The Outbreak

If the civil war was a wound, then the outbreak was the infection that set in afterward — quite literally.

No one agrees exactly where it began. Some say Pavlovo Military Base. Others say the shipwreck at Rify. A few swear it was a secret Russian bioweapon, or a NATO medical experiment gone wrong. I once met a survivor near Gorka who insisted it was divine punishment and tried to bless me with a very sharp stick. (I politely declined.)

What we do know is this: It spread faster than anyone could stop it. One day there were rumours of fever outbreaks. Then reports of strange, unprovoked attacks. By the end of the week, cities were choking with traffic as everyone tried to leave at once. Military checkpoints were set up in the streets, guarded by soldiers who shouted at you to stay calm while their hands shook on their rifles.

I was visiting a close colleague in Novaya Petrovka, Professor Nadychuk, when the first quarantine efforts collapsed. It started with a single gunshot, followed by a scream, followed by several dozen gunshots. People scattered, abandoned their cars, trampled one another, and I spent the night hiding under a stairwell after being separated from Nadychuk. By morning, the soldiers were gone — and I was on my own. I managed to make my way to the west, to the non-infected regions of Chernarus. On that day, I swore to return, to document all that I possibly could, and hopefully find Nadychuk.

The international community did try, for a time. More aid convoys came, soldiers were flown in, and the news were full of promises that the situation was “under control”. But South Zagoria has never been high on the list of places the world cares about, and once the infection was declared incurable, the decision was made: Quarantine. Total exclusion.

The region was sealed off. An international task force was stationed to keep us in — yes, in — and to shoot anything that tried to cross the perimeter. Then came the PO-X gas strikes. They call them “decontamination operations”, though they do about as much as throwing a wet towel on a house fire. The gas kills everything, infected or not, and leaves behind a bitter stench that lingers for several days.

Occasional airdrops supply the remaining population of the exclusion zone with a basic supply of food, tools, weapons, and medical supplies; they do little but maintain the pseudo-economy which has developed here. At times, I feel like we are ants receiving the world’s breadcrumbs.

And yet, people keep coming. Smugglers, scavengers, dreamers, lunatics. Some are seeking riches. Some are seeking adventure. Some are simply running from the world beyond the wire.

Now, South Zagoria is no longer a region, so much as an idea. It is a crucible. A place where the rules of the old world no longer apply, where survival is measured one meal, one bullet, one pair of boots at a time. (Speaking of which, mine gave out near Vybor last week. I am now accepting donations.)

If you are reading this, know that you are walking through history — dangerous, bloodstained history, yes — but history nonetheless. And if you live long enough, perhaps you will help write the next chapter.

— Dr. Yannick Pomochuk