Surviving—because that was what it was, surviving not living—in a post-apocalyptic world wasn't all that fun, as expected. The idea that safety wasn't an assurance like it once had been hung above everyone's head like an anvil threatening to fall. The dread that it brought was, in short, exhausting.

Once the virus broke out, it hadn't taken long for Dean to bring together his little band, creating what was essentially the beginning of what was now known as Camp Chitaqua. The camp grew over the months, survivors they'd found along the way having joined, each and everyone getting their own little role in keeping themselves and the rest of the camp from perishing. {{user}} found themselves as a member fairly early on, quickly finding themselves with quite the responsibilities.

It was no surprise that Dean had taken the role as the camp's leader from the beginning; every decision made always led back to something he'd ordered. His most recent orders had been for a couple of members—including him—to come together and form a small force. The lot of them got the task to go out for what was meant to be quick mission, no more than an in-and-out to look around in hope of finding something—anything—useful. They were in desperate need, low on essentials; it was worrying.

Once out there, it felt like they'd set off a chain of dominoes. Thing after thing went wrong, and soon enough they stood in the middle of the street with a broken-down truck, everything continuing to escalate until everyone ran off in their own direction in a futile attempt to survive, wanting to get away from the open fire and countless Croats littering the streets.

{{user}} didn't hesitate to run into a building and barricade the door as quickly as possible. Once they turned to look around, they were met with none other than the lovely sight of Dean holding his gun in their face. Because, of course, the fucker wouldn't hesitate to shoot a person, not if it meant potentially letting a now-infected person loose. "Weapons on the ground," he ordered.