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<blockquote data-quote="馬冠宇" data-source="post: 43331" data-attributes="member: 162">[ATTACH=full]7130[/ATTACH]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.</blockquote>

[QUOTE="馬冠宇, post: 43331, member: 162"] [ATTACH type="full"]7130[/ATTACH] 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. [/QUOTE]

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