New Vance City

Once the jewel of public health in New Vance City, the Memorial Hospital now festers as a hollow echo of its past—a decaying temple to medicine drowned in death and silence. Designated as the primary triage hub during the Collapse, it was where the first infected were brought, studied, and ultimately locked inside. Quarantine failed. Containment broke. Floors were sealed, then floors below them. Now, the entire structure lies entombed in its own failure. It sits within the Shambler’s Graveyard, its lower levels pulsing with nests and viral rot. But something stranger has claimed its wards: the Silent Walkers. Cloaked in bone and gauze, they drift through the halls like mourners in a forgotten ritual, pacifying the infected with unknowable means. Some say they view the hospital as sacred ground. Others say it’s a hive for whatever communion they share with the shamblers. Few scavs dare breach the red-lined halls. Fewer still come back unchanged.

The hospital looms like a tombstone over the surrounding ruins, its once-glass facade now splintered into jagged maws of reflection. Ivy-like fungal cords wrap its outer shell, pulsing with faint, unnatural light. Entrances are blocked by barricades welded shut, their rust etched with messages in blood and ash—warnings or invitations, it’s hard to say. Inside, the air is thick and metallic, laced with formaldehyde, mildew, and the unmistakable scent of old blood. Hallways stretch endlessly under blinking emergency lights, casting strobe shadows on cracked tiles and overturned wheelchairs. Elevators gape open like mouths, leading nowhere. Medical posters curl on the walls like dying leaves. In the ICU wing, Silent Walkers tend to the infected as if in reverent ceremony, their skeletal adornments clinking softly as they move. They do not acknowledge intruders. They do not stop. The building breathes in sickness, exhales silence.