Soft Apocalypse

Soft Apocalypse by Will McIntosh, published by Night Shade in April 2011, is a thought-provoking exploration of a society in decline. This first edition, comprising 256 pages, delves into the consequences of resource scarcity as America transitions into a “Soft Apocalypse.” The narrative follows a tribe of formerly middle-class Americans navigating a world where traditional social structures are unraveling, and new tribal connections emerge amid the chaos.
Readers will find a vivid depiction of life in a changing landscape, where the remnants of the past linger in the memories of the characters. The story captures the struggles of individuals as they adapt to their new reality, highlighting themes of survival and community in an apocalyptic setting. With elements of science fiction and suspense, Soft Apocalypse presents a unique perspective on the fragility of civilization and the human spirit’s resilience in the face of adversity.
Official synopsis Publisher
What happens when resources become scarce and society starts to crumble? As the competition for resources pulls America’s previously stable society apart, the “New Normal” is a Soft Apocalypse. This is how our world ends; with a whimper instead of a bang. New social structures and tribal connections spring up across America, as the previous social structures begin to dissolve.
Locus Award finalist and John W. Campbell Memorial Award finalist Soft Apocalypse follows the journey across the Southeast of a tribe of formerly middle class Americans as they struggle to find a place for themselves and their children in a new, dangerous world that still carries the ghostly echoes of their previous lives.
“It’s so hard to believe,” Colin said as we crossed the steaming, empty parking lot toward the bowling alley.
“What?”
“That we’re poor. That we’re homeless.”
“I know.”
“I mean, we have college degrees,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
There was an ancient miniature golf course choked in weeds alongside the bowling alley. The astroturf had completely rotted away in places. The windmill had one spoke. We looked it over for a minute (both of us had once been avid mini golfers), then continued toward the door.
“By the way,” I added. “We’re not homeless, we’re nomads. Keep your labels straight.”
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