Short version

Maintaining peace has never been easy, and it’s not getting any easier. In a world where survival demands strength and skill, there is only one place designed to prepare those willing to fight for the future—Target City.

Long version

Virgo’s Triangle was seen as just another typical medical research facility—rarely in the news for scandals, occasionally met with small protests at its entrance, and largely unknown to the public when it came to the specifics of its work. Inside its six-story building, countless labs conducted research that few outside its walls truly understood. The company had a long list of investors and stockholders, most of whom never bothered to investigate their investment as long as the profits kept rolling in.

Dave was just as unremarkable as the facility itself—a middle-aged, average-looking guy, unmarried, flipping burgers for a living, and lacking any real ambitions. His only real indulgence was partying, often fueled by a fair amount of drugs. Rave club nights were his escape, but with a fast-food salary, affording them more than few times a month was a struggle. That wasn’t enough for Dave. He believed that if you wanted to get ahead in life, you had to make some tough choices. So when an opportunity came to make easy money by participating in medical trials, Dave didn’t think twice. If popping a few test drugs meant he could party more, then so be it.

After about a year of testing on mice and monkeys, the scientists at Virgo’s Triangle were ready to move on to human subjects. Dave’s group was the first to try what only a handful of monkeys had “experienced.” The researchers explained that the drug wasn’t a cure for any disease but rather a neurological stimulant designed to reduce the strain of future drug tests on the brain. Since certain experimental drugs caused extreme pain or fatigue, this new compound acted as a blocker—preventing pain from overwhelming the brain while still allowing the subject to remain conscious and aware during testing. Of course, none of the volunteers in Dave’s group paid much attention to the details. They just signed the paperwork, collected their compensation, and walked into the admission room—completely unaware of what they had just agreed to.

A month into the drug trial, Dave had finally reached his limit. One of the contract clauses strictly prohibited alcohol consumption—preferably none at all—and completely forbade psychoactive substances, which just happened to include all of Dave’s favorites. It also banned participants from enrolling in other medical trials at the same time—after all, if someone could make money testing drugs at one facility, why not double up elsewhere? Dave had already received multiple warnings from the nurse who took his blood samples before each dose. After the party two nights ago, he was certain this was it—his third strike. He fully expected to be kicked from the program. But strangely, he couldn’t even remember the party now. Worse, he was somehow a day late for his scheduled test.

Two days earlier, Michael—the sandwich-maker who worked alongside Dave—had barely needed to convince him to hit up a rave. Dave knew it would get him booted from the trial, but he was done with all the “bureaucratic bullshit” of the so-called one-page contract. If this was his last night before being cut, he was going to make it count. At 4 AM Saturday, Dave stumbled home, but by the time he woke up, the entire night was a blur. He couldn’t remember what he took, who he met, or what he had done. At first, he didn’t think much of it—just another wild night, nothing unusual. But then, strange gaps in his memory started surfacing.

He found himself standing in line at an ATM but couldn’t recall why he was there or how he had arrived. Then he was on a subway, convinced he was heading home—except it was the wrong line. Later, he was staring at a billboard on a street he had never been to before, feeling disoriented and starving. That’s when the unease set in. Something wasn’t right. He started piecing things together, but before he could fully process what was happening, he realized he was late for his drug test.

Panicked, he grabbed a cab to the facility. Sitting in the chair, the nurse eyed him suspiciously as she prepped the syringe.

“So, Dave… how’s your day been?” she asked. “And why exactly did you miss your test yesterday?”

Panic set in. He was sure today was Saturday—but if it wasn’t, why couldn’t he remember? Dave didn’t bother mentioning the party; he just didn’t care. Besides, the nurse would see the drugs in his blood test anyway. Fear gnawed at him, but he had no idea what to say or how to ask for help—not that he could afford it. His health insurance barely covered the basics, and a trip to the hospital would mean bills he couldn’t pay.

Bracing himself for the inevitable, he expected to be discharged from the trial. But instead, they called him in for his next dose.

How?

Before he could process it, he was back in his apartment, sitting on his couch, staring at a fresh check from the lab in his hand. The last thing he remembered was waiting for the blood test. Now he was here. Hours—maybe an entire day—had vanished. A chilling thought crossed his mind.

Wasn’t he supposed to be at work today?

The memory gaps stretched over the next week, growing wider each time. By day, Dave felt like a ghost of himself—going through the motions, barely holding on. Every so often, he’d come to his senses, finding himself somewhere unfamiliar. Staring at his torn-up clothes, wondering how they got that way. Lying on the ground, arms wrapped around his head, confused as strangers kicked him. After two weeks, his grip on reality was gone entirely.

Nobody noticed—not at first. He had no close friends, no one who really kept track of him. His family only found out when the police called. They had picked him up outside a grocery store, where he had been caught eating straight from the shelves. When questioned, he didn’t respond. He wasn’t violent, just… vacant. Non-cooperative. Completely disoriented. The police labeled him as mentally unstable and sent him to a hospital. With an overflowing system and an endless stream of forgotten cases, he was processed, documented, and left to fade into the background. Soon, even his family stopped checking in.

And Dave—who he had been, who he was—was forgotten.

Two weeks had passed since Dave’s arrest, and reports of people wandering the streets in a daze were increasing. They ignored traffic, stole food from stores without even realizing it, and slept in public places. They didn’t respond when spoken to—or even when beaten by passersby or furious street vendors. The police, overwhelmed with calls, started referring to them as “zombie cases.”

It wasn’t until four weeks after the first incident that doctors finally ran advanced tests on one of the patients. Blood tests had shown abnormalities, but there were no traces of any known viruses. Desperate for answers, they performed an MRI scan. What they found defied explanation. The subjects were alive, yet their brains showed massive, irreversible damage—severed neural connections, unnatural changes in shape and color. The initial reports made no sense, even to the doctors. This was the brain of a dead person, they wrote.

With no other option, the cases were escalated to specialized research facilities. What had started as an isolated phenomenon was now a national crisis—then an international one. Other cities were reporting the same eerie outbreaks. Two months later, scientists released their official statement on what was now known worldwide as the “Zombie Virus.”

At first, their findings confirmed what the public had already witnessed: the virus targeted the brain, destroying higher cognitive functions while leaving primal instincts intact. Victims retained essential survival mechanisms—heartbeat, balance, breathing, hunger, thirst—but lost all reasoning, fear, and even the ability to speak. But it was the next revelation that sent shockwaves through the world.

The virus was contagious.

Doctors assured the public that, like any virus, it could be avoided by staying away from infected individuals. But the real problem wasn’t how it spread—it was when it became noticeable. In the first week, there were no symptoms. By the second week, memory gaps became apparent. But who would go to a doctor over something as small as “I forgot where I left my keys” or “I can’t remember what I had for lunch two days ago”?

Standard blood tests couldn’t detect it—the virus didn’t circulate in the bloodstream. It latched onto the nervous system, making early diagnosis nearly impossible. An MRI scan could reveal the damage, but who would request a brain scan for mild forgetfulness? There was no cure. No treatment. No defense. The best advice scientists could offer was simple:

Avoid everyone.

But by then, it was already too late.

Six months had passed, and the virus had spread to most parts of the world. Remote islands and isolated regions remained untouched—not just by the virus, but by news of the global catastrophe unfolding. Civilization was crumbling. Major cities were under near-constant police and military curfews, yet law enforcement quickly found itself overwhelmed. Within the first month, containment systems collapsed. With no way to treat the infected, authorities instructed families to keep them at home if possible. If not, they were left to roam the streets—non-violent, aimless, and barely human. Food was scattered in public areas for them, as officials insisted they were not dead and that cure was coming. Attempts to confine them to stadiums and quarantine zones failed almost immediately. There were simply too many. And soon governments advised civilians to flee densely populated areas.

A year later, nearly ten percent of the world’s population was infected. Police and military forces, not immune to the virus, dwindled in numbers. Those who remained abandoned all efforts to control the chaos. Their only concern was protecting their own families. Governments collapsed one by one. Society unraveled. Survival meant fighting—for food, for water, for a place to sleep. Major cities became ghost towns, home only to the infected ones and ruthless gangs who saw the chaos as an opportunity to seize power. The streets belonged to those unafraid of the virus—merciless groups that ruled by force. If they encountered an infected, or a rival gang – It was shoot to kill.

Three Years Later

Scientists abandoned all promises of curing the infected. It was too late. Their focus shifted entirely to developing a vaccine for the uninfected. The infected weren’t immortal, after all. They were still human—requiring food, water, shelter, and medicine to survive. And without those necessities, they were expected to die off. In smaller towns, that prediction had largely come true in the first year. Some families tried to care for their loved ones, but keeping them safe became nearly impossible. There were those who hunted them—who executed them on sight, believing the world had suffered long enough. In major cities, their lifespan varied depending on the environment. They scavenged for survival, feeding on rats, stray animals, and even each other when food was scarce. Buildings provided shelter, and rivers offered water. Yet, even with these conditions in their favor, none survived beyond the second year.

Survivors had to adapt to a reality they had never known before. In the early years, fleeing populated areas was the only option. Most kept moving, stopping only when they found somewhere—anywhere—they could sleep for the night. Those who found small, low-infected towns settled in quickly. But it wasn’t long before those towns became overcrowded, despite strict two-week quarantine periods at the gates—barricades made from abandoned cars, put there for one reason: to see who would turn, and who wouldn’t.

After three years of running from the hell unleashed by the virus, the world slowly began to stabilize. The virus was no longer the primary concern, and people managed to find locations where they could stay for more than a season. Despite the world appearing to be in complete chaos with no political government to take charge, some strength remained among the surviving military leadership. However, instead of using their influence to help rebuild the world, many chose to settle old feuds with neighboring or overseas countries, thus plunging the world into a new kind of chaos—a world war.

A war that truly embodied the phrase “all gloves are off” ensued. The bigger the nation, the greater the destruction it caused, plunging the world into deeper darkness. The number of men and women willing to fight dwindled rapidly, resources became scarce, and the law of the jungle prevailed once again. Although the war lingered in some regions, in most parts of the world, the conflict that seemed poised to consume everything was over after barely three years.

Ten years after the virus, some parts of the world resembled a state of primitive existence, as if civilization had devolved back to the days of cavemen. However, such a way of life couldn’t last for long. People were unwilling to let chaos and fear govern their lives. Slowly but surely, they began organizing into small groups, sharing resources and supporting one another. Over time, these groups grew into communities, focusing their efforts on producing specific goods to trade with other communities, thus establishing a basic exchange system.

Yet, even that wasn’t enough for some. Gangs patrolled the roads, seeking easy prey, and small groups raided weaker communities for resources. With no authority to enforce laws and order, a new type of community emerged: bounty hunters. Armed and ready to offer protection to those in need for a fee, they became essential. In a world where money held no value, that fee was paid in the form of goods and services.

Twenty years have passed, and the world is finally beginning to recover, though unevenly across different regions. Bounty hunters have begun forming guilds—smaller organizations operating within populated areas like cities and villages—offering more than just protection. In this system, guilds took on roles traditionally filled by public services, such as medical care and education. Yet, ambition and the hunger for power persisted. Some guilds attacked others, growing in strength and influence, with their leaders becoming known as warlords. Guild wars emerged as a common occurrence, reminding the world that the peace once known before the virus was still a distant dream.

Thirty years after the virus, some parts of the world have finally recovered, establishing governments, political systems, economies, and even restoring old trade routes and currencies. But full recovery remains out of reach. Many regions still rely on bounty hunter guilds to maintain order, while others are ruled by warlords—warlords whose thirst for conquest has not faded.

Large capitals remain infested with gangs, posing a major threat to peace and stability. Yet, cities are crucial to rebuilding nations, as millions still live in overcrowded villages and small towns. The demand for bounty hunters hasn’t disappeared entirely, despite the growing push to restore society to its former state. But those who seek change find themselves caught in the crossfire. On one side, the guilds, determined to maintain their influence and power. On the other, warlords seeking to seize control and rule entire nations. And then there are the city gangs, clinging to the ruins, refusing to let people reclaim their homes.

Maintaining peace has never been easy, and it’s not getting any easier. In a world where survival demands strength and skill, there is only one place designed to prepare those willing to fight for the future—Target City.

 

Read the whole story ‘Target City – Origins‘