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In a world where nothing is new, you learn to make do.
In the ruins of a fractured America, survivors rebuild with scavenged tools, buried knowledge, and systems left behind by people who saw the collapse coming. Junk Punk follows those who inherit the old passkeys, learning that survival is not enough... and someone must decide what kind of world comes next.
Junk Punk exists in a world where supply chains have broken. The reliable just-in-time economy is gone. What law remains is distant, exhausted, or simply unable to help you. So what do you do? How do you eat? Where do you find heat before winter arrives? What happens when the internet doesn’t go down for a few hours … but disappears entirely?
This series is less about apocalypse than aftermath. Societies do not vanish overnight. They fragment, adapt, calcify, and evolve into something new. Rome did not fall in a single moment. Neither did this world.
Junk Punk explores survival, local power, barter economies, infrastructure failure, and the strange ingenuity people discover when modern systems stop working. It is not written to frighten as much as to provoke thought, teach practical ideas, and ask uncomfortable questions about how fragile normal life really is.
"For three nights the Guard kept the radio alive, and people slept easier for it. FEMA, Denver, somebody... it meant the world was still talking. On the fourth morning we woke to engines. By the time we reached the road, their trucks were already half a mile out. Ordered or not, they were gone. That was when we knew."
Cold KnightsHermes Thane writes fiction that moves between languages and cultures. His work is available in English and Mandarin, spanning eBook, print-on-demand, and audio formats.
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View EditionThe grocery store lasted six days longer than anyone expected. Not because there was food left, but because people still believed trucks were coming.
By the second week the freezer cases had begun to stink. The old men sat out front in camping chairs with rifles across their knees, watching the highway like priests waiting for revelation. Every few hours somebody would swear they heard diesels in the distance.
They never did figure out who cut the fiber line running north of town. Some blamed the Chinese. Some blamed Denver. Pepper Caulkins said it didn’t matter. He stood in the parking lot turning a copper penny over his knuckles and watching the dark windows of the bank across the street.
“Doesn’t matter who killed it,” he said. “What matters is nobody knows how to bring it back.”
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