Videogame Wellington New Zealand Infection Free Zone

[Magonia]

April 1st, 2030. Wellington’s a graveyard, and I’m Magonia, the cruel, lazy bastard running the show for 40 able-bodied survivors, 12 armed with handguns, and 5 kids dragging us down. We found the Queens Wharf, its dockside restaurant and bar a shattered jewel—broken glass, but solid walls and a harbor view. My tired ass looked at it and thought, “Good enough.” No vote, no discussion—my call’s final in the Infection Free Zone Wellington. We hit the place at first light, ready to carve out our headquarters from the chaos of this zombie-riddled city.


The restaurant wasn’t empty. Ten infected lurched inside, their waiter aprons and booze-soaked rags stinking up the place. I sent the 12 with handguns in, barking to aim for the head and not waste bullets. They stormed through, popping skulls with tight shots, while the rest of us piled tables and steel rods from a nearby site to seal the doors. The kids sobbed, clinging to their toys, but I ignored ‘em—survival’s no place for coddling. By midday, we’d hauled the bodies to the harbor and dumped ‘em, the water swallowing their rot. The bar’s stash—liquor, canned goods—set us up for weeks. I took the manager’s office, feet up, sipping whiskey, grinning at our new digs.


Now the dockside’s ours, a fortress against the infected’s nightly moans drifting over the waves. The 40 are fortifying it, setting traps, patrolling the wharf, while the 12 handguns keep us sharp. I’m already plotting a run to the old cop shop for more firepower. The kids play in a corner—keeps the others happy, though I don’t care much. I’m no saint, just the guy who claimed a prime spot and called it home. Infection Free Zone Wellington’s born here, and I’ll rule it without breaking a sweat.

 

[Magonia]

June 3, 2030. I’m Magonia, steering the Infection Free Zone Wellington through Wellington’s ruins. Since April 1st, we’ve been all-in on transforming the portrait gallery on Customhouse Quay into our research hub, leaving the dockside restaurant behind. The gallery’s solid stone and vast rooms were perfect, but it was the haul from Te Awe Library that gave us an edge. I sent teams to raid its stacks, and we struck gold—books, journals, and old drives packed with medical data. My call was to make this place a beacon of answers, and we’ve been at it non-stop, my word law.


The infected were relentless, skulking in the gallery’s dark corners, their wails testing our nerve. Our handgun crew fought daily, clearing them out with steady aim, while we burned the bodies by the quay to keep the stench at bay. The library’s loot—textbooks on virology, anatomy charts, even a few lab manuals—got hauled in alongside scavenged gear from shattered clinics. The kids, cooped up in a side room, doodled on scrap paper, their noise barely tolerable. After two months, we’d wired the gallery’s old skylights to solar rigs, lighting up our new labs stacked with Te Awe’s treasures.


The gallery’s our stronghold now, buzzing with research fueled by the library’s haul. Tables groan under piles of reference books and sample vials, our team piecing together the infected’s puzzle. Shooters guard the reinforced exits, eyes sharp. I’ve nabbed a high-ceilinged office, feet up on a desk littered with library notecards, savoring a scavenged cigar. The past months were brutal, but the Infection Free Zone Wellington’s rooted in this knowledge fortress. We’re chasing truth, and I’m calling the shots, barely breaking a sweat.

 

[Magonia]

July 4th, 2025. I’m Magonia, slouched in the ruins of Wellington, leading my crew through another miserable day. We hit Legato Espresso Cafe, a crumbling coffee shop that stank worse than death itself—reeking of infected, their sour rot clinging to the air. The place was a mess, each room littered with makeshift bedding: rags, torn mattresses, and whatever soft junk they’d dragged in. One room was a hoard of random crap—spoons, busted clocks, a kid’s shoe—piled like some demented magpie’s nest. My gut twisted. Were the infected setting up a lair? Evolving into something smarter? The thought made my skin crawl, but I didn’t have time to dwell—lazy or not, I had to keep us alive.


I sent in four gunmen, handguns only, to secure the cafe. Ryan Dana, a 38-year-old with a mohawk and a mean streak, led the squad. He barked orders like he was born for this, his Glock steady as they swept room to room. The infected—six of them—came at us from the shadows, their groans sharper, movements less clumsy than usual. Ryan’s crew dropped them fast, bullets punching through skulls, but I noticed the infected hesitated, almost like they were sizing us up. We cleared the place in ten minutes, no losses, but I couldn’t shake the feeling those things were changing. I kicked over a pile of rags, half-expecting answers, but found nothing but stains.


We looted what we could—canned coffee, a few knives, some bottled water—and got out. Ryan reported the infected seemed “off,” more deliberate, but I told him to quit theorizing; I’m cruel enough to shut down hope before it festers. Still, that lair setup gnaws at me. If they’re evolving, we’re in deeper shit than I thought. I’m not lifting a finger to investigate yet—let the others sweat it. For now, we move on, but Legato’s left a mark I can’t ignore.

 

[Magonia]

August 5, 2030. I’m Magonia, and we’ve turned Shed 5, the swanky fine dining restaurant next to our dockside base on Queens Wharf, into a residential unit big enough for 45 of our crew. It’s a beast of a place—high ceilings, polished wood, now crammed with scavenged mattresses, plywood walls, and communal kitchens carved from its old gourmet setup. At first, it was a chaotic mess, everyone packed in like rats, so I kicked out all but my two lieutenants, Kara and Tane, to share the manager’s loft with me—a sweet spot overlooking the harbor. The rest sprawl across bunks below, less crowded now, but supplies are tight and the infected’s nighttime moans remind me we’re on borrowed time; my lazy ass’ll keep this place running, but only if it stays defensible.

 

[Magonia]

November 8, 2030. I’m Magonia, kicked back in my office at the dockside restaurant HQ on Queens Wharf, eyes on the murky harbor. We built four wooden guard towers today, each a ten-meter hodgepodge of scavenged timber, but they’re split: two on the roof of the research lab and two atop the Wellington Museum nearby, not far from our base. Eight of our 20 guardsmen, clutching handguns, hold the towers—four per location—while 12 patrol on foot, armed with a mix of handguns, a solid stash of shotguns, and one assault rifle we scored weeks ago. The crew of 45 busted their asses hauling wood and nails, griping as I barked orders over stale coffee, my lazy streak happy to let them sweat. The towers give us eyes on the ruins and water, crucial for spotting infected or worse.


We also set up an antenna next to the Wellington Museum, a tangled rig of wires and steel that crackled on by midday. It snagged a signal from a trader, Voss, holed up a few kilometers north with a convoy. I sent Ryan Dana, my mohawked squad leader, to the ferry terminal with eight sacks of grain and two polearms forged from scrap. He traded for a 12-gauge shotgun, a bit beat but with shells, boosting our firepower. We’ve got a car now too—a patched-up sedan for scouting or trade runs. That shotgun’s a boon for our patrols, but the infected’s moans at night sound sharper, like they’re scheming, and I’m not fool enough to ignore it.


The split towers and museum antenna make Infection Free Zone Wellington feel like a real network, not just a hideout. Kara and Tane, my lieutenants, keep the crew tight, and I’m cruel enough to let fear keep them sharp—no slacking in this hellhole. Voss’s trade hints at a bigger world, but I’m not chasing it; they can come to us. We’re mobile now with the sedan, and the research lab’s towers tie our defenses together. I’m staying put in my HQ, assault rifle by the door, car keys on the desk, plotting how to keep us alive in this rotting city while my lazy ass takes it one day at a time.

 

[Magonia]

June 15, 2031. I’m Magonia, sprawled in my office at the dockside restaurant HQ on Queens Wharf, ruling Infection Free Zone Wellington with a sneer and a cup of bitter tea. We’ve grown to 68, a hardened crew clinging to this rotting city, and today we reopened the Cuckoo and One Red Dog restaurants as kitchens, churning out grim meals—porridge, canned peas, and herbs plucked from five raised garden beds scattered across the wharf. Built from scavenged wood and packed with soil we dragged from the ruins, these beds yield potatoes, greens, and onions, enough to keep us from starving. The crew’s shored up the restaurants’ walls and fired up salvaged stoves, slaving under my sharp orders while I stay rooted, my lazy streak propped by a cruel edge that snaps at any slacker. It’s meager fare, but those wharf crops and steaming pots are the pulse of our survival.


The infected are hitting us with relentless invasions, storming from Wellington’s wreckage with a chilling cunning that makes my skin crawl. They slaughtered Voss and his traders, severing the line that got us our first assault rifle, but we haven’t lost a single soul—not one guardsman, not one worker. We’re armed to the teeth and smart about it: only 8 guardsmen, stationed in the four towers (two on the research lab, two on the Wellington Museum) and patrolling the settlement (dockside, Shed 5, Cuckoo, One Red Dog, museum), carry handguns, with a few more stashed in the armory for the towers we’ll raise next. Our vanguard, the 12 front-line fighters who’ve been our spear since we claimed this wharf, prowl in our patched-up sedan or on foot, all wielding shotguns and assault rifles scavenged over months. They’re our fist, smashing through infected swarms with ruthless precision, keeping our streak of no losses intact.


Those five garden beds and the restaurants’ thin gruel are our bedrock, binding us against the chaos. The museum’s antenna, perched nearby, hums with nothing but static since Voss’s crew went dark, a reminder we’re alone for now. The infected’s moans at night have a sharper edge, like they’re scheming, and it’s enough to keep even me glancing at the shadows. Kara and Tane, my lieutenants, drill our 68 into a machine—tough, tense, and ready—while I’m cruel enough to let fear keep their blades honed. Hope’s a poison I won’t let spread. I’m not stirring from my HQ, assault rifle propped by my chair, sedan keys in my pocket, already plotting new towers to tap the armory’s spare handguns. We’re a fortress, but these invasions are a storm testing our walls.


Infection Free Zone Wellington’s stronger than ever, with our vanguard’s 12 battle-hardened guns and the wharf’s crops feeding our defiance. The reopened restaurants, their pots simmering with whatever we can grow or scavenge, are more than kitchens—they’re a middle finger to the end of the world. But the infected’s growing smarts gnaw at me, their numbers swelling with each attack. I keep the crew lean, their eyes sharp, while I stay lazy in my office, scheming our next move. The sedan’s ready for a run, the armory’s stocked for expansion, and my cruel streak’s enough to hold this all together. We’re 68, unbroken, but the wharf’s no paradise—just a scrap of ground we’ll kill to keep. My lazy ass’ll see us through, but only if the rest keep spilling sweat and shells for it.