did not expect his target, a lady geezer in a pink bathrobe, to greet him in front of her Eastside bolt hole.
“I know why you’re here, and there’s little I can do to stop you. Before you earn your pay, why not take a look at what you’ve been sent here to destroy?”
She opened the blast door to her shelter and waited for Razor to enter. It was a small, but well-kept place, unremarkable except for the thousands of porcelain figurines displayed on the wall to wall shelving units. Cherubic children, enjoying themselves the way children used to before the Big One happened.
He picked up a figurine of a chubby-cheeked tyke frolicking with a puppy and looked it over. It made Razor uncomfortable. He remembered a childhood toy, a dingy three-legged plastic dog salvaged from the ruinfields and lost forever when his parents sold him to the Guild.
“They were called Hummels. I call them ‘love.’ They survived the Big One, but now it seems that their time, and mine, has finally come.”
“No. No, it hasn’t,” Razor responded, already anticipating the dozens of deaths — including his own, in all likelihood — that would result from this decision. - from Razor Comes to Hummeltown
*****
The audience had not yet finished devouring the last ragged pieces of the previous contestant when the Host turned to Sara. “Your turn, honey!” A rictus grin and sharpened teeth and eyes darker than the pits of hell. “Eat or be eaten! That’s showbiz! Right, folks?”
The sea of scarred and burned faces took up the chant. “EAT OR BE EATEN! EAT OR BE EATEN!” Sara felt the urge to run. But run to where? Didn’t she make the long, dangerous trek from the Bakersfield Reclamation Zone to Lost Angels for this moment?
She knew the risks when slipped past the quarantine fence at the county border. Nothing had changed. Better to risk it all for a chance to be Lord Cowl’s new idol than a slow death from the dust blight on the family farm.
She strode out onto the stage. “The song is called ‘Memories.’” She hoped it would be good enough. - from Plutonium Idol
*****
, 1979)
, 2000)
