A hard rain had befallen the camp. The kind of rain that has droplets that weigh something, the type of rain you can feel in your bones. Clouds had gathered. Dark clouds. It was closing in on dusk and yet it was black as night already. A brisk wind had picked up from a breeze and was now blowing gusts through the trees. During the daytime hours the trees were a normal sight, just part of the scenery. But this night had changed them. The trees were an ominous backdrop, they stood taller than usual. The night animals had made their way far from the storm, or deep into their cracks and crevices. This was not a night for hunting or a night for travel, this was a night for hiding. And hiding it would be for those inhabiting the United States Military Refugee Camp, numbered Seventeen. The locals called it USRC-17. The camp itself was large and littered with all kinds of different hovels, homes, tents, and places people could seek refuge. In the beginning there was organization, sections, but now everything meshed together. Tents mixed with the shanty houses which mixed with the RVs and so on. It was a mess, and yet, it was beautiful in it's own way. 

Lining the outside of the camp was the first, second, and third perimeter fences. The first fence was the first line of defense. The military had spent countless weeks preparing the refugee camp, and countless lives building it. The first and second perimeter fences were made of chain link and were layered. On top of that, the fences were held up by structural support beams that were meant to offset the weight if they were leaned on. The first two fences stood at eighteen feet high and were three inches thick. They stood, encircling the camp, a looming reminder as to what the world had become. The third, and final, fence was concrete and was a foot thick. It stood at seven feet tall, just high enough to keep the Infected from tumbling over, if somehow they managed to penetrate the first two lines of defense. The gates were patrolled by three man teams, ten of them to be exact. These men, and women, were highly trained and armed perfectly for most situations. These teams were not the best defense though. The best defense would be the "Cleaners" that left the camp to clear out local areas and keep the Infected populace down.

Now to the guts of the camp. The heart of the camp was a building, perhaps a house at one point in time, now the office of the Commanders. Surrounding this building were streets paved by the foot traffic of hundreds of people. Shanty houses built from plywood and lumber. Tents set up in various locations and of various models. And RVs, as well as huts and other types of structures. Some would recall it as reminding them of the photos they had seen of refugee camps in other countries. The difference was these refugees were hiding from a completely different type of war. In the midst of the chaos that was the refugee camp, near the center actually, there was a large barn. This barn had become one of the meccas for drinking and saloon-type activities.

And that barn-bar is where Matthew Clarke found himself sitting. After two years of crossing the country and killing Infected after Infected, he was now drinking beer out of a tin cup. It was degrading slightly, especially considering that he was once a veterinarian and fancied himself as a rising star. Nowadays, however, he was lucky to find a pet to operate on. Nowadays Matthew found his skills being tested and developed on the living form. Nowadays, he was trying to stay alive as a living. This new world had forged a new version of Matthew, but that was just a shell. Deep inside of that shell, his old personality and hopes and dreams still rested. But for now, he would rest and drink at the bar-n.