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Message: <blockquote data-quote="馬冠宇" data-source="post: 43358" data-attributes="member: 162">[ATTACH=full]7136[/ATTACH]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.</blockquote>

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