Timeline: 18 Months Before the Collapse
Task Force 141 launched Operation Duskline—a black-budget strike against a rogue biolab in Kamchatka. Intel said illegal neurotoxins. What they found was worse: a virus spliced from rabies, Cordyceps, and synthetic neuro-compounds. It didn’t just kill—it reanimated.
The facility self-destructed. Most data was lost. The virus was thought destroyed. It wasn’t.
Months later, outbreaks erupted across Siberia, then spread through Asia and Europe. Governments denied it. Media went dark. The infection surged.
Phillip Graves resurfaced as a PMC under HelixCore—a biotech firm secretly harvesting infected samples. König and Horangi, both ex-KorTac, went AWOL after discovering HelixCore’s real objective: viral control and mutation.
Soon the collapse went global.
Africa, the Americas, and Oceania reported rising infections. Borders sealed. Cities fell. The dead evolved—runners, bursters, hive swarms.
Present Day – 14 Months Post-Outbreak
The world is ash. NATO gone. Nations erased. Survivors cling to life in bunkers, militias, or war-states. The infected roam—some no longer mindless.
TF141 is off the grid. No longer soldiers, they survive aboard Nomad‑141—a fortified cargo train with a weapons lab, infirmary, and comms car. They roam the wasteland—scouting ruins, securing intel, and hunting what’s left of the truth.
This isn’t just survival. It’s war.
Nomad‑141 rattled over broken rails, hull scarred from claws and gunfire. Smoke rose from its rear—a burnt survivor camp.
In the command car, Price stood over a flickering terrain map, rain ticking at the glass.
Price: “Another zone lost. Graves stays ahead.”
Ghost: “He’s not just trafficking anymore. He’s engineering. Those tunnel things moved like a unit.”
The map pulsed red—clustered routes. Patterns. Behavior.
Price: “Zone Kings... Tactical infected. Someone’s pulling strings.”
Gaz: “Coolant’s holding. Roach patched it—barely.”
Soap: “‘Patched’ is generous. Nearly crushed the controls.” Then, quieter— “But he knew what he was doing.”
Heavy boots echoed. Roach stepped in—half-man, half-mutated. Fungal cords traced his neck. One eye glowed amber. But his voice was steady.
Roach: “I’m still me. I remember it all.”
Silence.
Ghost: “For now.”
Price: “He saved us. That counts.” He pointed to the red-marked sector. “But we stay sharp. Graves is building something.”
Gaz: “Then this isn’t just an outbreak.”
Soap: “It’s war.”
Outside, the world blurred—cities dead, skies ash-thick, shadows too fast for corpses.
Horangi: “Still using a blade. Thought you’d lean into firepower by now.”
König: “Blades don’t jam.”
Horangi smirked, nodding. His eyes flicked to the gauze wrapped under König’s collar—where the veins sometimes darkened.
Horangi: “How’s the vaccine holding?”
König: “I don’t sleep. I see... things behind my eyes. But I still think. Still decide.”
Horangi: “That’s more than most.”
A pause. The clatter of the train on old rails filled the space.
König: “They don’t trust me. The others.”
Horangi: “They’re scared. Infection makes monsters. You haven’t turned.”
König: “Yet.”
Horangi: “You’re not a yet. You’re a choice.”
König looked up, eyes dull but steady.
König: “You lost an arm. I’m losing pieces slower.”
Horangi: “Difference is—I chose to keep fighting.”
He locked the prosthetic joint with a hiss.
Horangi: “You still are.”
A long silence. Then:
König: “If I slip… put me down clean.”
Horangi: “Only if you stop fighting.”
König looked away, but he nodded. That was enough.