My Apocalypse Biker
IRIS
The clock is ticking, and my daughter is sick. The medicine I need is two hundred miles away, and every convoy said no.
Then someone mentions the biker with gang ink who runs impossible routes through zombie territory all alone. He's dangerous, tattooed, and everything I should fear.He's also my only hope.
STEPHAN
I don't take passengers. I have rules that kept me alive for two years: travel alone, stay fast, never get involved.
But this desperate mother needs to reach a hospital two hundred miles through hell, and her ten-year-old daughter is running out of time.Some ghosts won't let you walk away. And some women make you want to stop running.
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TheWild Apocalypse Protectorsseries features swoon-worthy, spicy romances in a world rebuilt by survivors braveenough to choose connection over isolation. When the dead walk and civilization crumbles, these mountain men discover that the biggest risk isn't the undead—it's opening your heart to someone worth surviving for.
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Iris
Allie'sfeverhit104an hour ago. Now it's climbing higher.
I press a damp cloth to her forehead and watch her small chest rise and fall too fast. The rhythm is shallow, desperate, like her body's fighting a war it can't win. Ten years old and fighting for her life.
"Mama?" Her voice is thin, cracked with fever. "It hurts."
"I know, baby. I know." I brush sweat-soaked hair from her face. Her skin is dry and burning, and the infection is spreading faster than she can fight. "You're going to be okay."
I wish it wasn’t a lie.
Three days ago, a splinter. A goddamn splinter from helping rebuild the chicken coop. She was so proud of herself for contributing, for being useful—my little helper who wants to be a medic someday, just like me. I pulled the splinter out that night, cleaned the wound with antiseptic we've been hoarding since year one, applied antibiotic ointment. Did everything right.
But the bacteria was already in her bloodstream by then, multiplying faster than our weak medications could fight. Now the redness has spread up her arm like fire through dry grass, and her blood is turning poisonous.
Sepsis. I've seen it before. Watched two settlers die from it last winter, and they were strong adults reduced to shaking, delirious husks within days. The medications in my supply closet, the dregs of what we've scavenged over four years, are meant for ear infections and bronchitis. Not this. Not my daughter's blood turning toxic.
I check my watch. Without IV antibiotics, Allie will be dead.
Dr. Nowak, our settlement's doctor, appears in the doorway. His face tells me everything before he speaks. The gray pallor, the way he won't quite meet my eyes. He's been practicing medicine in the apocalypse long enough to recognize a lost cause.
"The fever's not responding," I say before he can deliver the verdict.
"No. It's not." He's a good man, Dr. Nowak. Former veterinarian who became our only option when the real doctors died or fled. "Iris, I'm sorry. We've done everything we can with what we have."
"There has to be something else."
He hesitates before speaking, as if wondering if he even should say what he was about to say. "Fort Nelson General might have what we need. The pharmacy there was heavy security before the outbreak. Might still be stocked." He pauses, and I hear the death sentence in his hesitation. "But that's two hundred miles through zombie territory. No convoy would take that risk for one person."
"I know." I've already mapped the route in my head. Already calculated the odds. Already decided they don't matter.
The last three days, I've asked everyone. Every trader who came through our gates. Every survivor with connections beyond our walls. Begged, bargained, offered everything I own: my medical skills, my scavenged supplies, my body if it came to that.
The answer is always the same:too dangerous, too far, no one will risk seven lives for one child.
I understand. In the apocalypse, the math is brutal and unforgiving. You don't throw away multiple lives for a single maybe.
But the math doesn't apply when it's your child dying in front of you.
