Outlaws of the Midwest | Book 1 | Chaos Erupts Read online

  CHAOS ERUPTS

  Outlaws of the Midwest Book One

  Jack Hunt

  Direct Response Publishing.

  Copyright © 2020 by Jack Hunt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Chaos Erupts: Outlaws of the Midwest Book 1 is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Outlaws of the Midwest series

  Chaos Erupts

  Book 2 (To follow soon)

  The Cyber Apocalypse series

  As Our World Ends

  As Our World Falls

  As Our World Burns

  The Agora Virus series

  Phobia

  Anxiety

  Strain

  The War Buds series

  War Buds 1

  War Buds 2

  War Buds 3

  Camp Zero series

  State of Panic

  State of Shock

  State of Decay

  Renegades series

  The Renegades

  The Renegades Book 2: Aftermath

  The Renegades Book 3: Fortress

  The Renegades Book 4: Colony

  The Renegades Book 5: United

  The Wild Ones Duology

  The Wild Ones Book 1

  The Wild Ones Book 2

  The EMP Survival series

  Days of Panic

  Days of Chaos

  Days of Danger

  Days of Terror

  Against All Odds Duology

  As We Fall

  As We Break

  The Amygdala Syndrome Duology

  Unstable

  Unhinged

  Survival Rules series

  Rules of Survival

  Rules of Conflict

  Rules of Darkness

  Rules of Engagement

  Lone Survivor series

  All That Remains

  All That Survives

  All That Escapes

  All That Rises

  Mavericks series

  Mavericks: Hunters Moon

  Time Agents series

  Killing Time

  Single Novels

  Blackout

  Defiant

  Darkest Hour

  Final Impact

  The Year Without Summer

  The Last Storm

  The Last Magician

  The Lookout

  Class of 1989

  For my Family

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  A Plea

  Readers Team

  About the Author

  Foreword

  In Chaos Erupts I wanted to pay homage to bowhunters and the beautiful Midwest which is where the action is set. A good portion of the story in book one takes place around the Ozark Plateau and the real town of Camdenton, Missouri.

  While I aim to ground my stories in as much reality as possible, my ultimate goal is to entertain and keep you turning pages. So for the sake of the story I have taken a few liberties with the countries, and the scenarios presented.

  While some might think this is a story of America’s demise, I don’t. I believe it’s one of resilience in the face of crazy odds. It’s a look at what could happen, what people might do, and what some would if given the chance.

  People are complex with many layers, and not all of those layers will be seen in the first three chapters but they will unfold over the course of several books. Give the characters time. I promise it will be worth it.

  Prologue

  The Ozark Mountains

  Present day

  Miles Arrington awoke to a terrible throbbing at the back of his skull. He blinked through a pounding headache; his vision doubled, and there was a ringing in his ears. His face was wet, pressed into the dirt, almost covered by a puddle; his body soaked from a sky pelting rain.

  Miles cried out in agony as he attempted to move, his muscles cramped as his hands clawed at waterlogged soil with no idea of where he was or how he’d gotten there. He blinked water droplets and smeared dirt across his lips. The taste was wild, cold, and unforgiving.

  As his vision cleared, he scanned the filthy surroundings, dismay swelling in his chest. What is this place?

  Another rumble, a flash of lightning illuminated huge walls of dirt rising at least fifteen feet high around him. Protruding from the earth were knotted, wiry, wormlike roots. The thickest looked like exposed rebar from concrete.

  His immediate thought — it’s a prison.

  Square in shape; the hole was no bigger than seven feet wide on all sides. The opening was uncovered, exposing him to the cruel elements. Rain bombarded without mercy, turning the soil into a shallow, murky pool. As he staggered to his feet, determined to escape, another spike of pain gripped him, though now coming from his left shoulder. Instinctively, Miles touched the source, pulling away as his nerve ends screamed at full volume.

  He winced, lifting his eyes to the storm.

  A few thoughts pushed through the fire of pain.

  How did I get here?

  That’s when it came back to him: his mother, the occupation, the PLA sympathizers, the chase, the blade, and then a burly figure who blindsided him.

  Caught?

  The very thought made him angry.

  He paced the pit like a penned animal, thoughts swirling in his mind.

  How long have I been here?

  It couldn’t have been long as it was still dark.

  “Hello?” he croaked.

  No answer. The wind howled.

  He listened for signs of life, animal, human, anyone that might hear him. Someone knew, someone had placed him here. “Hey!”

  Where was he? Miles tried to climb out only to slip as the soil gave way beneath his boots. Another try. Again. The same r
esults. Clumps of rain-filled soil showered him as he clambered up, his fingers raked the earth which had become almost like soft putty.

  “C’mon!” he bellowed, frustration getting the better of him as the pain in his shoulder took hold. Hands balled, jaw clenched, he wasn’t ready to give up even as angry red images flashed in his mind.

  Their bodies, so many, and hers among them.

  Grief overshadowed him, dark and heavy.

  Numerous attempts to escape the hellish nightmare only yielded more misery.

  But then he heard it.

  It took only a few breathless seconds to realize he wasn’t alone. He became aware of a slopping sound — low, but getting louder — boots trudging, drawing near.

  From behind a curtain of water, he blinked as a dark shadow appeared above, looming over the mouth of the pit. A clap of lightning revealed towering trees behind the person. Miles squinted then lifted a hand to block the rain and see the silhouette of a stranger cut into the backdrop of a dark and brooding sky.

  “I see you’ve tried to climb out, not so easy, is it? That’s because it’s designed to keep you in.”

  Miles gave him a pensive stare.

  “You’re not one of the resistance, are you?” the gruff voice asked, circling the edge of the pit. It was too dark to see him clearly but with each crack of lightning Miles could distinguish just enough — a black SWAT-like uniform, a balaclava, and bright colors on the helmet — he was a collaborator.

  “How would you know?” Miles shot back.

  Did they do this to everyone before they killed them?

  The stranger didn’t answer but continued his line of questioning. “Who are you?”

  “Miles Arrington.”

  “Arrington? Huh!” He crouched. “Tell me, Miles. What you did in the square this evening, was it worth it?”

  “Yes, and I would do it again,” he replied through gritted teeth.

  “And yet here you are.” He chuckled. “The Ozarks’ newest outlaw.”

  Miles shivered hard, his body succumbing to the drop in temperature.

  “Why would you jeopardize your life?” he asked.

  “Versus serving them?” Miles chuckled, dipping his head. “If you don’t know the answer to that, I’m wasting my breath talking to you.”

  A beat.

  “What did you hope to achieve pulling that stunt back there? The odds were clearly against you.”

  “Not any more than those on the front lines,” Miles replied.

  “What do you know of the front lines?”

  “I know I’d rather die than give up my freedom.”

  “So it’s freedom that you want?” He paused and mused. “Very well. That I can give you.” The stranger removed a steely blade from his pocket, it gleamed as sheet lightning flashed again before he tossed it into the pit. It landed with a splash. Miles dipped a hand into the murky water and scooped it up. He tried to climb again only to slide into the ever-increasing puddle that had formed around him.

  The stranger snorted, amused.

  “If you can’t climb out of here, how do you expect to climb out from the mire of this war?”

  It was an odd question.

  Miles frowned. “Give me a rope and I’ll show you.”

  “There’s no rope in this war. It’s up to you.”

  He sighed; his shoulders sank. “C’mon man! Look, what do you want?”

  “What do you want?” he replied.

  Miles narrowed his eyes, growing tired. “What do you think? Get me out of here!”

  “I told you, if you want out, that’s up to you.”

  “I’ve already tried.”

  “Have you?”

  Miles sneered back, breathing hard. “What game are you playing?”

  “No game,” he replied, rising from a crouched position. “Your frustration is your downfall. You can focus on how you got in here, or try to get out, either way, you decide your fate.”

  With that said he turned and left Miles to rot.

  1

  Five years earlier

  Most had said it was impossible, they were wrong. Miles was sixteen when chaos erupted. The strategic attack was sudden and unexpected. Very little was known at the time about how they pulled it off, only that when the smoke cleared from the nukes, the West and East Coast of America was no more. Millions were dead. Many of the states were thrown into darkness and the battle for what remained began.

  Back then he had no concept of war.

  It would take another year before he would taste its fury.

  Miles could still recall that warm, cloudless summer evening; the day he learned of the horror that had befallen the country.

  The parking lot of Danny’s Diner in Camdenton, Missouri, was packed with pickup trucks and Harleys. It was a common sight once a month.

  “Miles. C’mon man, we’ll get in trouble,” August said.

  August Nash was the first and only real friend Miles ever had. He’d like to say they would have eventually gotten to know one another through their mutual interest in motocross and bowhunting, but that wasn’t how they crossed paths.

  Upon his arrival in Camdenton, his teacher had assigned August to show him the ropes for a few days, well those days turned into weeks, then months and the rest was history. In a town with few minorities, it wasn’t just August’s abnormal stature and size that made him stand out, but strangely that worked in his favor. People were less interested in going toe to toe with someone who looked like a grown-ass man at the age of nine. By the time he reached sixteen, Miles would joke that he could pass for a boomer. That might have become his nickname if August hadn’t threatened him with early death.

  “I just want to hear,” Miles said, disembarking from a Honda 450.

  They’d killed the engines on their dirt bikes a block from the diner and ditched them behind a local auto store before making their way across to TJ’s — a greasy spoon set back from Highway 54, one of the two veins in and out of town.

  When the owner, Tucker Lennox, a tattooed beast of a man, wasn’t serving patrons between six and two he was heavily involved with Missouri Militia, a well-armed, locally organized unit of men and women that were grossly misunderstood.

  Loved by some, hated by others. Ignorance and fear had given them a bad name. At least, that’s what his father had said.

  In all fairness, the mixed feelings about militia stemmed from a few bad apples, but the behavior of a few wasn’t indicative of who they were. The truth was it was a private, civilian defense unit comprised of all types: veterans, sheriff’s deputies, firefighters, gas station attendants, Walmart greeters, hell, even a local pastor.

  They were just folks who loved their country and were prepared to do whatever it took to defend it. But was that what most believed?

  No.

  Like many other militia groups throughout the country, they’d gotten a bad rap after a few nutjobs had cast a dark cloud through acts of terror and extremism.

  But that wasn’t them. At least that’s not what Miles had seen.

  Their purpose was pretty simple really. They were there to offer a helping hand, a volunteer-based organization that trained to be a reserve component to the National Guard.

  How could that be wrong?

  Miles had attended monthly meetings before but for some reason his father didn’t want him at this one and with all that was going on in the country, curiosity had gotten the better of him. Sneaking in through the rear entrance after one of them exited for a cigarette, they entered the kitchen and hid in a spot where they could see the group convening in the corner of the diner. Unlike what most assumed, this wasn’t a drinking festival. No, these were some of the most level-headed men and women in the community.

  Some drank coffee, others sipped on bottled water. A couple spat tobacco into plastic containers in front of a draped American flag as the group discussed combat tactics.

  More often than not the informal gathering went from banter and lighthearted convers
ation through to serious discussions on survival skills, dealing with outages, first aid, and how they could help the community.

  The discussion that evening was far from that. He’d never seen them so riled up.

  It was a heated debate. Raised voices, disagreements, a contentious rhetoric that shifted from defending the town to joining other militia groups on the front lines.

  Most wore military fatigues, others casual clothes, there was no dress code. Among the group seated at a booth in the far corner were both Miles’ and August’s father, each one as vocal as the other. The turnout was impressive with folks from out of town, people he didn’t recognize. It was a room full of passionate voices, a chorus of discussion, for and against, a mix of common sense and lunacy.

  “We take the war to them.”

  “No, we stay and protect our own.”

  “Dear God, man, they are own. If the enemy has managed to take the East and West Coast, where do you think they will come next?”

  “Ah, it’s suicide.”

  “Not if we join together with other militia.”

  Laughter erupted. “Together!? We are barely on the same page.”

  “Well, we have to do something.”

  August’s father, Demar Nash, rose from his seat and pointed at Miles’ father. “I’m with Grant on this. This event is exactly why we formed this militia. We’re needed out there to protect those here. If we wait, it will be too late. It’s safe here because of those currently fighting on the front lines.”

  Opposition to his idea came quickly.