NationStates

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January 31^st, 1945. Day Zero.

As the Allies were beginning to converge upon the German capital of Berlin, the Nazi Regime had one last weapon - a last-ditch effort in an attempt to save themselves. The Allies had come to discover that the Nazis were trying to play God with some of their experimentation camps, but at least one of their experiments bore fruit: the “Berlin Flu” - as some would call it. It has many names across the globe, but the Berlin Flu is one of the more popular ones.

The bioweapon worked too well. It wasn't exactly weaponized influenza, but in point of fact, it was much worse than anything humanity had been in contact with in a very long time. The infection started with necrotic and fungal growths that would begin appearing over injuries; these fungal growths would often look full of black fluid or something similar, and if they popped, would release spores through which the “Flu” could travel.

As time went on, the Infected individual would begin suffering what seemed to be dementia and disorientation. Eventually, the Infected individual would lose most higher thinking processes - becoming almost animalistic and cruel towards ones they once loved, or even towards life in general. However, they always did it with intent to spread the Flu - nothing more, nothing less. And while most processes were lost, the Infected could still use weapons that they had knowledge of - or could improvise weapons. Most dangerously, they could operate vehicles.

It is because of this that the Berlin Flu quickly spread out of control as the Infected butchered all in their path, and any who fell to them could potentially be reanimated. Those captured would assuredly become one of the Infected. It spread like wildfire over Europe, a second blitzkrieg. Some who thought they weren't infected began to carry it overseas into Britain.

The European Quarantine was funded and began by December of 1945, but the damage was done. Europe suffered from the Infected's spread of the Berlin Flu. Quarantine zones were set up by the military throughout Europe as the Infected were fought, but there was no winning this war. Infected corpses simply allowed the fungal growths to propagate into the land around them, and animals could carry it as well.

Fortunately, the spread of this dangerous infection was stopped in Europe. But the world watches with bated breath, for if the Berlin Flu escapes the Quarantine, it would surely mean the end of human civilization as it is known.

Today is January 31^st, 1950. The Berlin Flu is still rampant in Europe as the Infected who aren't reanimated corpses still live and try to spread, and the Quarantine has only helped in containing the infection or protecting the uninfected. While the nuclear option had been considered, it was deemed too costly in both human lives and resettlement possibilities to commit to.

Society in Europe has essentially fallen. The Quarantine remains.

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Jonathan Michaels-Schmidt was the Director of Medical Research for the British QJTF. That meant he coordinated with the other Medical Research Directors and was in charge of oversight for all studies into the Berlin Flu. It also meant he oversaw the facility that was just outside of the London Quarantine Zone but technically apart of its borders, wherein Infected were experimented upon and corpses were studied to try and discover weaknesses that the Infected might have. He was always quite careful with how he conducted his research.


“Nurse?” Jonathan called out, and his attending nurse - Greta, he recalled - came to him. She wheeled him around, whether he was in the LQZ proper or in this facility. He also had two soldiers as guards - Staff Sergeant Smith and Private Jones, they were called. “I need you to get me out of here. I'm headed home for the night; I'll likely review some of the notes and experiment tapes tomorrow.”


“Yes, Director.” Greta responded, politely, as she began wheeling him out of his office. Smith and Jones noticed, and began to follow them both. “Director Michaels-Schmidt is going home for the evening, Staff Sergeant.”


“Understood, sir. Private Jones, head on up and reserve us a vehicle, would you?” Jones gave a quiet 'yessir' as he went off. Smith nodded to himself as he held his gun at rest. “Director, sir, any updates?”


“None that I can share at the moment, Staff Sergeant. But I believe one of our teams is close to a breakthrough, studying infected corpses.” Jonathan replied, easily. “Of course, I need to report my findings and the actual facts to High Command before I say anything officially beyond that. You understand, don't you, Staff Sergeant?”


“Of course, sir.” Smith nodded immediately. “I understand completely.”


Jonathan nodded himself, even as he was escorted out into a car and driven home.


He sighed, hoping that he was right and a cure was on the horizon. But, for some reason, he had doubts...

London Quarantine Zone
Corporal Nick Rogers quietly shifted his gas mask into a more comfortable position as he and his companion, Private Jefferson, walked down a dark alleyway as part of their patrol. "Man," Jefferson said, "Sure is nasty in this part of the Quarantine. Nothing here but rats, trash, and beggars. You know-" Rogers interrupted him before he could continue, "Shut up, private. This isn't social hour, we got a job to do."

Jefferson shook his head as they walked on in silence. As they rounded a corner and entered a wider street that was just as dark and dirty as the alley, Jefferson spoke again, "I sure do miss the States. Miss my family too. Got a girl back home, hope she misses me as much-"

"Can it, private. How many times I gotta tell you?" Rogers snapped, taking a sideways glance at the private. Jefferson just rolled his eyes and kept walking alongside the corporal. The back street they were on was stuck between two lines of poorly kept and run down apartment buildings. Trash littered the sides of the little street and small animals darted from scavenging in the garbage as the two men approached.

"Ya know," Jefferson started, "The thing I miss the most-" Rogers interrupted him again, but this time by stopping and sticking out his arm in front of the private. Jefferson stopped talking immediately, trying to see what Rogers saw. "There," Rogers whispered, motioning toward three trash cans with his Thompson sub machine gun. "Hear that?" As if on cue, something rattled the cans, causing them to make a loud clanking noise. Jefferson nodded, and readied his M1 Grand.

The two soldiers quietly approached the cans, weary of what might be there. As they got closer, a cat jumped out from behind them, hissed, and ran away. Rogers let out a sigh of relief as Jefferson laughed. "Ha! Worried there for a second. I'm just glad-" Rogers continued on the patrol, briefly leaving the private behind. "Hey, wait up!" he said as he started walking so he could catch up with the corporal.



"Then, this damn cat jumps out from behind the cans and runs off! Scared the piss outta me!" Jefferson said to the small group of QJTF soldiers in the barracks. They all laughed at the story as Rogers laid down on his cot, ready to take a nap. Rogers had been able to ditch his gas mask as they were no longer out in 'unsanitary' conditions. "Hey, corporal," Jefferson called, "Come on over here, we're playing cards. We could use another player." Rogers ignored him and simply rolled over, turning his back to the group of card players. "Whatever," the private said. As the men played their game, Rogers started to drift off to sleep.

Giovanni Brandi
Rome, Via Giuseppe Canepa

“Gah!” Giovanni woke up startled. He had the same nightmare. Again and again. He shook his head and looked around the small and cramped apartment he lived in now. It looked spacious only because there was so little he could put in it; only a drawer, his bed, a chair in the corner, and his painting equipment. The white walls had cracks in them, and he was sure that the sounds the floor made when he stepped on it weren’t normal as well.
He would have stayed a bit more in his bed if not for the sudden knock on the door, which startled him.
“Who there?” he asked, in broken english. Most of QJTF forces in Rome were american, from the occupation force that was there before things went to hell. He heard from Isaac, a friend of his in the QJTF, that american and german soldiers held up in Bologna just… went silent. No further communications. Most think they died.
“Abre a porta!” came the reply. ‘It’s the brasiliani, then.’ thought Giovanni. Although most QJTF soldiers were american or italian, a small fraction was Brazilian, part of the Brazilian Expeditionary Corps that retreated to Rome before the situation got bad enough that anyone entering or leaving the Quarantine Zone was prohibited.
They were the worst. Undisciplined, most of the time drunk, and, worst of all, they mistreated the citizens. It didn’t take much to hate them.
“I need to get dressed! Wait a minute!” He answered in italian, since he didn’t know portuguese. He didn’t expect a answer. After putting on a shirt, pants and shoes. he got the key atop the drawer and opened the door. Three soldiers entered the room.
“What do you want?” he mumbled.
“You must, eh, answer the… the… questions! Questions on this paper.” Sargent Mendonça, if his name tag was correct, was having difficulties with the italian language. He handed out a paper to Giovanni. The artist then asked for the soldiers to get him pen and paper; he grinned at the irony of an artist asking for pen.
The questions weren’t very hard; in just ten minutes he signed the paper and returned it to the soldiers.
“Thank you for your time.” Private Oliveira said in an mechanic tone, indicating he decorated the frase, before they left his apartment. Giovanni checked his watch; no time for more sleep. With a sigh, he put on his suit, tie, and hat, got his painting equipment and went to his work.
All he needed to do was get on the street and set his things up, really. The streets were crowded today, which was very good for him. As he put some drawings on display to be bought, he got an idea.
“Get a portrait of yourself or your loved ones! Just 10 lires!” He announced. The other portraits were five lires, so he felt it was a fair price. Hopefully he’d earn more with this…