Jerran wandered back into the fortress for the second time that day. This time it was to confirm the status of a local supply depot before a raid. Since the war, all stores of any kind had been closed...or to be more precise, had been destroyed. The only ones created after those were under strict government control. This wasn't a government camp, and so no "official" stores existed here. There were still private ownerships, but because of their separation, were not sent supplies. Because of this situation, the people in the camp often found themselves badly in need of more food, clothes, and tools quite often. The only source for these rare things were in government guarded buildings. The Army, or so often simply called PAR, for the police army resistance, didn't get along well with the Kent, and didn't let them acquire supplies unless they paid an absurd sum of money or other rare commodities. The people in the camp obviously couldn't afford this and was never able to negotiate any type of trades. This was the purpose of the strike forces which Jerran put together. It was his responsibility to organize, scout out, and finally lead the group that he picked out to get the supplies from the supply depots. The guards could either participate willingly, or unwillingly, it was their choice, either way, Jerran was going to get the supplies that they coveted so dearly. To this day, none had surrendered.

As Jerran heard the loud steel doors of the Kent fortress (which was what they called themselves) slam shut behind him, he refocused his thoughts from the primal survival instincts that he used outside, to the civilized leader he was on the inside. Jerran was often considered the unofficial "leader" of the camp, although he did little to actually bring order. He merely thought of himself as the head of the militia, nothing more. Most people took an easy liking to Jerran because of his calm attitude in the face of danger and his unbiased viewpoints in almost everything. He was an extremely logical person. He took the facts in, weighed the situation and made his judgment. Because of his straightforward way of thinking, more then a few people had been left behind on the raids. No one showed anger or contempt towards him because of this, they realized what had to be done, and that Jerran saw the whole picture for the entire camp, not just a single life.

How many times did he have to leave people behind because he knew it wouldn't be worth it? Jerran had lost count over the last 4 years at his position in this harsh world of survival. He knew the Kent didn't hate him for it, and he didn't despise himself for it either. He had often wondered how he could weigh the life of a single person against the camp's. Many nights of sleep had been lost over this thought in the beginning, but as he continued on with the killing and surviving day after day, he began to become lost in his own feelings. After awhile, he had torn his mind apart so many different ways on the inside that he had begun to stop feeling remorse or pity anymore. He didn't know what to feel. He turned into a robot, a hard empty bottle of no emotion. He wasn't heartless, he knew when mercy should be dealt, but if a child had to be sacrificed to save the camp, he would be the first to do it. He was a fighter based on instinct, simply trying to survive. Nothing else mattered. No one could defeat the horde of walking dead and the strange monsters that roamed the streets. Even Jerran couldn't survive long on the streets with an entire squad. Only recently though, had people started to realize this. Jerran was no longer called upon in civil cases, only strictly war plans, and since those almost never happened because of the lack of militia, he found most of his time spent either sitting in his small house, or planning the raids.

The Kent fortress, so aptly named Sanctum, was busy this morning, as always at this time of day. People had many things to do, and no one ever knew when the fortress might come under attack, and their help needed. They had to be ready to defend the camp, everyone including women, children, and the elderly; all people who could hold a gun were put on the walls. The Kents couldn't afford to only allow the men to fight, since their camp was so small already, such a futile attempt would surely doom the town.

Jerran quickly made his way towards his house, where he and his squad had agreed to meet. People waved and called out to him, but he ignored them. Much larger things were on the fighter's mind. The task ahead was not going to be an easy one; the supply depot was guarded more heavily then usual. Because of the constant replies of "no" for supplies from the guards, the Kents had been forced to take alternative measures, and Jerran and his crew had stopped bothering trying to persuade the guards. Whatever they wanted, it was always something they didn't have, or couldn't afford to lose.

He came around a corner to the view of his house and the rest of his trusted squad. He smiled in anticipation of the fight he knew would so surely come.

The troupe also eagerly awaited his arrival, for they too enjoyed a good fight, even if it was killing living brethren. The Kents tried to stay away from killing humans, as they should have united years ago against a common foe, but distain against the arrogant PAR units had forced them to do what they had to at times. The PAR disliked killing Kents just as much so, but still held a grudge of jealousy against them because of the unique powers their meditation granted them. That was what mainly set the groups apart. The PAR was a government controlled military organization which had been the conclusion of a merging of all the forms of the different branches of the army, navy, and air force during the war. The Kents were small bits and pieces of the leftover civilians who had banded together during the war as well, but refused to be pushed around by the unstable government controlling the PAR. There had already been three changes in power in the head of this government in just the four years of the war. There was no way the Kents were going to play into this political power struggle of people who had been underground in bunkers ever since the beginning of the war. In reality, the Kents trusted the monsters outside more then they did the PAR.

Jerran slowed down as he approached his squad and started talking even before he had stopped.

"You're all ready I take it?"

They all nodded in agreement. They were always ready for the raids, they had to be. The entire town counted on them.

"Alright then, you know how this works. There's a little added security, for why, I have no idea, but it's not enough to change anything. Just do what we always do and there shouldn't be a problem."

Jerran turned around, motioning them to move out. The first to follow, and probably the closest to Jerran, was Gerald, a slightly muscular man at 6 feet that enjoyed the MP5. He had short dark blonde hair, and very prominent facial features which set him apart. Following him was Jameson, quite tall at 6'3" wielding a halberd. Jameson was a little tanner then Gerald, and had black hair and piercing black eyes. Although some of the group used melee weapons because of the magical enchantments on them, they all carried a small sidearm just in case. Most of the time they were fighting zombies anyways, which a melee weapon could dispatch of much quicker then a gun. Next up was the only female of the group, Lira, of an average 5'6", thin and lean, with medium length brown hair up in a ponytail, and who was also quite adept with twin khukuri's. The last two to follow were Fernando, a dark skinned Hispanic, with his shotgun and Tsubasa, an oriental who was surprisingly strong and bulky for his race, holding his precious katana, which was also the weapon of choice for Jerran.

The squad quickly made their way out of town.