1/9/2018

Another blizzard has its icy grip on Orca Island. I looked back on my ramshackle makeshift trading post before I head to the nearest town to scavenge for anything of value. It’s a short run and rarely do I find any danger on my way. This day trip was none different. A few cans of food. Random clothing items. May not seem like anything too great, no use to me, but they’ll be of use to someone as they pass through.

There’s been an influx of new faces on the island lately. Fresh, new to the world, young men and women who scurry about looking for what they can. Not trying to thrive, just trying to live.

The people that frequent the southern part of the island are a scrappy bunch. Seldom armed, and even more rare to find someone who is living comfortably. That’s what separates these people down here from those in the North.

The North is violent and cutthroat. Survival up there is not about your next meal or worrying if one of the giant monstrosities are going to get you. Northern survival is about who can hold territory and kill for what they need. I’ve lived that life. Now I’m back in the South trying to help those and to establish some sense of normalcy. A simple trader.

As I make my way back to my post, the snow has cleared and it’s now warming up quickly. The weather is just as crazy as the mutants roaming the streets. A twisted and perverse form of it’s former self. Dark clouds start to form and a warning begins to blare from the church in Sultan. I’m not sure who triggers it, must be done remotely. I’ve never seen a soul there, but the warning will blare nonetheless. The rain begins to pick up. I get on the trusty radio to try and warn those out of earshot of the siren. I tell them to take cover. I light my signal fires to let others know that there is shelter here, right as the twister starts to rip through.