HuntingWolf
Membership Revoked
The Day the Earth Shook Loose
Chapter 1
Atlanta, MI
November 15th,
Year of our Lord 2025
Clip, clomp, clip, clomp.
I vaguely listen to Thunder's hooves on the blacktop as I rode into Atlanta, the county seat of Montmorency county.
Looking around at the closed businesses and boarded up homes, it made me feel blessed that I still had a roof over my head and hadn't needed to head back to the cities like so many others had done.
As Thunder took his time heading down M-33, I could see a work crew taking down the power lines on one of the side streets in town. With no one living there (or even if there was) there was a great need for infrastructure materials to repair the destroyed systems in the western US.
Hmmm. First time I saw a salvage crew without some National Guard to protect them from the locals.
Guess nobody cared anymore. Living in a Dark Zone could do that to you.
Clip, clomp, clip, clomp.
It was a nice sunny November day. Very warm for this time of year. Winds blowing hard from the south kept the bugs down.
Then it hit me.
It was Opening Day for rifle deer season.
I got a good chuckle out of that.
Few had the ammo to waste for such things for several years since President Rodham had banned the import of ammunition and firearms into the country.
My mind wondered for a while until I found myself in front of the Elk Hunt bar. The Elk Hunt was typical of your newer tourist bars here in northern Michigan. Made to look like a lodge on the outside and a sports bar on the inside. But Elk Hunt was a bit different in that the owner, Bob Owens, had been a big game hunter. Your standard flat screens were station around the bar (now dark and quiet) along with pictures of Bob's hunting trips from around the world and with many of his taxidermy trophies hanging from the walls.
It didn't serve beer anymore, just some “whiskey” that I was sure had never seen the inside of a distillery.
The Elk Hunt also served as a watering hole/ trade center/ and the unofficial Montmorency Sheriff Station.
The real station wasn't able to heat itself after the natural gas industry was nationalized. The station was too new and deemed a “waste of natural strategic resources”. Plus, there was only the Sheriff and three deputies left anyhow.
The Elk Hunt was able to heat itself with wood and the Sheriff took a corner for himself to conduct business.
Which was what I was here for.
I hopped off Thunder and tied him to the hitching post. Just him, a few bikes that looked to be on the verge of falling apart, and a S-10 diesel painted ruffly in Sheriff colors.
Adjusting the AR on my back, I stepped inside.
As I walked in, there was no sign of Bob today, nor any customers. Bob should have been in his usual spot behind the bar. There should have been at least a few old guys playing cards but the place was deserted except for the cops.
With the shutters down, the bar was fully lite on this bright day. I could see Sheriff Martin, along with two of his deputies, Tom Snow and Richard Case sitting back by the now dead kitchen. I could also see a few members of the Sheriff's Posse that had been formed after the war.
What I didn't expect to see were the three FBSI agents.
I slowly started back out the door. The last thing I needed was to be evoled in anything having to do with the stupid feds.
And that's when Sheriff Martin saw me.
“Get over here, Maximilian.” He said, waving me over. “ We've been waiting for you.”
As I got to the table, I watched as the Sheriff pushed out a chair and smirking said; “Take a load off.”
I slung off my S&W MP10 and rested in the rack with all the others. Along with a couple of other ARs, a Mosin M44, and some hunting rifles. I took off my brown duster and laid it across the back of my chair and took a seat, tossing my Montmorency County Sheriffs cap on the table.
“Got anything to report before we start?” Asked the Sheriff.
“Just another suicide. John Matthews, 66. Neighbor found him hanging from the rafters in his garage.”
I handed him a thumb drive with my report. The Sheriff took the drive and plugged it into his laptop and then read the report and studied the photos.
“Looks legit. What do you think?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Heck, five years ago I had been a garbage man. I never went through any real training or an academy. I had just been stupid enough to take a job that didn't really pay anything.
“Like I said in the report, writing was his in the note, he had stuff himself on as much food as he could eat, and there wasn't enough food or wood to last even two months, let alone the entire winter. Matthews wasn't going to make it and he just decided to end it.”
“Body?”
“Neighbors buried him in the back yard. Made sure a marker was placed for retrieval when things get better.”
That brought a bout of snickering from the locals. The feds just looked bored.
“That makes it thirty-two for the month. Lot less then last year at this time”
“Lot less people then last year too, boss.” I replied.
Since the war ended three years ago, people had been moving out of rural areas at a rapid rate. First, the feds made anyone getting welfare to move to urban areas if they wanted to still get their benefits. Then it was those on Social Security and government pensions that had to move. After that, and with the tourist and hunting industry dead, more just kept moving out. More people, and their money, left and the more things collapsed up here.
Soon, all that were left were some farmers, people with no where to go or the rest of us, that weren't going to leave our homes.
County use to have a little less then ten thousand residents. Now, we guessed less then five hundred.
“Anything else? Ammo? Guns? Food?” The Sheriff asked.
“Just a partial box of 9mm, no weapon. I gave what little food he had to his neighbors.” I said tossing the box of Federal on the table.
“Nothing else to report?”
“Just the usual scavenging and theft.”
“Any sign of Eaters?”
I shivered at that thought.
“No.”
“Alright then, with that settled, on to what they're doing here.” Waving at the FBSI agents.
“I'll take it from here, if you don't mind, Sheriff.”
“Go on, I'm sure we're all on pins and needles to hear what you have to say.” Sheriff Martin said with a smile.
That got a couple chuckles. The feds were basically useless in a Dark Zone.
“Whatever. I'm Special agent Mayweather and this is special agent Stevens and Higgins. We are here to provide security for three survey teams from the USGS. And we need your assistance with this matter.”
Someone blew a raspberry at that. More snickering abound.
I watched as very special agent Mayweather balled his fists and his face started to turn a lovely shade of red.
Before the he could say anything, the Sheriff cut in. “Alright, enough! Let's hear what agent Mayweather has to say and the faster we'll be done and can get back to our homes.”
Mayweather blew out his cheeks and settled down. He knew he had no real power out here in the sticks and he could just end up missing like so many others had over the last couple of years.
“As I was saying: We need your help. Since the Seoul Accords prohibit the government from having any drones or satellites, we have to do everything the old fashion way. That means either planes or hoofing it. And we're short on planes. What we need is for you gentlemen to guide our teams.”
“For what?” Asked Deputy Case.
And then the building shook.
“For that, deputy. We're here to find out why the hell that is happening.”
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