[center][i][h1]Group 2[/h1][/i]
[img]https://media1.tenor.com/images/b6b172abd45d616663dceaeb533b038a/tenor.gif?itemid=4767213[/img][/center]
[INDENT][INDENT][sub][hr][/sub][color=8E75B2][indent][sub][B]Location:[/B] [COLOR=#BFD7D7][I]Rushford, Ohio -- O'Neal Family Tavern[/I][/COLOR][/sub][/indent][SUP][RIGHT][b]Date:[/b] [COLOR=#BFD7D7][I]May 15th, 2019[/I][/COLOR][/right][/SUP][/color][sub][hr][/sub]
[INDENT]
[color=gray][color=8E75B2]“It’s not going to get better.”[/color]

It wasn’t the best thing to say in the middle of a crisis, but it came flying out of her mouth.

As a special agent with the FBI for the last half-decade, Jennifer Schwarzenberg had seen a lot of things. Dealers, terrorists, the occasional ‘most wanted’ criminal. She was pretty used to the reality of how things were rather than some naïve fantasy. The idea of the living dead? Zombies? That was something in a novel or movie. But here she was, in the middle of Ohio, dealing with the infected and the people who were trying to survive. Rushford wasn’t Cinncinatii or Colombus, it was a blip in the greater Toledo Area; a place that was so far down the totem pole of government assistance and disease control that it was pretty much up to the local police to try to contain it. 

There was no chance in hell local police were going to contain this epidemic. She was pretty sure all important law enforcement had become infected by this point in time, or at least, that was the train of thought until the announcement came about refuge in Camp Whispering Springs. 

Jenn knew the camp well enough. Before her parent’s split she had spent a few summers there. When she had heard it closed down in the Spring of 2007, she had been a little bummed. It was a nice place. It had good memories. 

[color=8E75B2]“Whispering Springs is pretty far down-river. But, it’s a better fighting chance than anywhere else right now.”[/color]

Her eyes moved to the travel map that had been laid out on the countertop of the bar she and the rest of her group had occupied for the last few hours. 

The hike from their location to the camp in [i]optimal[/i] conditions was around four hours. Obviously, there was no such thing as optimal conditions in their situation, or in anybody’s situation anymore. They had to account for infected crowds, blocked off roads, and so many other factors. Jenn wasn’t a survivalist; even with her FBI training and history camping she was just pointing at a direction and hoping for the best. But considering the group she had found herself with—a unemployed teacher, a teenager, and a writer of some-sort. Who else could have led in her situation?

[color=8E75B2]“We don't have a lot of supplies and this place has almost been picked clean. If you can find a drink, I don't think there's a better time for it.”[/color] She shook off the thought. [color=8E75B2]“But, maybe we missed something.”[/color]

Jenn pulled out her handgun, checking it as she took a heavy breath.

[color=8E75B2]“What do you three think? I don't like the idea of sitting in this bar for too long.”[/color]

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