The Age of Fire & Ash didn’t begin as a novel. It began as coursework.
In 2023, while working through ENG-330, I found myself repeatedly circling the same uncomfortable questions in my papers—questions far bigger than the assignments required. What does the world look like after systems fail? What happens when disaster isn’t singular or clean, but layered and prolonged? And what happens when the people in charge don’t—or can’t—tell the truth?
Those early academic explorations became the first sparks of what would later evolve into The Age of Fire & Ash. At the time, I wasn’t intentionally building a fictional universe. I was stress-testing ideas. Pulling threads. Asking “what if” in places most people would rather not look.
What emerged was a realization that still shapes my writing today: the end of the world is rarely one event. It’s coordination failures. Overlapping crises. Human decisions colliding with natural forces that don’t care about politics, borders, or intentions.
The Age of Fire & Ash isn’t just about nuclear exchange (because we all know a full-on exchange is one of those disasters we can’t even fathom). It’s about what comes in the wake of the realities of it all—governmental coverups, delayed responses, infrastructure collapse, and the ripple effects of disasters stacking on top of one another. I deliberately explored scenarios that don’t get enough attention, including what might happen if Yellowstone were triggered during an already fragile global moment. What would a limited eruption mean and how would our characters deal with such an event?
As a writer of apocalyptic fiction, I’ve always believed that a single, planet-ending catastrophe might actually be too unsurvivable in narrative terms. But have recently seen just such a book from my friend Joe Nirmaier that sang a different tune when it comes to readers and fictional disasters. But it doesn’t negate the realities of how hopeless it can feel.
And as someone who has been immersed in preparedness for a long time, I know this to be true outside of fiction as well. Survival isn’t always about the event itself. It’s about what fails next. It’s about supply chains, communication breakdowns, and the psychological toll of prolonged uncertainty. All of this, and the biggest what if factor? The human factor! In many cases, staying alive is harder than people imagine.
ENG 330–The Fire Below (the actual paper)
Kilauea, a volcano in the Hawaiian Islands, has grumbled and churned. Reminding the world of the volcanic nature of the planet we live on. Day and night, it seeps lava from an ongoing volcanic eruption. We can observe a scene that is one of gently flowing lava. But, what if it were not so gentle? What if it was explosive, like Mount Saint Helens? What if the eruption were a hundred times greater? The questions create a moment of pause in our thoughts about volcanoes. When we consider the destructive power of volcanoes and recall events such as the eruption of Mount St. Helens in 1980, the potential devastation of one so massive seems unreal. This is what the Yellowstone super volcano would be like. Exploring what the effects of such an event would be on the United States and even the world promises to be a journey that would offer nightmares. When Tambora blew in 1815 it kicked off the year without a summer(Tambora), due to the ash lingering in the atmosphere and blocking the rays of the sun. Impact of this event was catastrophic and felt worldwide, giving pause to wonder how an eruption on the scale of super volcanoes in the past played out from archeological records; and how it would affect us today.
According to archeological records, the Yellowstone super volcano has erupted in the past. More than once in fact, and it is not the only one on earth. Yellowstone is quite possibly one of the most potentially devastating volcanoes on earth and we know this because of what archeologists have discovered about its rather incredible past. Taking pause to look at this sleeping giant and its prior activity, some scientists contend that we are 40,000 years overdue for the next big eruption, while others disagree. Looking back at the history of this fiery giant, the plain truth is that it has and can happen again. There are a number of major eruptions that archeologists have documented. While there are many eruptions to date, what is concerning is the ones that make this a super volcano. There are three that are documented in recent history, 2.1 million years ago, 1.3 million years ago ( ), and 640,000 years ago; but the track of this hot spot is actually moving in a northeastern path that can be seen as far back as 16.5 million years ago.( )
Why should anyone care about a volcano whose history is so old? Consider this: when Mount St. Helens erupted in 1980, the area affected was 229 square miles. “It was the deadliest and most economically destructive volcanic event in the history of the United States” (NOAA). Yellowstone’s past eruptions were thousands of times more powerful than Mount St. Helens.
Works Cited
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“Mount Tambora and the Year Without a Summer.” The Water Cycle | UCAR Center for Science Education, scied.ucar.edu/shortcontent/mount-tambora-and-year-without-summer.
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National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration [NOAA]. Mount St. Helens, Washington USA, ngdc.noaa.gov/hazard/stratoguide/helenfact.html
Why Fiction Matters to Preparedness
This is where fiction becomes more than entertainment.
Apocalyptic fiction allows us to safely explore worst-case scenarios without living through them. It gives us a sandbox to test assumptions, expose blind spots, and ask questions we might never think to ask otherwise. What happens when the grid doesn’t come back? When aid is delayed indefinitely? When the plan you had only works for the first three weeks?
Preparedness isn’t about paranoia—it’s about awareness. And stories help build that awareness by walking us through consequences step by step. They force us to think about logistics, psychology, and moral choice under pressure.
The Age of Fire & Ash exists at the intersection of fiction and preparedness. It’s not a prediction. It’s a conversation starter. A way to explore how layered disasters might unfold—and how ordinary people might adapt when the world stops behaving the way they expect.
Because the real lesson isn’t whether Yellowstone erupts or a system fails.
It’s this: resilience isn’t built after the fire. It’s built in how—and whether—we prepare before the ash ever falls.
DJ