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.

 

[Magonia]

November 20, 2031. I’m Magonia, slumped in my office at the dockside restaurant HQ on Queens Wharf, the harbor’s chill seeping into my bones as I grapple with the hit we just took. General Novak, a cold-eyed bastard leading some survivor army, showed up unannounced with a tank and a military truck, their rumble shaking the wharf like a death knell. His demand was simple: hand over all our food, fuel, and even a bit of ammo, or he’d flatten Infection Free Zone Wellington. Lazy as I am, I know a losing fight— I gave him everything: every sack of grain, every can of beans, all our diesel, and a handful of shotgun shells we couldn’t spare. The crew of 68 watched, gutted, as we loaded his truck, my cruel glare silencing their protests. Novak’s convoy rolled out, tank treads scarring the wharf, leaving us with nothing but five raised garden beds growing potatoes, greens, and onions to feed us.

We’re on our knees now, the Cuckoo and One Red Dog kitchens reduced to scraping porridge from the last of our herbs, the wharf’s crops our only hope against starvation. The 8 guardsmen, posted in the four towers (two on the research lab, two on the Wellington Museum) and patrolling the settlement, cling to their handguns, a few more stashed in the armory for towers we need to build fast. Our vanguard, the 12 front-line fighters who’ve led since day one, still patrol in the sedan, shotguns and assault rifles ready, but the ammo loss stings. The infected’s invasions are relentless, their cunning moans haunting the night, yet we haven’t lost a soul. Kara and Tane drive the crew to tighten defenses, and I let fear keep them sharp—hope’s a trap. The museum’s antenna’s dead since Voss’s traders fell. I’m not leaving my HQ, assault rifle by my chair, sedan keys in my pocket, plotting how to claw back from this. Infection Free Zone Wellington’s 68 are unbroken, but Novak’s gutted us, and my lazy ass’ll have to scheme harder to keep us breathing.

 

[Magonia]

July 28, 2032. I’m Magonia, slumped in my office at the dockside restaurant HQ on Queens Wharf, the harbor’s damp bite sharpening my scowl as I deal with General Novak’s latest move. He sent four of his men—battered, bleeding soldiers—demanding we treat them before they’ll leave. My lazy ass would rather kick them out, but Novak’s tank still looms in my head, so I’m playing along. I’ve ordered a medbay built near the new fortifications south of the Wellington Museum, a growing wall of concrete, steel, and scavenged timber that’ll soon encircle our enclave. The crew, now 78, is hauling materials and hammering fast, my cruel glare keeping them in line. The medbay’ll be basic—wood walls, tin roof, scavenged bandages, and a few meds—but it’ll keep Novak’s men from dying in my space.


The infected are hitting us hard, their invasions cunning and relentless, but we haven’t lost a soul. Our 16 guardsmen, armed with handguns, hold the four towers (two on the research lab, two on the museum) and patrol the settlement (dockside, Shed 5, Cuckoo, One Red Dog, museum), with spare handguns in the armory for new towers we’re planning. The vanguard, my 12 front-line fighters who’ve led since we claimed this wharf, roam in our sedan, wielding shotguns and assault rifles, though ammo’s scarce since Novak’s shakedown last year stripped our food, fuel, and shells. The five raised garden beds on the wharf—potatoes, greens, onions—can’t fully feed 78, and the Cuckoo and One Red Dog kitchens are down to watery porridge and dwindling cans. New traders arrived, a cautious convoy swapping ammo and tools for crops and gear, but I’m not counting on them surviving like Voss didn’t.


The fortifications and medbay are our lifeline, but the infected’s sharp moans at night feel like a trap closing. The museum’s antenna’s silent, no signals since Voss’s crew was torn apart. Kara and Tane keep our 78 tense and ready, and I’m cruel enough to let fear drive their work—hope’s a death wish. I’m rooted in my HQ, assault rifle by my chair, sedan keys in my pocket, scheming to use the traders and medbay to rebuild our strength. Infection Free Zone Wellington’s a fortress with our vanguard’s 12 guns and those precious wharf crops, but Novak’s shadow and the infected’s growing smarts keep us on edge. My lazy ass’ll hold us together, but only if the crew keeps grinding through the blood and sweat.

 

[Magonia]

Journal Entry: September 30, 2032
Magonia, Leader of the Infection Free Zone Wellington


Another day dragging my ass through this rotting world. The boys finally got the old Kaffee Eis turned into the new medbay. Took long enough—those lazy bastards kept whining about the wiring and the bloodstains on the floor. It’s done now, though. Right next to the new southern wall, just by the museum. Strategic spot, I’ll give ‘em that. Close enough to patch up anyone who gets torn up defending the wall, but far enough from the main camp to keep the screams from spooking the kids.


The place still smells like burnt coffee and desperation, but it’s got beds, scavenged meds, and a couple of docs who might not kill you by accident. Better than nothing in this hellhole where less than one percent of us are still breathing. I told the crew to reinforce the walls around it—last thing we need is some shambling corpse breaking in mid-surgery. Cruel? Maybe. But I ain’t running a charity. Survival’s all that matters, and I’m not carrying anyone who can’t keep up.


Gotta check the perimeter tomorrow. If those undead freaks breach the southern wall, my medbay’s gonna be a slaughterhouse.

 

[Magonia]

Journal Entry: January 3, 2033
Magonia, Leader of the Infection Free Zone Wellington


The School of Fine Arts is now a residential block. Kicked the crew into gear to clear out the dusty canvases and pretentious sculptures—useless junk in a world gone to rot. Got bunks and barricades set up instead. It’s cramped, but it’ll house the survivors who aren’t dumb enough to die on me. Took longer than I wanted; half these idiots can’t swing a hammer without crying about their blisters. Lazy shits.


Found an active camera in the Timberland store on Chews Lane. Still recording, somehow. No idea who’s watching or why, but it’s got me uneasy. Told the scouts to rip it out and bring it back for the techs to crack. If someone’s spying on us, they’ll regret it.


Last night was a mess. Spotted a new kind of zombie—massive, roaring like a damn freight train. Thing was a magnet for the hordes, drawing every shambler in earshot. It hit us hard near the portrait gallery. Mild to moderate damage, but we held the line. Barely. I’m not losing this place to some overgrown corpse. Ordered extra patrols and told the gunners to aim for the head next time one of those freaks shows up. Less than one percent of us left, and I’m not letting that number drop on my watch. Cruel? Tough. Cry about it when you’re dead.

 

[Magonia]

Journal Entry: February 4, 2033
Magonia, Leader of the Infection Free Zone Wellington


Today cut deep. Lost my first man—Jase, solid, never griped. Taken out by a raider, not even a zombie. Those scavenging rats thought they could hit us and walk. Ambushed our crew at the Taking Shape plus-size store on Featherston Street, trying to kidnap my men for ransom. Big mistake. In the Infection Free Zone, we don’t pay with goods or grief. We pay with blood.


They dragged Jase and three others into the night, thinking we’d cave. I sent the hunters—best trackers, armed heavy. Found their hole, a rotting warehouse off the waterfront, by dawn. No mercy. We ripped through their defenses, got our people back, but Jase was done. Throat slashed when we wouldn’t deal. His body’s in the medbay, waiting for a grave.


The raiders paid the price for crossing me. None left alive. Still, Jase is gone. Less than one percent of us are still standing, and every loss bites, even if I don’t let it show. I’m not soft, but I’m not an idiot—can’t afford more of this. Ordered the walls beefed up and night patrols doubled. No more getting caught off guard. Next raiders who try us eat lead. Cruel? Damn straight. That’s survival.