Deaths: 0
You roll your shoulders and twist your head to produce a sharp pop in your neck. Instant relief.
A sliding glass door separates you from the night and your reflection stares back at you with shadowed eyes. Outside the neighborhood is quiet, hushed, and all of the sane people have long gone to sleep. The dining room table is a sprawling mess of character sheets, maps, dice, reference books, empty and half empty bottles of both soda and craft beer. A pile of empty pizza boxes is unceremoniously stacked on the floor like the forgotten dead.
Perry's latest campaign has been testing everyone's nerves for weeks and its looking like you might not all make it through this one. The issue is trolls. Specifially, an army of undead trolls.
Typically fire or some other destructive spell is required to circumnavigate a troll's inherent regeneration but these particular beasties come back as freaking zombies if they aren't thoroughly reduced to cinders.
After hours of focused roleplay and an arduous process of enemy attrition through fire spells, disintegration and plain ol' flaming oil the party is taking a break.
Luke is silently doing deep knee-bends by the kitchen sink with one hand on the countertop for balance. His skinny black jeans must be more Spandex than cotton. Wilson has his bulk hunched over a tomb of lore and he's absently scratching at his scalp, his fingers lost in the unruly thatch of dark curls. He's using the break to determine how and why the mutation might've happened. Are the trolls resurrecting through arcane or biological means? Perry blows on a slice of pizza that's been freshly reconstituted by the microwave. The sleeves of his oversized Red Wings hockey jersey are rolled up and he's holding the paper plate, wet with grease and pizza, close to his chest and the hair of his beard gently tickles the cheese.
“You know what I hate about zombie movies?” Perry pauses and looks around the table then pushes the folded slice of pizza into his mouth. He chews slowly; his lips slightly parted and he takes deep, whistling breaths around the mass of cheese, dough and sausage.
After a long exhale he says, “There's this supposedly badass virus that has no cure and spreads like wildfire across the globe - bringing about the collapse of humanity and the end of the world as we know it - but animals are unaffected. That’s just lazy film-mak…”
[["What about Return of the Living Dead?"]]
[["What about Monkey Shines?"]]
[["What about Pet Sematary?"]]
[["What about Zoombie?"]]
Perry swallows. “Excuse me?”
The kitchen lights flicker and shadows twitch across the pale green walls and IKEA cabinetry. Owls dominate the room: salt and pepper shakers, magnets, dish towels, and needlepoint. The family dog, Pansy, barks at something in the backyard. Something unseen in the deepening shadows of twilight.
You shrug and look around the table at the rest of the gang. “Return of the Living Dead had a zombie dog.”
“Yeah," Perry dusts some crumbs from his beard, "whatever, there are probably a couple movies with zombie animals but my point is that in MOST movies the virus only affects humans.”
[["So, only the trolls are reanimating. I guess they aren't zombies after all. Wilson, is that helpful?"]]
[["Okay, so what causes the zombie virus?"]]
You shoot Wilson a look of annoyance and begin placing the miniatures back into position.
The Alantrea campaign has been active for almost four years and today the High Spectre, an NPC with a murky allegience, has tapped into a lay line and summoned a meteor to smite the growing army of mutant trolls who've be gathering in the former barony of Kentucky. It wouldn't stop the army but they were hoping the resultant heat could be whipped into a forest fire. There were too many trolls to fight one-on-one but maybe they could be cooked en masse.
[["Does anyone remember where the leader of the troll horde was positioned?"]]
[["Can someone grab me towel or something to mop up these spills?"]]
Perry rolls his eyes and ignores you. “Re-animated creatures are totally different from zombies. What the hell, you guys should know better.”
He cracks a Diet Pepsi and takes a loud sip.
“Okay, so there are a couple movies with zombie cats and dogs but most of them ignore the idea that the zombie virus would probably be trans-species. I’m thinking it would be something like H1N1 and would affect all kinds of creatu…”
“Oh man,” you blurt...
[["It’s a virus within a virus!"]]
[["You've put some serious time into thinking about this."]]
Perry turns to face you, “What?”
“Check this.” You're waving your hands and bouncing in your chair.
“Viruses are like, living creatures right? Or bacteria, or something. But what if the virus, each bit of bacteria, was zombified? It’s like the struggle of humanity is the macro-story running in parallel to the conflict waged on the bacteria level!”
Luke nods.
“That’s pretty cool.” Wilson agrees.
“Seriously?” Perry spreads his hands, addressing the room, “Are you guys kidding me? Thank God I’m the Dungeon Master, I’m like the only intelligent being in the room right now. First of all, what could possibly be small enough to be the carrier of the virus between bacteria? Atoms? Secondly, a virus can’t get sick.”
You lean back in your chair and pick at your t-shirt which proclaims you, in cracked and peeling silkscreen, an 8-bit Hero.
[["Then what’s a retrovirus?"]]
[["It's like the Borg."]]
You all look at one another, except for Luke, who is staring into the yard through the window by the sink.
“Good point,” offers Wilson, “a retrovirus is a kind of sickness for infected bacteria.”
“And maybe,” you say, “zombies aren’t dead at all. Maybe you become a zombie on the cellular level. As the cells are infected the flesh begins to die, right? Creating an initial impression of decay but death doesn’t come for a long while. It’s like Class IV possession.”
Wilson nods vigorously and Perry is quiet, staring intently at you while he follows the train of thought.
The grandfather clock in the living room ticks ponderously and you continue, “So the human isn’t really dead but they're possessed on a cellular level, which explains why zombies are so slow and stupid. The human brain just kinda loses control of the muscles, which are being led by this viral hive mind. It’s like playing a game with 10,000 Dungeon Masters who all know rules and work collectively to create this new living thing.”
“Whoa,” Wilson closes his eyes and tilts his face to the ceiling, “that would mean the infected human might be forced to eat brains before he’s lost his mind to virus. That’s totally crazy."
“Yeah," you say, "imagine losing control of your body and being forced to eat human flesh.”
You look at Perry.
[["Can you imagine that?"]]
[["Crazy, right?"]]
[[“How'd we get talking about this, anyway?”]]
“I could," Perry says, "but I won’t waste my time because the idea is just stupid. Think. Just think for a second what you’re saying. You’re suggesting the zombie virus is a decentralized infection that assumes control over the entire body.”
[[“Yeah," you reply, "so?"]]
[["But in the movies a severed zombie limb remains animated. How could it do that if the brain was needed?"]]
Perry sighs with dramatic exasperation. “You're impossible! The core of the infection HAS to be in the head because trauma to the brain is the ONLY way to kill a zombie. Thereby the virus is centralized.”
The other three consider this while Perry smiles and lifts another slice of wet and drooping pizza to his face. You all watch him miss his target and adjust the angle of the quivering slice so it can slip between his lips. He tears at it with his teeth and gulps repeatedly, breathing through his mouth, a shiny smear of grease ignored in his beard.
In the living room Wilson’s mother has turned on the TV and Anderson Cooper is talking about connections between Hezbollah and the Lebanese Canadian Bank. Outside the wind knocks over a trashcan and Pansy yips. Luke shuffles towards the sliding glass doors until he stands nose to nose with his reflection. The backyard is flooded with black and the moon rose above the treeline, thin and pale.
[[“How'd we get talking about this, anyway?”]]
[["Everything okay out there, Luke?"]]
“Sweet Harlow the Holy, can we finally get back on track?" Perry pauses to take a breath. "As I was saying, animals and insects seem impervious to the virus in most movies. This strikes me as scientifically unlikely and narratively uninteresting. Wouldn’t it be more exciting if animals could be infected? Think how much faster the virus would spread if birds were carriers!” Perry was getting excited. “Or, hell, cats and dogs even. Have you ever tried to outrun a dog? Even a zombie dog would run faster than a human.”
"You mean like in Zoombie?" Wilson offers.
"No, dude," Perry looks like he might burst a capillary, "not like in Zoombie. That movie was a piece of trash. I'm talking about something with the poetry and precision of Hitchcock. The weight and drama of fucking Wagner!"
"Chill, man," Wilson makes a shushing gesture, "my mom is is the other room."
[[“I don’t know, Perry. I can’t explain the brain thing but I don’t think the virus would affect everything the same way.”]]
“I’m with you,” Wilson says. “Hey Luke, what the heck are you doing over there?”
Luke looks over his shoulder at Wilson and flicks on the light switch to the back patio. You, Perry and Wilson stare beyond him into the night. Perry is twisted in his seat and his eyes grow wide. He chokes on a bite of pizza and his cough is automatic and uncovered, bits of half chewed cheese and dough fleck the map and papers spread across the table. You stand quickly with your hands planted on the table and your chair falls backward onto the linoleum with a muffled thump.
Wilson lets out a small whimper.
Luke follows your eyes and turns back to face the yard. Pressed against the glass of the sliding glass door, inches from him, is a well-dressed man in a gray suit and in a partial state of decomposition. Flesh has sloughed away from his face exposing sub-dermal tissue and, in some places, bone. His eyes are yellowed and milky. His mouth is a smear of fresh red blood.
On the patio, just behind the man is Pansy, running in small, tight circles. Her fur is matted with blood and her eyes are yellow.
Wilson speaks first, very quietly, “Dang, that was really fast. I fed her, like, an hour ago and she was fine.”
Perry snorts, pounds one fist against the table and gestures towards the patio. “See, I fucking knew it.”
[[“Okay, so you were right about the animal thing but this doesn’t disprove my hive-mind theory.”]]
[["Wow, so that was alot faster than rabies."]]
You and Perry stare at each other across the table. You're still standing and Perry’s arms are crossed. Wilson looks back and forth between you and Luke watches the dead man slowly pawing the door leaving wide red smears across the glass.
Pansy begins chewing through her own leg.
“You are unbelievable," Perry shakes his head. "You just don’t give up."
The corpse is thumping into the glass, shambling forward then bouncing back. *It's like a bird,* you think. The creature moans, a low gutteral sound of longing that mingles with the wind.
"This," you say pointing, "isn't evidence that the virus is centralized in the brain." The zombie mindlessly paws the sliding glass door.
"Seriously?" Perry twists in his seat to face you. Given his waistline girth this isn't an easy task and he struggles with the chair. "You don't give up."
It's true. You don't give up. A lifetime of banging your head against walls, getting pushed down and made fun of could've broken you but it didn't. It made you stronger. You look at your friends and realize it made each of you stronger, more creative and emotionally resilient.
"I have an idea," you say. "Wilson!”
Wilson snaps to attention, “What?”
[["I think your dad’s a golfer, bring me an iron. Actually, you better get the whole set of clubs.”]]
[["Any guns in the house?"]]
Perry swallows. “Excuse me? The monkey wasn't a zombie, it's brain had been modified with an injection of human tissue. That's what created the bond between it and that dude, the quadripalegic guy."
The kitchen lights flicker and shadows twitch across the pale green walls and IKEA cabinetry. Owls dominate the room: salt and pepper shakers, magnets, dish towels, and needlepoint. The family dog, Pansy, barks at something in the backyard. Something unseen in the deepening shadows of twilight.
You shrug and look around the table at the rest of the gang. "I know the monkey wasn't technically a zombie but it involved, on some level, the hijacking of brain activity. The monkey's normal patterns were jacked up, right? To the point where he became a killer."
“Yeah, well," Perry dusts some crumbs from his beard, "a zombie isn't just anything whose brain has been hijacked. If that was the case rabies could be a zombie virus. ”
[["Okay, so what causes the zombie virus?"]]
[["Well, maybe the zombie virus is a mutant strain of rabies?"]]
[["I wonder who was Patient Zero for the zombie virus. Who started it?"]]
Perry swallows. “Okay, fair enough. The movie adaptation was putrescent but that's the case for any Stephen King adaptation. I swear to ever-loving Odin, that man would sell movie rights to anyone.”
The kitchen lights flicker and shadows twitch across the pale green walls and IKEA cabinetry. Owls dominate the room: salt and pepper shakers, magnets, dish towels, and needlepoint. The family dog, Pansy, barks at something in the backyard. Something unseen in the deepening shadows of twilight.
Wilson, who has been absent-mindely rolling dice, looks up. "Even Uwe Boll?"
"Yes, Wilson," Perry shakes his head, "probably even Uwe Boll"
You shiver. The most horrorifying thing about Boll's horror movies is that he keeps making more of them.
Perry smiles at your reaction. It's a rare thing for him. Since middle school you've played RPG's together - everything from Boot Hill to Baker Street - and he seldom drops the professorial, know-it-all facade.
"Who would you hire to direct the Pet Sematary re-make?" he asks.
[["Guillermo del Toro"]]
[["Christopher Nolan"]]
[["Joon-ho Bong"]]
Perry coughs and small bits of chewed dough fleck his notes. “Is that the one about the zombie outbreak at the zoo?”
Wilson, who has been absent-mindely rolling dice, looks up. "I liked that one. It was like Madagascar meets Dawn of the Dead."
"Seriously, Wilson?" Perry grimaces. "That movie was horrible. I mean, horrible."
The kitchen lights flicker and shadows twitch across the pale green walls and IKEA cabinetry. Owls dominate the room: salt and pepper shakers, magnets, dish towels, and needlepoint. The family dog, Pansy, barks at something in the backyard. Something unseen in the deepening shadows of twilight.
You shrug and look around the table at the rest of the gang. “But in that movie the zombie virus hits the animals first.”
“Yeah," Perry dusts some crumbs from his beard, "whatever, there are some movies with zombie animals but my point is that in MOST movies the virus only affects humans.”
[["Well, maybe the zombie virus is a mutant strain of rabies?"]]
[["Right..."->Wilson bumps the table]]
Perry frowns. "Don't be stupid, no one knows the cause of the virus. It's why all the movies drop the audience smack into the epidemic."
You nod your head. "They don't want to explain the science."
"Exactly," Perry strokes his beard, "people don't consume zombie stories for science. It's all about the ensuing human drama."
Wilson, who has been absent-mindely rolling dice, looks up. "And blood. Lots of blood and brains."
"Yes," Perry agrees, "but I think you'll find that, as zombie stories evolve, the blood and brains take a backseat to the story of the survivors. In some sense, the zombie virus could be replaced by any epidemic that sets people against people: floods, resource depletion, another disease like SARS or Zika."
"So," you lean back in your chair, "you can't say for certain what triggers the zombie apocalypse?"
Perry's eyes narrow with suspicion. "No, I have theories but there isn't a singular cause that could explain all the stories. Narratively the field is too broad."
[["So, if you dont know the cause of the virus how can you say the epidemic couldn't come from something like a monkey whose brain has been modified with human tissue?->Wilson bumps the table]]
[["Good, so we've established that you don't know everything."->Wilson bumps the table]]
Perry places his plate with a half-eaten slice on the table and carefully dusts his hands. "Patient Zero for the zombie virus? Are you screwing with me?"
"No," you say, "I'm genuinely curious. What do you think?" Since middle school you've played RPG's together: everything from Boot Hill to Baker Street. Does he really need to ask if you're messing with him? Of course you are.
Perry stares at you for a moment then nods gravely. He assumes his professorial posture, nose elevated and gaze somewhere in the distance. The dining room isn't very big so, really, he's staring at Wilson's mom's collection of vintage plateware. Perry lays one arm across his chest and his other arm is free for abstract gestures and accents. It's an affectation you've all seen a gazillion times and Luke rolls his eyes in your direction.
Perry coughs and stabs a thick finger at a dot on the map he's visualizing floating somewhere over the table.
"Patient Zero," he begins, "is a term used to describe the first person thought to suffer from a previously undiscovered virus or disease. The term is most popularly used to incorrectly identify Gaëtan Dugas, a Canadian flight attendant, as the originator of the HIV virus. In fact, it was discovered that HIV was introduced to Haiti from Africa in 1966 and a short time thereafter it traveled from Haiti to the United States in 1969."
[["You must be a hit at dinner parties. Can you tell us how the zombie virus began?" ->Patient Zero]]
[["Okay Professor, can you tell us who was Patient Zero for the zombie virus?"->Patient Zero]]
Perry stares at you and in the uncomfortable silence someone's stomach growls.
Wilson's breathing deeply, a low hum from somewhere deep in his sinus. “Ooh, did you guys ever see Re-animator? That has a re-animated cat!” He sits forward, bumping the table with his stomach, sending dice and lead miniatures tumbling, tinkling against bottles of beer and across the map of Alantrea and the Underwood.
[["Smooth, Wilson."->"Shit Wilson, be careful!"]]
[["Shit Wilson, be careful!"->"Shit Wilson, be careful!"]]
[["Gah!"->"Shit Wilson, be careful!"]]
Perry's eyes narrow with suspicion. "No, I have theories but there isn't a singular cause that could explain all the stories. Narratively the field is too broad. Some literature says Solanum is a common zombie virus."
"Solanum?"
Perry looks at you flatly. "Yes, Solanum."
In the kitchen Luke pours himself a glass of water from the faucet and leans against counter. He's thin and angular, a lean tattooed whip in skinny black jeans and Converse. His face is birdlike but he moves slow like the air around him is thick and offering resistance.
Wilson's house is in weathered suburban neighborhood that was probably quite nice thirty or forty years ago when the Michigan auto industry was at its prime. Now everything is just a little gray and the money has moved to other areas.
[["So, if you dont know the cause of the virus how can you say the epidemic couldn't come from something like a monkey whose brain has been modified with human tissue?->Wilson bumps the table]]
"Ho ho!" Wilson slaps his thigh. "I vote Yes."
Perry offers his most sage nod. "I concur. More *Pan's Labyrinth* than *Hellboy*, right?
[["Of course"]]
[["I'm not sure about that."]]
"Christopher Nolan!" Wilson slaps his thigh. "Holy crap, I vote Yes."
Perry looks disgusted. "Are you kidding me? I loved the Batman movies and Inception as must as the next guy but he's all wrong for a Pet Sematary re-make. Give me one good reason you'd hire him over Guillermo del Toro."
[["No one would expect something like this from Nolan."]]
[["I want to see how Nolan visualizes Pet Sematary partially from the cats perspective, he's like some warped conduit between reality and the spirit world."]]
"Who's that?" Wilson looks up from his reading.
Perry closes his eyes and his mouth is moving like he's tasting the directatorhip of Joon-ho Bong. It's a little strange.
"He directed //The Host//," you say, "that Korean movie about the mosnter living the river."
"Holy crap," Wilson slaps his thigh, "I vote Yes."
Perry slowly opens his eyes. "Okay, this could be pretty cool. I wasn't a fan of Snowpiercer but I feel like that was Bong trying to make a Hollywood movie. Give him free reign and I think he'd do the story justice."
"Right?" you're grinning. "Korean horror films freak me out. They don't follow the Hollywood tropes so you can't anticipate where they'll go. King writes like that but somehow the grit and authentic weirdness gets lost in the film adaptation."
"Amen." Perry waves his hands in the air, thick fingers waggling to the heavens.
[["I feel like he'd root the cats's possession in something everyday, like rabies."->"Well, maybe the zombie virus is a mutant strain of rabies?"]]
[["Bong's best when he's putting everyday people through extraordinary circumstances."]]
Perry grins. Biological nerdom. This is perfectly within his wheelhouse. "While rabies is terrifying it has a relatively slow incubation period compared to our documentation for the zombie virus. A dog might take two to eight weeks before showing signs of the virus and that's plenty of time to recognize the signs and take appropriate action. To date only five infected humans have survived a fullblown rabies infection and spread of the virus between humans is extremely rare. Interestingly, cats are the common domesticated animal to contract rabies."
"Um..." You're not surprised this is something Perry has researched but there's a disturbing edge to his excitement.
Perry continues. "Viruses don't really mutate to display new symptoms, they just adapt their existing behavior. So its unlikely rabies would become the zombie virus but perhaps we could biologically engineer a new virus based on something like rabies and, I don't know, leprosy."
Wilson, who has been absent-mindely rolling dice, looks up. "And somehow escalate the incubation period?"
Perry tosses his plate to the table and claps. "Exactly!"
This is both interesting and completely horrifying. You lean back in your chair. "But can you say, definitively, what could trigger the zombie apocalypse? Like, the real thing."
Perry's eyes narrow with suspicion. "No, I have theories but there isn't a singular cause that could explain all the stories. Narratively the field is too broad."
[["So, if you don't know the cause of the virus you can't really say what it isn't. Right?->Wilson bumps the table]]
[["Wait. You don't know everything?"->Wilson bumps the table]]
Silently, Luke tears off a few sheets of paper towel from the roll under the sink then wanders over and begins mopping up the spilled beer.
Perry rolls his eyes and ignores you. “Re-animated creatures are totally different from zombies. What the hell? You guys should know better.”
He cracks a Diet Pepsi and takes a loud sip.
“Okay, so there are a couple movies with zombie cats and dogs but most of them ignore the idea that the zombie virus would probably be trans-species. I’m thinking it would be something like H1N1 and would affect all kinds of creatu…”
“Oh man,” you blurt...
[["It’s a virus within a virus!"]]
[["You've put some serious time into thinking about this."]]
"Yeah," you say, "I think del Toro would nail the slow-brew creep factor. Stephen King is so dark, I mean sincerely dark, that the director would need to capture that mood."
Perry's eyes are dark but they sparkle under the brown bush of his eyebrows. "del Toro is a bit of a surrealist but he's always aware of the human condition. Despite the spectacle he's best when he doesn't lose sight of that commentary."
"Right," you say, "totally. And Pet Sematary is kind of a small story. It doesn't really leave the house. Its all about the family, the sematary, and the cat. What was it's name?"
"Church," Wilson replies and takes a sip of a warm beer. There's no telling who the bottle belonged to originally.
"Church, yeah that's right," You never loved cats and that movie made you like them less. "He was a kind of zombie."
Perry purses his lips. "No, he was undead but he wasn't a zombie. Not all undead are zombies. Odin's beard, man, you know that. Clearly the cat was possessed. That's totally different."
For just a minute you thought Perry might get through a conversation without being an asshole. Another failed Charisma roll.
[[Settle down, Percival. It's just a conversation. No one needs to be the winner or loser."->Wilson bumps the table]]
[["I've also wondered if rabies was a kind of possession. Biological, you know, instead of spiritual.->"Well, maybe the zombie virus is a mutant strain of rabies?"]]
"The story is inherently campy," you say, "and I think del Toro would have a good time with that. Yeah, it's creepy but c'mon, an undead, evil cat? Its so literal that the whole set up is kind of joke. Hellboy dealt with spooky stuff but it was fun. I'd love to see a version of Pet Sematary that got off on being over the top."
"Like Braindead," Wilson replies and takes a sip of a warm beer. There's no telling who that bottle belonged to originally.
"No, not like Braindead," Perry frowns, "that was Peter Jackson."
Wilson shrugs. "Oh." By now he's developed a high resistance to Perry's abrasiveness.
Perry's eyes are dark but they sparkle under the brown bush of his eyebrows. "del Toro is a bit of a surrealist but he's always aware of the human condition. Despite the spectacle he's best when he doesn't lose sight of that commentary."
"Maybe," you say, "but there wasn't much commentary in Pacific Rim and that movie kicked ass because it knew what was: fanboy realization made huge. Pet Sematary is kind of a small story, the total opposite, but it's all about this evil cat. What was it's name?"
"Church," Wilson replies and takes a sip of a warm beer. There's no telling who the bottle belonged to originally.
"Church, yeah that's right. He was a like this ridiculous zombie cat." You never loved cats and that movie made you like them less.
Perry purses his lips. "He was undead but he wasn't a zombie. Not all undead are zombies. Odin's beard, you know that."
For just a minute you thought Perry might get through a conversation without being an asshole. Another failed Charisma roll.
[[Settle down, Percival. It's just a conversation. No one needs to be the winner or loser."->Wilson bumps the table]]
[["I've also wondered if rabies was a kind of possession. Biological, you know, instead of spiritual.->"Well, maybe the zombie virus is a mutant strain of rabies?"]]
Perry's eye's bulge. "That's for damn sure, its because it's a horrible idea. Nolan's a freaking genius but his gift isn't telling stories of this nature, he's a big lateral thinker and his movie are more algebraic, cerebral, than Pet Sematary should be."
For just a minute you thought Perry might get through a conversation without being an asshole. Another failed Charisma roll.
"Except for The Shining," you say, "all of the Stephen King movie adaptions look like they were made for TV. Someone like Nolan would push the story and aesthetic into new territory and, frankly, I think it'd blow people's minds. Maybe audiences would look forward to King movies rather than feel this fanboy obligation to watch them."
Wilson nods. "Yeah, I think Nolan'd really get into the science of it."
Perry looks dismayed. "The science?"
"That cat, Church, he was a kind of zombie." You never loved cats and that movie made them suck less.
Perry purses his lips. "He was undead but he wasn't a zombie. Not all undead are zombies. Odin's beard, you know that. Clearly the cat was possessed. That's totally different."
"But," Wilson interjects, "what if the cat, Church, was kind of spiritually rabid? It's like the science of possession."
"Spiritually rabid?!" Perry's face has turned red. "That's...well, that's actually kind of a cool idea."
[[See? Now you're getting that Nolan flavor, aren't you?"->Wilson bumps the table]]
[["I've also wondered if rabies was a kind of possession. Biological, you know, instead of spiritual.->"Well, maybe the zombie virus is a mutant strain of rabies?"]]
Perry's eye's bulge. "Listen, I think Nolan's a freaking genius but his gift isn't telling stories of this nature, he's a big lateral thinker and his movie are more algebraic, cerebral, than Pet Sematary should be."
"But," you say, "aren't you just a little curious to see what that world would look like? Where would Nolan take a relatively small story about an undead cat? All bleak and desaturated." You wave your fingers like you're magically bleaching the color from the dining room walls.
Wilson nods. "Yeah, I think Nolan'd really get into the science of it."
Perry looks dismayed. "The science?"
"That cat, Church, he was a kind of zombie." You never loved cats and that movie made you like them less.
Perry purses his lips. "Correction, he was undead but he wasn't a zombie. Not all undead are zombies. Odin's beard, you know that. Clearly the cat was possessed. That's totally different."
"But," Wilson interjects, "what if the cat, Church, was kind of spiritually rabid? It's like the science of possession."
"Spiritually rabid?!" Perry's face has turned red. "That's...well, that's actually kind of a cool idea."
[[See? Now you're getting that Nolan flavor, aren't you?"->Wilson bumps the table]]
[["I've also wondered if rabies was a kind of possession. Biological, you know, instead of spiritual.->"Well, maybe the zombie virus is a mutant strain of rabies?"]]
Perry's eyes are dark but they sparkle under the brown bush of his eyebrows. "Bong has a dark sense of magical realism but he's aware that's the human's story that's important. The monster is a vehicle to put people through their paces."
"Agreed," you say, "and Pet Sematary is kind of a small story: a family, a house, the sematary and evil cat. What was it's name?"
"The cat? Church." Wilson replies and takes a sip of a warm beer. There's no telling who the bottle belonged to originally.
"Church, yeah that's right. He was a kind of zombie." You never loved cats and that movie made you like them less.
Perry purses his lips. "He was undead but he wasn't a zombie. Not all undead are zombies. Odin's beard, you know that. Clearly the cat was possessed. That's totally different."
For just a minute you thought Perry might get through a conversation without being an asshole. Another failed Charisma roll.
[[Settle down, Percival. It's just a conversation. No one needs to be the winner or loser."->Wilson bumps the table]]
[["What do you think of rabies as a kind of possession. Biological, you know, instead of spiritual?->"Well, maybe the zombie virus is a mutant strain of rabies?"]]
"Well, yeah," Perry spreads his hands, "You're fighting zombie trolls. I had to do my research and it all needs to make sense within the world of Alantrea. You guys need to have faith that I've thought of everything, filled in every plot hole."
Wilson closes his book. "Pot hole?"
"Plot hole."
"Ah, right," Wilson bobbed his head, "that makes more sense."
You look around the room at each of your friends. You've known one another for years and shared this multi-tiered existence with them, fulfilling roles within the normal world, Alantrea, and a dozen other fictional universes. What is reality? The place where bills are paid or the places where you express your ideals?
Your stomach gurgles. Caffeine, cheese, sleep deprivation and beer are waging a war within you.
In high school you realized that normal society is binary and innately uncomfortable with depth. A person is this or that, cool or uncool, and depending on the bucket in which you live you come prepackaged with suppositions. There's no room for badass women, sensitive men, and latin astro-physicists. If you don't fit neatly into a profile people look at you sideways, with shit-ton of skepticism.
It's taken years but you've learned to appreciate those sideways glances because they reveal the edge of people's boxes and you take great joy in punching holes in those walls.
On the edge of your awareness Perry says something about resuming the session you're lost in thought.
Every person is a mountain of stories that have been recorded at every level, from the emotional to the cellular, and those stories are begging to be explored. It's confusing at times but you love your life: a mess of overlapping identities and contradictions, all pushing and pulling one another, jockeying for attention.
Wait a second...
[["What if it’s a virus within a virus?"->"It’s a virus within a virus!"]]
“Yes. Yes it is," Perry says. "Think. Just think for a second what you’re saying. You’re suggesting the zombie virus is a decentralized infection that assumes control over the entire body.”
"How is that any crazier than a centralized virus?" you ask.
"First of all, it sounds super liberal and suspiciously hippy." Perry is a registered Libertarian. "But more importantly viruses localize to regions. They don't take over the whole system."
"That doesn't mean they couldn't, right?" You feel a knot of tension cramping in your shoulder. An argument with Perry is a lost cause, he almost never concedes, but you have to make the effort. "I mean, hackers can hijack entire computer systems, why can't a virus take over a host? We are talking about fiction here."
For a second Perry looks stunned, like you'd slapped him with something ridiculous but ultimately non-harmful. Like a tofu steak. "All fiction," he argues, "even fantasy, needs some root in reality to give it emotional and intellectual weight. Zombies are *undead*, meaning they come back from the dead. The idea of a de-centralized zombie virus that doesn't reanimate the dead doesn't match the lore."
[[“Yeah," you reply, "so?"]]
[["But in the movies a severed zombie limb remains animated. How could it do that if the brain was needed?"]]
Perry sighs with dramatic exasperation. “But the core of the infection HAS to be in the head because trauma to the brain is the ONLY way to kill a zombie. Thereby the virus is centralized.”
The other three consider this while Perry smiles and lifts another slice of pizza, wet and drooping, to his face. You all watch him miss his target and adjust the angle of the quivering slice so it can slip between his lips. He tears at it with his teeth and gulps repeatedly, breathing through his mouth, a shiny smear of grease ignored on his chin.
In the living room Wilson’s mother has turned on the TV and Anderson Cooper is talking about connections between Hezbollah and the Lebanese Canadian Bank. Outside the wind knocks over a trashcan and Pansy yips.
Luke pushes back his chair and shuffles towards the sliding glass doors until he stands nose to nose with his reflection. The backyard is flooded with black and the moon has risen above the treeline, thin and pale.
[[“How'd we get talking about this, anyway?”]]
[["Everything okay out there, Luke?"]]
Lukes gives his head a little shake then looks at you and shrugs.
[[“How'd we get talking about this, anyway?”]]
They all look at one another, except for Luke, who is staring into the yard through the window by the sink.
“Um,” Wilson looks a little confused, “like each individual member of the Borg represents a cell? We're in macro metaphor territory here?”
“Right,” you confirm, “totally. It's like each member of the Borg, like each cell, has had in identity remapped by this intrusion, a virus, whatever. The function it used serve kind of happens on autopilot, all the homeostatic stuff, and its new higher purpose is aggressively sustaining the larger body."
Wilson is nodding, "Each cell is a kamikaze."
"Sure, maybe." you snap your fingers. "Maybe zombies aren’t dead at all. Maybe you become a zombie on the cellular level. As the cells are infected the flesh begins to die, right? Creating an initial impression of decay because they've forgotten how to support themselves but death doesn’t come for a long while. It’s like Class IV possession."
Wilson nods vigorously and Perry is quiet, staring intently at you while he follows the train of thought.
The grandfather clock in the living room ticks ponderously and you continue, “So the human isn’t really dead but they're possessed on a cellular level, which explains why zombies are so slow and stupid. The human brain just kinda loses control of the muscles, which are being led by this viral hive mind. It’s like playing a game with 10,000 Dungeon Masters who all know the rules and work collectively to create this new living thing.”
“Whoa,” Wilson closes his eyes and tilts his face to the ceiling, “that would mean the infected human might be forced to eat brains before he’s lost his mind to virus. That’s totally crazy."
“Yeah," you say, "imagine losing control of your body and being forced to eat human flesh.”
You look at Perry.
[["Can you imagine that?"]]
[["Crazy, right?"]]
[[“How'd we get talking about this, anyway?”]]
You and Perry stare at each other across the table. You're still standing and Perry’s arms are crossed. Wilson looks back and forth between you and Luke watches the dead man slowly pawing the door leaving wide red smears across the glass.
Pansy begins chewing through her own leg.
“See?" Perry shakes his head. "I told you so. Pansy was fine an hour ago. If this was a rabies derivative there's no way it could've incubated that fast."
The corpse is thumping into the glass, shambling forward then bouncing back. *It's like a bird,* you think. The creature moans, a low gutteral sound of longing that mingles with the wind.
"Okay, fine," you concede, "maybe you're right about the rabies thing. But that," you point at the creature pawing the sliding glass door, "doesn't disprove my hive mind theory."
"Seriously?" Perry twists in his seat to face you. "You don't give up."
It's true. You don't give up. A lifetime of banging your head against walls, getting pushed down and made fun of could've broken you but it didn't. It made you stronger. You look at your friends and realize it made each of you stronger, more creative and resilient. You can deal with this.
"I have an idea," you say. "Wilson!”
Wilson snaps to attention, “What?”
[["Any guns in the house?"]]
[["I think your dad’s a golfer, bring me an iron. Actually, you better get the whole set of clubs.”]]
Wilson squeezes his bulk away from the table then runs out of the kitchen and you hear him wheeze something to his mother on his way upstairs.
What are the odds that Pansy and this walking corpse are the only ones infected? The shredded jacket and gristly hunks of missing flesh suggest its not likely. "Hey guys, I'm pretty sure he's not Patient Zero."
That's a bad sign. How many more of these are dragging themselves around the neighborhood?
There's commotion upstairs, a loud bang then Wilson shouting, "It's okay, just me." A series of thumps coming down the stairs and the rattle of golf clubs. From the living room a news anchor is reporting breaking news on a possible terrorist attack. Wilson stumbles into the kitchen dragging an oversized bag of golf clubs.
Perry looks dubious. "Got any hockey sticks?"
"Uh," Wilson frowns, "no. Afraid not."
"Ah well." Perry looks at you. “I propose we do a test. We go for this guy’s head and, if he drops, then we agree the virus is centralized and not some kind of collective mind.”
[["Sounds fair to me."]]
[["One test won't prove anything but it's a start."]]
[["Even a hive mind needs a centralized management center. That won't prove anything."]]
[["I propose we take off a limb. If it continues living we agree the virus is some kind of collective."]]
"Uh, sorry, " Wilson looks apologetic, "we don't have any guns."
[[That's fine, got some golf clubs?"->"I think your dad’s a golfer, bring me an iron. Actually, you better get the whole set of clubs.”]]
"Fair enough," Perry says, "scientific method it is. If there are indeed more of 'them' out there we'll have plenty of chances to test our theories."
Each of you, except Luke, selects a club and takes turns making practice swings in the middle of the kitchen. Luke draws a heavy butchers knife from the rack next to the stove and he holds it loose at his side.
"Remember," Wilson says, "if anyone gets bit it's game over."
It doesn't need to be said, you've all read the books and seen the movies, but it underscores the risk, and the reality, of what's happening.
Perry looks outside. "Who do we start with?"
[["Pansy."]]
[["The guy."]]
"Even the Borg have a Queen and a central base of operations," Wilson offers, "the Unicomplex."
"Exactly," you say, "and you remember what happened to the Unicomplex?"
"It was destroyed." Perry pushes his seat back and straightens his Red Wings jersey. "But seriously, this isn't make-up-your-own lore day. That," he points at the walking corpse, "is not a vampire and the offspring of zombies don't die when you kill Patient Zero."
He has a point but you won't give in so easily. "I think we can agree that all the rules, everything we thought we know, has gone out the window."
"Unless," Perry says, "the lore is based on reality. Civilizations have come and gone, who's to say there haven't been undead epidemics throughout history?"
"Well," you make a sweeping gesture at the golf clubs, "there's only one way to find out. Choose your weapon."
Each of you, except Luke, selects a club and takes turns making practice swings in the middle of the kitchen. Luke draws a heavy butchers knife from the rack next to the stove and he holds it loose at his side.
"Remember," Wilson says, "if anyone gets bit it's game over."
It doesn't need to be said, you've all read the books and seen the movies, but it underscores the risk, and the reality, of what's happening.
Perry looks outside. "Who do we start with?"
[["Pansy."]]
[["The guy."]]
"No way" Perry says, "that's a stupid test. The lore already suggests a zombie limb will continue living after its been separated from the body."
Crap, he's right, that wouldn't prove anything. "Okay," you're thinking fast, "how about this? First we take off a limb to see if remains animated, you know, to verify the lore. Then we remove the head and see if the severed limb remains animated."
Wilson leans against the wall, panting. "I like that. If the virus is centralized to the brain the limb should die when it's disconnected or, at least, have a limited lifespan."
"But if the limb remains animated.." you say.
"I get it, I get it," Perry waves his hands, "then the animation is active on the cellular level. Let's just do this."
Each of you, except Luke, selects a club and takes turns making practice swings in the middle of the kitchen. Luke draws a heavy butchers knife from the rack next to the stove and he holds it loose at his side.
"Remember," Wilson says, "if anyone gets bit it's game over."
It doesn't need to be said, you've all read the books and seen the movies, but it underscores the risk, and the reality, of what's happening.
Perry looks outside. "Who do we start with?"
[["Pansy."]]
[["The guy."]]
Each of you, except Luke, selects a club and takes turns making practice swings in the middle of the kitchen. Luke draws a heavy butchers knife from the rack next to the stove and he holds it loose at his side.
"Remember," Wilson says, "if anyone gets bit it's game over."
It doesn't need to be said, you've all read the books and seen the movies, but it underscores the risk, and the reality, of what's happening.
Perry looks outside. "Who do we start with?"
[["Pansy."]]
[["The guy."]]
"Good call," Perry is shifting from foot to foot. It's the most excited you've seen him since his high school crush showed up in Cherry magazine. "They're called ankle-biters for a reason."
"Sorry, Wilson," you say, "but we need to deal with Pansy fast."
"This blows." Wilson looks at each of you in turn. “Nobody touches her but me. Understood?”
You nod. "Fair enough. We don't have much space to move so we need a plan, otherwise we'll end up braining each other. I suggest two of us manage the door so only Pansy can get through and the other two deal the dog. Cool?"
"Yeah, cool," Perry agrees. "once Pansy is down we reset, catch our breath, then let the big guy through."
"Who's gonna back me up with Pansy?" Wilson looks nervous but you have faith he'll do what needs to be done.
[["I got you."]]
[["Luke, you got this?"]]
[["Perry, can you back him up?"]]
"I don't know," Perry is watching the dog, "they're called ankle-biters for a reason. I think we need to deal with that thing quickly."
"That thing? You guys are jerks." Wilson looks at each of you in turn. “Nobody touches Pansy but me. Understood?”
You nod. "Fair enough. Perry, you back up Wilson. I'll handle the guy with Luke. Cool?"
Perry lifts his 9-iron like a scepter. “Understood. Wilson of Underwood. May the gods bless your steel. Luke, crack the door just enough that Pansy get through. We'll funnel them."
"Like Diablo." You squeeze the faux-leather grip of your club.
"Just like Diablo." Perry's eyes twinkle darkly under the bush of his eyebrows. "Get ready, we have work to do.”
[["You guys ready?"->"Perry, can you back him up?"]]
Wilson looks up from his research. His brown mop of hair almost covers his eyes so its hard to tell where he's looking. "Actually...that might be useful. If we rule out a zombie viurus then it's either an adaptation of the typical troll regeneration or some form of necromancy."
"And where there's necromancy...," you say.
Wilson smiles. "There's a necromancer. If we kill the person casting the spell maybe it will anul the effect of the spell."
"Perry?" You raise an eyebrow at your Game Master.
"Whoa, hey, this is just a conversation," Perry waves his hands. He looks mildly flustered. "We're not in game time so whatever I say can't be taken as lore for the campaign. I'm simply expressing my personal thoughts on the zombie virus."
"So you won't confirm that the zombie virus is exclusive to humans?"
"For the campaign?" he says. His eyes bounce between you and Wilson, looking for a trap. "For Alantrea?"
"Right."
Perry settles back into his chair and his shoulders slope with relief, satisfied that he didn't give away any details on the mutant virus infecting the trolls. "My opinion on the zombie virus may or may not have anything to do with the campaign."
That's too bad. For a moment you thought you'd get him to leak some juicy details to you defeat the trolls. "So you think the zombie virus, in real life, would be cross-species? Like rabies, or something."
"I do," Perry acknowledges, "but it wouldn't be like rabies."
[["Why not?"->"Well, maybe the zombie virus is a mutant strain of rabies?"]]
[["Dude, you have no idea what you're talking about."->Wilson bumps the table]]
"Thanks," Wilson says.
"You got it." You pat him on the shoulder. "Luke and Perry, you guys need to open the door just enough for Pansy to fit through. I'm betting she'll be hungry for brains, or whatever, so she'll scoot right through. Whatever you do, don't let that...guy...through. Open the door, let her through, then close it fast."
Luke gives you an incredulous look like that he's done this a thousand time before and for all you know he's probably killed thousands of pixel zombies.
Perry starts pushing the table and chairs away from the sliding glass door so you'll all have more room to move. Bottles tip, spilling more soda and beer across player characters sheets and maps but this time no one cares. Dice slide off the table and roll across the linoleum floor.
From the living room Wilson's mom shouts, "What are you boys doing? You better not be scuffing my floors!"
Perry mutters, "Its a singular floor. Not floors."
"You guys ready?"
Luke and Perry position themselves by the sliding glass door. Luke is in the front so he can manage the lock and Perry has his fingers dug into the door frame, ready to pull it back. He's slipped his 9 iron into his belt so it dangles like a sword.
"Wilson?"
Your friend is sweating and his face is flush with anxiety but he gives you the thumbs up then grips his golf club, a putter, with both hands. You stand back to give him space and prepare your 7 iron. Somewhere in the distance someone is laying on a car horn and you hear a siren cutting through the night.
[["Open the door."]]
[["Hold on a second."]]
Luke gives you a thumbs up.
"Thanks," Wilson says.
"Cool." You watch Luke settle into position a few feet behind Wilson.. "I'll open the door with Perry, just enough for Pansy to fit through. I'm betting she'll be hungry for brains, or whatever, so she'll scoot right through. Perry, whatever we do, we can't let that guy through. We'll open the door, let her through, then close it fast."
"Yeah," Perry says, "I know the deal. I've funneled monsters before." He starts pushing the table and chairs away from the sliding glass door so you'll all have more room to move. Bottles tip, spilling more soda and beer across player characters sheets and maps but this time no one cares. Dice slide off the table and roll across the linoleum floor.
From the living room Wilson's mom shouts, "What are you boys doing? You better not be scuffing my floors!"
Perry's breathing heavy from the exertion but manages to grumble, "Its a floor. Singular. Not floors."
"You guys ready?"
You and Perry position yourselves by the sliding glass door. You're in the front so you can manage the lock and Perry has his fingers dug into the door frame, ready to pull it back. He's slipped his 9 iron into his belt so it dangles like a sword.
"Wilson?"
Your friend is sweating and his face is flush with anxiety but he gives you the thumbs up then grips his golf club, a putter, with both hands. Somewhere in the distance someone is laying on a car horn and a siren cuts through the night.
[["3...2...1..."]]
[["Wait a second."]]
Perry offers a little salute with his 9 iron. "Certainly. This dog is going down."
"Dude," Wilson says, "a little sensitivity. That's Pansy."
"Not anymore she's isn't." Perry points at the dog on the other side of the sliding glass door. "You need to understand that she ceased to be Pansy the moment the virus corrupted her little doggy brain. Now she's target practice."
"Perry," you say, "can you back him up without being a dick about it?"
"What?" he looks mystified. "I said I'd back him up and I'll back him up." Perry shrugs and adjusts his Red Wings jersey. Of the four of you Perry is the only one with some legitmate sports experience, he played hockey for Lake Superior State, and he's probably the best pick to take out a small, four-legged zombie.
You watch Perry settle into position a few feet behind Wilson.
"I'll open the door with Luke," you say, "just enough for Pansy to fit through. I'm betting she'll be hungry for brains, or whatever, so she'll scoot right through. Luke, we can't let that guy through. We'll open the door, let Pansy through, then close it fast."
Luke nods.
Perry gestures at the kitchen table with his beard. "We should move that to, you know, give us more space to operate."
[["Good call," you say. "Luke, give me a hand?"]]
[["The table? Seriously? That's the least of our worries."]]
Luke flips the lock and Perry pulls the sliding glass door open leaving just enough space for Pansy. The zombie human was struggling with the concept of glass but somehow it knows the difference between a closed and open door. It lurches for the gap.
Everyone starts shouting but you can't tell what they're saying because Pansy, the tiny hellhound, has squeezed her way through the gap and it's all you can do to track her between the forest of adult legs.
She darts for Luke's foot and latches onto the black leather of a Doc Marten. You have a moment to thank the freaking lord that your friend has consistently ignored the house no-shoe rule. Being too cool to be seen in socks just saved his life. Luke doesn't even notice because the walking corpse has pushed its head and arm through the gap. Perry is trying to slide the door closed but the corpse is in the way. Thinly fleshed fingers are raking at Luke's face and you see him fumbling with his butcher knife.
Wilson pulls back his putter and tee's off on Pansy. Iron meets small furry body with a thump. The terrier does a flip, bangs off the dishwasher where it leaves a bloody smear, then lands and begins running in circles.
[[Attack Pansy.->Attack Pansy2]]
[[Let Wilson attack Pansy.->Let Wilson attack Pansy2]]
[[Check on Luke and Perry.->Check on Luke and Perry2]]
Wilson hesitates and in that moment you jump forward, swinging your 7 iron in an arc that terminates in Pansy's head. The first strike stuns her but the second, third and fourth cave in her skull. You step back, wobbling on weak knees and collapase against the kitchen counter. You're exhausted from the stress and effort but Pansy is still: a pile of fur, meat and gristle.
"Dude," Wilson rushes to your side, "you agreed that I'd handle Pansy!"
You wipe sweat from your face. "Uh, sorry about that."
There's a thump and you spin towards the sliding glass door. Luke's butcher knife is buried in the zombies neck. The head hasn't severed but he's still holding the monster's the hair with a straight arm. The thing seems to understand it's in trouble and claws desperately at Luke's forearm. It slams its body against the glass from the outside and you see a web of thin cracks splintering outward at the point of impact.
Luke grunts and, with effort, levers the knife from the monster's spine then bends his knees, takes aim, and begins chopping at the neck in short, ugly strokes. You give him space, hovering nearby with your 7 iron, and when the spine finally severs the body falls slack, sagging towards the floor and the neck stump drools blood at Luke's feet.
"What's all this noise?"
You snap your head around and Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical. Dangling from one hand is a half-empty bottle of Bell's Amber Ale.
"Oh my god," she says, "what have you done to Pansy?"
"We've conducted a little experiment." Perry is leaning against the wall, covered in sweat and wheezing from the effort. And," he gestures broadly, taking in both of the zomblie corpses, "head trauma equals dead zombie equals centralized virus. I rest my case."
You wipe your face on your shoulder. It sucks but it looks like he might right. The lore, in this case, might have some basis in truth. Crap, you hate it when he's right.
[["Fine. Whatever. You called it."]]
[["Seriously? This was a mess. There's no way to say for sure what the kill shot was."]]
"Do it, Wilson," you shout, "finish her!"
He looks at you briefly, sets his jaw, and faces his dog. "Pansy," Wilson says her name forcefully, "sit!"
To your suprise some part of her brain still registers all the years of obedience and Pansy obeys. She plops back onto her haunches and cocks her head as if she expects a treat.
Wilson delivers the goods. You've never seen anyone even attempt a drive using a putting iron but Wilson's form is beautiful, all loose torque and fluidity, and Pansy's head explodes like the tulips in Caddyshack, spraying bone and brain against the kitchen wall.
You hear a thump behind you and spin towards the sliding glass door as Luke swings his butcher knife down hard, burying it into the zombies neck. The head doesn't sever but he's still holding the head by the hair. He's finding his groove. He bends his knees, takes aim and begins chopping at the neck in several short, ugly strokes and the spine eventually severs. The body falls slack, sagging towards the floor and the neck stump drools blood at Luke's feet.
"What's all this noise?"
You snap your head around and Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical.
"Oh my god," she says, "what have you done to Pansy?"
"We've conducted a little experiment." Perry is leaning against the wall, covered in sweat and breathing heavily. And," he gestures broadly, taking in both of the zomblie corpses, "I rest my case."
END OF CHAPTER 1
[[Replay scene.->"I think your dad’s a golfer, bring me an iron. Actually, you better get the whole set of clubs.”]]
[[Play again from the beginning.->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
You shoot a quick glance to the side. Perry's socked feet are sliding on the linoleum and he can't close the door. Luke is holding the corpse by the hair and hacking brutally at its neck.
[[Help Luke]]
[[Focus on Pansy]]
You drop your 7 iron and lunge towards the Luke and the pinned zombie. The best thing you can do is give Luke a clear shot at the monster's neck so you grab its arm. Luke is still holding it by the hair and you just need to steer clear of it's teeth. And the butcher knife.
Behind you there's the sound of Wilson cursing, the patter of Pansy's feet and the golf club pinging off the floor.
Luke pauses, inhales and swings the blade down hard, burying into the zombies neck. The head doesn't sever but it's a cleaner shot than he managed on his own so you drop your 7 iron, grab a fistful of its hair and pull so its neck is more exposed. Luke grunts his approval, bends his knees then takes aim and begins chopping at the neck in short, ugly strokes. You're still pulling when the head comes off and the sudden release throws you off balance.
You spin, hit the corner of the kitchen table and let go of the monsters hair so you can catch your balance. The head goes flying and hits the floor with a wet smack and slides across the floor.
"What's all this noise?"
Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical.
"Oh my god," she says, "what have you done to Pansy?"
Hearing it's name the zombie terrier stops running, barks silently, then scurries towards her bare feet, it's claws scrabbling on the linoleum.
Wilson screams, "Mom!"
She takes a slow step backwards, trips over the decapitated head and slips to the floor. In a flash of black fur Pansy is biting and ripping at her feet.
Before anyone can move the tiny corpse dog has run the length of her body, drawn to the soft flesh around her brain. Wilson's mom is stunned from the fall and waving her arms vaguely, like sea anemone, to protect her face but Pansy is possessed, darting, biting and digging at her neck.
*Well*, you think, *that didn't go as planned.*
YOU LET SOMEONE IN YOUR PARTY DIE
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
It's messy but Luke and Perry are taking care of the corpse. Who knew how hard it would be to chop off a head?
"What's all this noise?"
You snap your head around and Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical.
"Oh my god," she says, "what have you done to Pansy."
Hearing it's name the miniature zombie dog stops running in circles, barks silently, then scurries towards her bare feet.
Wilson screams, "Mom!"
You take a running step forward, land directly on a 4-sided die and pain explodes in your foot. You fall to one knee but continue scrambling to protect Wilson's mother. Swinging your 7 iron you connect with something, someone shouts in pain, then a ball of fur fills your vision. Instinctively you drop the golf club and use one arm to cover your face and lash out with the other.
You're aware of Pansy's yellow eyes and the flash of tiny white teeth. This close, rolling across the kitchen floor, you can smell her doggy breath.
You catch a fistfull of Pansy's fur and you throw her across the kitchen. She smacks into the wall and Wilson pounces, swinging his club down hard. There's a muffled yip and Pansy's struggles to get back up but Wilson keeps hitting her over and over until the little dog is a red mound of inert meat.
Breathing hard you roll onto your back.
Luke is leaning back against the sliding glass door and he's holding the zombies severed head by hair. Perry has collapsed to the floor and his skin shines with sweat.
Wilson's mom is still screaming but you sit up and that's when you notice the bite marks on your forearm.
*Well*, you think, *that didn't go as planned.*
YOU DIED
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Start from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
"Dude, seriously?" Perry holds up his hands in exasperation, "Can we get on with this?"
You ignore him and use your bare foot to sweep the dice to the side of the room then do a quick dummy-check to make sure the space is clear. You've seen enough zombie movies to know whatever things always go horribly, unpredictably, wrong.
"Sorry guys. You ready?"
Luke and Wilson each of give you a nod and Perry mutters under his breath, "Virgo."
[["Okay, we're good now. Open the door."]]
You flip the lock and Perry pulls the sliding glass door open leaving just enough space for Pansy. The zombie human was struggling with the concept of glass but somehow it knows the difference between a closed and open door. It lurches for the gap.
Everyone starts shouting but you can't tell what they're saying because Pansy, the tiny hellhound, has squeezed her way through the gap and it's all you can do to track her between the forest of adult legs.
"Close the door!" Both you and Perry throw your weight into the door but its too late. The corpse has pushed its head and arm through the gap. Thinly fleshed fingers are raking at your face and you fumble with the 7 iron. It's too long and awkward to use this close up so you drop the it and grab the corpse by the hair, pushing its head backward. Yellowed teeth snap at your arm.
You risk a glance towards into the kitchen as Pansy darts for Luke's foot and latches onto the black leather of a Doc Marten. You have a moment to thank the freaking lord that your friend has consistently ignored the house no-shoe rule. Being too cool to be seen in socks just saved his life.
Wilson pulls back his putter and tee's off on his dog. Iron meets small furry body with a thump. The terrier does a flip, bangs off the dishwasher where it leaves a bloody smear, then lands and begins running in circles.
[[Let go of the zombie and help Wilson.]]
[[Keep the zombie immobilized.]]
"Dude, seriously?" Perry holds up his hands in exasperation, "Can we get on with this?"
You ignore him and use your foot to sweep the dice to the side of the room then do a quick dummy-check to make sure the space is clear. You've seen enough zombie movies to know things always go horribly, unpredictably, wrong.
"Sorry guys. You ready?"
Luke and Wilson each of give you a nod and Perry mutters under his breath, "Virgo."
[["Okay, let's do this!"]]
"Perry! Keep the pressure on him, don't let him move!"
"What?" Perry is straining against the sliding door, his socked feet slipping on the linoleum. "No! Don't do that, I can't hold him on my own!"
Behind you there's the sound of Wilson cursing, the patter of Pansy's feet and the golf club pinging off the floor.
The corpse has a fistfull of your t-shirt and it's trying to pull you closer. Holy shit it's strong for a dead guy. "Just for a second Perry!"
"Damn it, gimme a second to brace myself!"
The corpse is yanking you hard by your shirt pulling you off balance and the nauseating smell of decay is all consuming. The corpse slams its other arm against the outside of the sliding glass door and pane shudders.
[["There's no time, Perry, do your best!"]]
[["Okay, brace yourself. But hurry!"]]
You push the door forward, leaning towards the zombie. It's completely, insanely, counterintuitive and the creature flails for a second then grabs you and begins pulling you closer. It's lips peel into a rictus grin, exposing teeth made longer, more feral, by dry, shriveled gums.
"Luke!"
He spins, unwashed hair whipping his face.
"Knife!" you shout.
Luke darts a glance towards Wilson - ducks the follow-through of Wilson's missed swing at Pansy - and makes a decision. Wilson is the eye of a storm and anything in his immediate radius is at risk of bodily harm so Luke steps towards you lazily, swinging the butcher knife loosely at his side then sweeping it upward at an angle initated from his hips.
He's relaxed, bends at the knees then stands quickly as the knife begins its upward swing. The blade carves a whistling arc through the air, cuts through the stringy muscle of the zombie's neck and buries itself into the dry wall. The creature thrashes violently, releasing you, and claws dumbly at the blade.
[[Check on Wilson.]]
Your bare feet stick to the floor and you silently thank the slacker impulse that made you ignore the mass of laundry growing on your bedroom floor. Gripping the linoleum with your toes like a gecko you lean into the door.
"Take your socks off," you shout.
Perry looks up. "Yeah," he says, "good idea." He releases the back of the sliding glass door and you drive forward, towards the zombie. It's completely, insanely, counterintuitive and the creature struggles against your efforts for a second then grabs you and begins pulling you closer. It's lips peel into a rictus grin, exposing teeth made longer, more feral, by dry, shriveled gums.
"Perry!"
"One second!"
You look back and Perry is hopping on one bare foot, pulling at his remaining sock. The corpse has looped its free arm around your side and it's bony fingers dig into your shoulder blade.
[[Keep pushing.]]
Luke flips the lock and Perry pulls the sliding glass door open leaving just enough space for Pansy. A few minutes ago the zombie human was struggling with the concept of glass but somehow it knows an open door when it sees one and lurches for the gap.
Everyone starts shouting but you can't tell what they're saying because Pansy, the tiny hellhound, has squeezed her way through the gap and it's all you can do to track her between the forest of adult legs.
She darts for Luke's foot and latches onto the black leather of a Doc Marten. You have a moment to thank the freaking lord that your friend has consistently ignored the house no-shoe rule. Being too cool to be seen in socks just saved his life.
Luke doesn't even notice because the walking corpse has pushed its head and arm through the gap and thinly fleshed fingers are raking at his face. He's fumbling with the butcher knife and struggling to keep the monsters fingers from his eyes while Perry strains to slide the door closed. That's not going to work until living corpse is out of the way.
Wilson pulls back his putter and tee's off on Pansy. Iron meets small furry body with a thump. The terrier does a flip, bangs off the dishwasher where it leaves a bloody smear, then lands and begins running in circles.
[[Attack Pansy.]]
[[Let Wilson attack Pansy.]]
[[Check on Luke and Perry.]]
Wilson hesitates and in that moment you raise your 7 iron, take a running step forward and land directly on a 4-sided die. Pain explodes in your foot. You fall to one knee and drop the golf club. Someone shouts in pain then a ball of fur fills your vision. Instinctively you use one arm to cover your face and lash out with the other.
You're aware of Pansy's yellow eyes and the flash of tiny white teeth. This close, rolling across the kitchen floor, you can smell her doggy breath.
You catch a fistfull of Pansy's fur and you throw her across the kitchen. She smacks into the wall and Wilson pounces, swinging his club down hard. There's a muffled yip and Pansy's struggles to get back up but Wilson keeps hitting her over and over until the terrier is a red mound of inert meat.
Gasping for air you roll onto your back.
Luke is leaning back against the sliding glass door and he's holding the zombies severed head by hair. Perry has collapsed to the floor and his skin shines with sweat.
Breathing heavily, you sit up and notice the bite marks on your forearm and a small but ragged wound where Pansy tore out a tiny mouthful of your flesh. Maybe its your imagination but you can already feel the virus in your bloodstream.
*Well*, you think, *that didn't go as planned.*
YOU'RE INFECTED
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Start from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
"Do it, Wilson," you shout, "finish her!"
He looks at you briefly then sets his jaw and faces his dog. "Pansy," Wilson says her name forcefully, "sit!"
To your suprise some part of Pansy's corrupted brain still registers all the years of obedience and she obeys. She plops back onto her haunches and cocks her head as if she expects a treat.
Wilson takes a deep step forward, he's going to tee off on Pansy like Happy Gilmore, and his bare foot lands directly on one of the dice that spilled across the floor. He yelps in pain, stumbles, and his leg buckles under his bulk, tilting him sideways into an antique cabinet full of owl-themed plates. One arm goes through the glass case and he tries to catch himself. For a moment he hangs there by one bloody arm but there's too much weight and momentum and he slides to the floor.
"Noooo!" Perry lets go of the sliding glass door and stumbles towards Wilson. You register the look of surprise on Luke's face as the pressure on the door releases and the corpse falls into the room. Too late Luke realizes the creature has a fistfull of his shirt and, off balance, he's pulled to the ground.
Dimly you hear Wilson's mom shout something from the living room and the heavy stomp of her feet.
Blood is everywhere and it snaps Pansy out of her reverie. She barks silently, shakes like she just stepped out of the bath, then pounces on Wilson's bloody arm, ripping at his wounds with flashing little teeth.
You leap forward, swinging your 7 iron, and connect hard with her furry little body. She flies into the wall, lands in sprawl, then struggles to get back up but you step over Wilson and hit her again and keep hitting her until you can't tell her head from her hindquarters. Blood and fur fill your vision and behind the veil of your rage you're aware of Perry shouting and the sound of more glass breaking.
Pansy is a smear on the kitchen floor and you're shaking so hard that your knees are soft and weak. You fall back against the kitchen counter to catch your breath.
Wilson is curled on the floor, lying in the broken glass, holding his arm and moaning, "She bit me, she bit me, she bit me..." Black tufts of Pansy's fur are drifting in the air.
[[How much time does Wilson have?]]
You shoot a quick glance to the side. Perry's socked feet are sliding on the linoleum and he can't close the door. Luke is holding the corpse by the hair and hacking brutally at its neck with his butchers knife.
[[Help Luke.->Help Luke2]]
[[Focus on Pansy.->Focus on Pansy2]]
You drop your 7 iron and lunge forward to help Luke with the pinned zombie. The best thing you can do is give him a clear shot at the monster's neck so you grab it's arm, pinning it back so it can't grab anyone. Luke is still holding it by the hair and you just need to steer clear of it's teeth and the knife.
Behind you Wilson is cursing. You hear the patter of Pansy's feet and the golf club pinging off the floor.
Luke pauses, inhales and swings the blade down hard, burying into the zombies neck. The head doesn't sever but it's a cleaner shot than he managed on his own. He bends his knees, takes aim and begins chopping at the neck in several short, ugly strokes and the spine eventually severs. Thick, black blood oozes from the stump and perversely you worry for a second that it might get on your socks.
"What's all this noise?" Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical. Dangling from one hand is a half-empty bottle of Bell's Amber Ale.
"Oh my god," she says, "what have you done to Pansy?"
Hearing it's name the zombie terrier stops running, barks silently, then scurries towards her bare feet.
Wilson screams, "Mom!"
She steps backwards, directly onto one of fallen dice, shouts in pain and stumbles. In an instant Pansy is biting and ripping at her feet. You let go of the zombies arm and watch Wilson's mom fall backward.
Before anyone can move the tiny corpse dog has run the length of her body, drawn to the soft flesh around her brain. Wilson's mom is stunned from the fall and waving her arms vaguely, like sea anemone, to protect her face but Pansy is possessed, darting, biting and digging at her neck.
*Well*, you think, *that didn't go as planned.*
YOU LET SOMEONE IN YOUR PARTY DIE
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning.->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
It's messy but Luke and Perry are taking care of the corpse. Who knew how hard it would be to chop off a head? Wilson will need your help.
"What's all this noise?"
You snap your head around and Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical. Dangling from one hand is a half-empty bottle of Bell's Amber Ale.
"Oh my god," she says, "what have you done to Pansy."
Hearing it's name the miniature zombie dog stops running in circles, barks silently, then scurries towards her bare feet.
Wilson screams, "Mom!"
You take a running step forward, land directly on a 4-sided die and pain explodes in your foot. You fall to one knee but continue scrambling to protect Wilson's mother. Swinging your 7 iron you connect with something, someone shouts in pain, then a ball of fur fills your vision. Instinctively you drop the golf club and use one arm to cover your face and lash out with the other.
You're aware of Pansy's yellow eyes and the flash of tiny white teeth. This close, rolling across the kitchen floor, you can smell her doggy breath.
You catch a fistfull of Pansy's fur and you throw her across the kitchen. She smacks into the wall and Wilson pounces, swinging his club down hard. There's a muffled yip and Pansy's struggles to get back up but Wilson keeps hitting her over and over until the little dog is a red mound of inert meat.
Gasping for air, you roll onto your back.
Luke is leaning back against the sliding glass door and he's holding the zombies severed head by hair. The stump of its neck is drooling thick, black blood on the linoleum. Perry has collapsed to the floor and his skin shines with sweat.
Wilson's mom is still screaming but you sit up and that's when you notice teeth marks on your forearm and a small but ragged wound where Pansy tore out a tiny mouthful of your flesh.
*Well*, you think, *that didn't go as planned.*
YOU'VE BEEN INFECTED
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning.->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
You flip the lock and Perry pulls the sliding glass door open leaving just enough space for Pansy. The zombie human was struggling with the concept of glass but somehow it knows the difference between a closed and open door. It lurches for the gap.
Everyone starts shouting but you can't tell what they're saying because Pansy, the tiny hellhound, has squeezed her way through the gap and it's all you can do to track her between the forest of adult legs.
"Close the door!"
Both you and Perry throw your weight into the door but its too late. The corpse has pushed its torso through the gap and thinly fleshed fingers are raking at your face. You fumble with the 7 iron. It's too long and awkward to use this close up so you drop it, grab the corpse by the hair and stiff-arm its head backward.
Yellowed teeth snap at your wrist and, with difficulty, you resist the urge to let go of the door with your other hand. You can't let the thing into the room until the dog is down for the count.
You risk a glance towards into the kitchen as Pansy darts for Luke's foot and latches onto the black leather of a Doc Marten. You have a moment to thank the freaking lord that your friend has consistently ignored the house no-shoe rule. Being too cool to be seen in socks just saved his life.
Luke shakes the dog off his boot and Wilson pulls back his putter. There's a moment as he takes aim then he swings, the club is a glittering arc, and he tee's off on the terrier. Iron meets small furry body with a thump. Pansy does a flip, bangs off the dishwasher, where it leaves a bloody smear, then lands and begins running in circles.
[[Let go of the zombie and help Wilson.->"Let go of the zombie and help Wilson2"]]
[[Keep the zombie immobilized.->"Fine, brace yourself. But hurry!"]]
"Perry! Keep the pressure on him, don't let him move!"
"What?" Perry is straining against the sliding door, his socked feet slipping on the linoleum. "No! Don't do that, I can't hold him on my own!"
Behind you there's the sound of Wilson cursing, the patter of Pansy's feet and the golf club pinging off the floor.
The corpse has a fistfull of your t-shirt and its trying to pull you closer. Holy shit it's strong for a dead guy. "Just for a second Perry!"
"Damn it, lemme brace myself!"
The corpse yanks your shirt, pulling you off balance, and suddenly you're so close that the nauseating smell of decay fills your senses. The corpse slams its other arm against the outside of the sliding glass door and pane shudders.
[["There's no time, Perry, do your best!"]]
[["Fine, brace yourself. But hurry!"]]
You let go of the door handle and grab the corpse's throat, pushing it backward against the door frame.
"Aw, shit..." Perry curses.
The door slides open and the corpse swims its other arm into the room, clawing at your face, ragged nails leaving streaks of blood and dirt. It's legs are churning forward like a running back and you struggle to keep the creature from stumbling into the room. A minute ago it was a dull, lurching zombie but now its flailing with renewed energy.
Maybe it can smell your panic or it's just inspired by the proximity of a good meal.
With one hand wrapped in its hair and the other on its throat you yank hard to the side, pulling the creature off balance, then drive forward...
[[Slam it's head into the wall.]]
[[Pushing it back outside.]]
Your bare feet stick to the floor and you silently thank the slacker impulse that made you ignore the mass of laundry growing on your bedroom floor. Gripping the linoleum with your toes like a gecko you lean into the door.
"Take your socks off," you shout.
Perry looks up. "Yeah," he says, "good idea." He releases the back of the sliding glass door and you drive forward, towards the zombie. It's completely, insanely, counterintuitive and the creature struggles against your efforts for a second then grabs you and begins pulling you closer. It's lips peel into a rictus grin, exposing teeth made longer, more feral, by dry, shriveled gums.
"Perry!"
"One second!"
You look back and Perry is hopping on one bare foot, pulling at his remaining sock. The corpse has looped its free arm around your side and it's bony fingers dig into your shoulder blade.
[[Keep pushing.]]
The creatures head cracks into the wall and dead skin sloughs into the crater its skull makes in the dry wall. Jesus, in the movies zombie heads just seem to collapse like soft melon. Guess what? Not the case in real life.
//Lore, my ass.//
The corpse loops its free arm behind your back and you feel its nails dig into your skin as it pulls you closer. The din of Luke and Wilson attacking pansy scales back to a tiny AM signal of noise. Glass breaks behind you and it sounds like its a mile away. The monsters teeth are snapping close enough that you should feel its breath on your face but there's nothing and the realization strikes you, it's just a bag cold, reanimated, flesh. A genuine goddamn zombie.
What the hell is going on? This is not how you'll go down, in a wrestling match with a dead accountant. Or someone's dad. Your arms are shaking but you dig deep and shout something guttural and primitive, void of language but singular in meaning.
You will kick this things ass.
[[Slam its head into the wall again.]]
[[Push it back outside.->Pushing it back outside.]]
Dropping low then driving upward with your legs you knock the creature off balance. Maybe the thing has rot in it's eustachion tubes but you're surprised how easy it is to break its momentum then push it backwards, spilling through the door and crashing onto the patio.
The impact drives the air from your lungs. Your knee cracks against a patio brick sending an electrical buzz up your sciatic nerve and you land sprawled on top of the monster in the missionary position.
It's like prom all over again.
Unlike you, the creature isn't breathing, doesn't feel pain, and has a null refractory period from the fall. While you gasp for air it begins clawing at you, scrabbling for purchase, dragging you towards it's snapping teeth.
[[Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.]]
[[Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.->Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.]]
You visualize everyone who has ever teased, doubted or picked on you and, savagely, you channel that anger forward. The zombie's head connects with the wall so hard that the windows shake and you half bury its skull in the dry wall. A fistfull of its hair rips free and suddenly you're holding the creature with one hand wrapped around it's skinny neck.
You can't let it go so you use your free fist, still holding a shock of hair, to hammer it's head in brutal downward strikes. The monster releases your t-shirt and it's arms are flailing, clawing at the soft tissue of your face but you continue bludgeoning it with the underside of your fist.
You risk a glance at Perry and he's released the door completely and struggling to free his golf club from where it's looped into his belt. He's swearing, spinning in place and you hear the metal head of his driver ping of the glass pane of the sliding door.
A rotting, bony hand catches on your cheek. Instinctively the zombie grabs, sharp nails digging into your cheek, and one of its fingers slips into your mouth. Seriously? It's giving you the fishhook?
[[Bite the finger off.]]
[[Ignore it and keep hammering.]]
You bite down and expect the creature to yell and retract its hand but, of course, it doesn't. Stupid corpse. This isn't going to be easy.
You grab the monsters wrist, grind your teeth until you find a knuckle then bite down harder and crank your neck from side to side like your brother's pitbull, Sugar. Bone crunches and cartilage separates, skin peels away into your mouth and the smell of dirt and death fills your senses. The finger detaches do suddenly that you almost swallow it. Gah! Gagging, you spit the stump onto the floor as Perry shouts from behind you.
"Duck!"
//What the...//
Without thinking you let go of the zombie's neck and tuck, slouching heavily through the open door into the backyard. You see the glittering arc of Perry's 9 iron as it whistles within inches of your hair and staves the creatures face with a crunch.
Perry tugs to dislodge the club but its stuck and the zombie is pawing at the handle. Behind Perry you see Pansy is immobile, a matted lump of inert black fur, but Wilson is in the throes of a berzerker fury and clubbing the dog over and over with his putter. Blood splatters the walls and Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen, mouth agape and a forgotten Bell's Amber Ale in her hand.
"Dude!"
Perry's voice brings you back to the moment.
"A little help here!" He's wrestling in a tug of war with the zombie, who's grabbed a hold of the golf club.
[[Grab the club.]]
[[Grab the zombie.]]
The corpse finger in your mouth must have a hangnail because its scratching at your tongue. It tastes like dirt, socks and decaying meat but its the monsters teeth that have you worried. As far as you know the virus is spread transmitted through saliva like rabies. At least that's the lore.
You still have the creature pinned to the wall by its skinny neck and drop a couple blows to its head with your free hand. The punches produce little effect except bruising your knuckles. The monsters hair and bits of scalp are still dangling from your fist.
It lets go of your tshirt and claws at your side. You feel a flash of pain and warmth spilling over your hip.
All of your instincts are screaming to kick it in the balls, gouge an eye or break its knees but what good will that do? Despite your debate with Perry you know you should focus on its head.
Wait, back up...it's eyes.
Pain explodes in your side. You glance down and the creature has ripped away a hunk of skin and soft tissue just above your beltline. It tosses the tissue aside and digs its hand into the open wound, scraping at the explosed fat and underlying muscle.
Your vision blurs. Perry is dancing around with his 9 iron, looking for a clean shot but you and the creature are too close, engaged in a gruesome waltz.
[[Defend.]]
[[Attack.]]
Sirens are wailing in the distance and something crashes in a neighbors house. The moon is a fat, blind eye staring down at you, dead and unblinking.
Knees wobbling you stand and stumble back into the kitchen. Luke is on the ground hacking at Pansy's neck with his butcher knife while Wilson sags against the wall. He's red faced and panting so hard his throat sounds raw. His mom's hysteria has escalated. She's dropped her bottle of beer on the floor and seems to be running in place.
Perry is struggling with the zombie for control of the golf club, which appears to be stuck in its orbital cavity. How the hell does a golf club get stuck in a skull and not destroy the brain? Maybe the lore has been wrong and the brain isn't how you kill a zombie. You'll soon find out.
You grab the club and yell at Perry, "Push it in!" He nods and you both throw your weight forward, driving the club deeper into the creatures skull. "Let go!" you shout. Perry does what you say and releases the club with no questions asked. That's a first.
The zombie falls backward, sliding down the wall and onto the floor. As Perry steps away you grab the club with both hands and stir it violently, several times, in a wide circular motion then reverse the motion. As the zombie's brain scrambles it lets go of the club and it's arms wave vaguely in your direction. Holy smokes, this thing doesn't go down easy.
[[Churn some butter.]]
Sirens are wailing in the distance and something crashes in a neighbors house. The moon is a fat, blind eye staring down at you, dead and unblinking.
Knees wobbling you stand and stumble back into the kitchen. Luke is on the ground hacking at Pansy's neck with his butcher knife while Wilson sags against the wall. He's red faced and panting so hard his throat sounds raw. His mom's hysteria has escalated. She's dropped her bottle of beer on the floor and seems to be running in place.
Perry is struggling with the zombie for control of the golf club, which appears to be stuck in its orbital cavity. How the hell does a golf club get stuck in a skull and not destroy the brain? Maybe the lore has been wrong and the brain isn't how you kill a zombie. You'll soon find out.
From behind you grab the monster's jacket at the shoulder blades and you kick out back of one of it's knee. The zombie drops backwards in a sloppy heap and you help it along, yanking down hard so it hits the floor in a mess of confusion. Conveniently its neck lays on the track for the sliding glass door.
[[Churn some butter.]]
[[Do some track work.]]
You step over its torso and rapidly jab the club through the hole in the zombie's skull, like you're churning butter on some freaking prairie farmstead, and the creatures head cracks repeatedly against the floor. You keep churning, scrambling its brains, until your arms are burning and eventually you realize the monster hasn't moved in a minute or two.
Letting go of the club you step back and gasp for air. Wilson, Luke, and Perry are all staring at you. Wilson's mom is pointing at her former dog and mouthing something silently.
You offer the guys a weak thumbs up.
"See," Perry wheezes from across the room, "the brain." He opens the refridgerator and pulls out a six pack of beer. "This proves..." he takes a another breath that rattles deep in his lungs, "this proves the visus is centralized. So far 100% of test subjects went down from head trauma."
You wipe your face on your shoulder. It sucks but it looks like he might accurate. The lore, in this case, might have some basis in truth. Crap, you hate it when he's right.
[["Fine, yeah, you called it."]]
[["Along with a ton of other damage. This was too messy to say for sure."]]
You'd love to slap the smug look off Perry's bearded face but it's been a hard enough night and you've got the adrenaline shakes. More than anything you need to sit down and catch your breath.
Outside you hear a siren wailing into the night. You look out the sliding glass door and the moon is swollen and pale, staring at you like a enormous, dead eye. Something crashes in a neighboring house and is followed a beat later by screams.
Someone should do something.
You look around the room at your friends and realize this is your moment. You're out-of-shape, exhausted and want nothing more than to close your eyes and sleep but you're friends need you. Your community needs you. Hell, maybe even the world needs you. For years you've been training for just this kind of thing: running sims of non-conventional problem solving, weighing strengths, weakensses and probabilities. The dice and dungeons were gone but your skills remain.
"Guys..."
Perry nods and starts using the edge of the kitchen counter to pop the lids of beer bottles. Luke wipes a hand on his pants and slides a chefs knife from the butcher block. Something like a smile flickers across his face then disappears in a scowl. Wilson's eyes are hard and sharp. He stands with some difficulty but straightens his back, brings his putter to bear, and gives you a nod.
"...we've got a world to save."
END OF CHAPTER 1
[[Replay scene.->"I think your dad’s a golfer, bring me an iron. Actually, you better get the whole set of clubs.”]]
[[Play again from the beginning.->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
"Dude," Perry looks disappointed, "let it go. We just brained two undead. That looks like victory to me."
You'd love to slap the smug look off Perry's bearded face but it's been a hard enough night and you've got the adrenaline shakes. More than anything you need to sit down and catch your breath. Besides, he's right, and moving forward that knowledge is the only advantage you'll have.
Outside you hear a siren wailing into the night. You look out the sliding glass door and the moon is swollen and pale, staring at you like a enormous, dead eye. Something crashes in a neighboring house and is followed a beat later by screams.
Someone should do something.
You look around the room at your friends and realize this is your moment. You're out-of-shape, exhausted and want nothing more than to close your eyes and sleep but you're friends need you. Your community needs you. Hell, maybe even the world needs you. For years you've been training for just this kind of thing: running sims of non-conventional problem solving, weighing strengths, weakensses and probabilities. The dice and dungeons were gone but your skills remain.
"Guys..."
Perry nods. Luke wipes a hand on his pants and slides a chefs knife from the butcher block. Something like a smile flickers across his face then disappears in a scowl. Wilson's eyes are hard and sharp. He stands with some difficulty but straightens his back, brings his putter to bear, and gives you a nod.
"...we've got a world to save."
END OF CHAPTER 1
[[Replay scene.->"I think your dad’s a golfer, bring me an iron. Actually, you better get the whole set of clubs.”]]
[[Play again from the beginning.->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
You'd love to slap the smug look off Perry's bearded face but its been a hard enough night and you've got the adrenaline shakes. More than anything you need to sit down and catch your breath.
Outside you hear a siren wailing into the night. You look out the sliding glass door and the moon is swollen and pale, staring at you like a enormous, dead eye. Something crashes in a neighboring house and is followed a beat later by screams.
Someone should do something.
You look around the room at your friends and realize this is your moment. You're out-of-shape, exhausted and want nothing more than to close your eyes and sleep but your friends need you. Your community needs you. Hell, maybe even the world needs you. For years you've been training for just this kind of thing: running sims of non-conventional problem solving, weighing strengths, weakensses and probabilities. The dice and dungeons are gone but your skills remain.
"Guys..."
Perry looks up from a cold slice of pizza and stops chewing. Luke wipes a hand on his pants and slides a chefs knife from the butcher block. Something like a smile flickers across his face then disappears in a scowl. Wilson's eyes are hard and sharp. He stands with some difficulty but straightens his back, brings his putter to bear, and gives you a nod.
"We've got a world to save."
END OF CHAPTER 1
[[Replay scene.->"I think your dad’s a golfer, bring me an iron. Actually, you better get the whole set of clubs.”]]
[[Play again from the beginning.->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
"Dude," Perry looks disappointed, "let it go. We just brained two undead. That looks like victory to me."
You'd love to slap the smug look off Perry's bearded face but it's been a hard enough night and you've got the adrenaline shakes. More than anything you need to sit down and catch your breath. Besides, he's right, and moving forward that knowledge is the only advantage you'll have.
Outside you hear a siren wailing into the night. You look out the sliding glass door and the moon is swollen and pale, staring at you like a enormous, dead eye. Something crashes in a neighboring house and is followed a beat later by screams.
Someone should do something.
You look around the room at your friends and realize this is your moment. You're out-of-shape, exhausted and want nothing more than to close your eyes and sleep but your friends need you. Your community needs you. Hell, maybe even the world needs you. For years you've been training for just this kind of thing: running sims of non-conventional problem solving, weighing strengths, weakensses and probabilities. The dice and dungeons were gone but your skills remain.
"Guys..."
Perry looks up from a cold slice of pizza and stops chewing. Luke wipes a hand on his pants and slides a chefs knife from the butcher block. Something like a smile flickers across his face then disappears in a scowl. Wilson's eyes are hard and sharp. He stands with some difficulty but straightens his back, brings his putter to bear, and gives you a nod.
"We've got a world to save."
END OF CHAPTER 1
[[Replay scene.->"I think your dad’s a golfer, bring me an iron. Actually, you better get the whole set of clubs.”]]
[[Play again from the beginning.->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
"Hold him down!" you shout.
Perry drops his club and sprawls forward, straddling the corpse, his hands bunched into fists and holding the lapels of the creatures jacket. The monster's legs thrash and it claws at Perry's face with dirty, ripped fingernails.
"Sweet holy Harlow," Perry sputters, "this isn't how I thought I'd end my night."
"Just keep him pinned!" Standing outside you grab the handle for the sliding glass door and pull it closed with all of your strength, crunching the zombies head between the door and door frame. The golf club is waving like a lopsided flagpole from zombie's shattered eye socket and it rolls it's remaining glaucomic eye at you then tries to bite your toes.
You take a wide outward step with your other foot, sliding the door open on it's track, then throw your body weight in the opposite direction. This time the door closes on the creatures neck. Bones crack and it's neck breaks, folding at an awful angle, but the monster continues snapping its teeth and staring at you.
Inside the kitchen Perry has pinned the monster's arms to the floor.
[[Try the door again.]]
[[Time to churn some butter.]]
[[Look for something else.]]
The movies make this look so easy. Like skulls and necks are made of tofu or something.
Again you slide the door open then slam it shut on the creature's head. There's another audible crack and the positive feedback fuels your rage. Over and over you open and close the door, crushing its head. The glass pane shudders, the hanging lamp in the kitchen jumps and dances, your arms burn and your lungs are on fire but you're consumed by the need to destroy this thing that, you realize, shattered your sense of what is good and ordinary in the world.
Bang! The door slams shut and the golf club swings wildly. Bang! Bones splits, pushing its way through skin and thick black blood oozes onto the patio paving stone.
[[Slam it again.]]
The movies make this look so easy. Like skulls and necks are made of tofu or something. What the hell does it really take to kill one of these things?
You scan the patio for something that could cause some damage and spot a loose paving stone on the verge of lawn. You glance back at Perry to make sure he's okay then kneel at the edge of the patio, dig your fingers into gap between the stone, and worry the loose brick free.
Sirens are wailing in the distance and something crashes in a neighbors house. You scan the yard for more of the dead. It's unlikely Pansy and your corpse accountant are the only two of these things around.
Scooting across the patio you kneel outside biting distance from the zombie then slide back further just in case Perry can't hold it down.
"You got him?" you shout at your friend.
He gives you a grim look and shouts back, "Less talk, please."
You nod and steady yourself.
[[Bash its head in.]]
[[Tap its head in.]]
You grab the golf club and rapidly jab the club in and out of the hole in the zombie's skull, like you're churning butter on some freaking prairie farmstead, and the creatures head cracks repeatedly against the patio pavement. You keep churning, scrambling it's brains, until your arms are burning and eventually you realize the monster hasn't moved in a minute or two.
Letting go of the club you step back and gasp for air. Wilson, Luke, and Perry are all staring at you through the sliding glass door. Wilson's mom is pointing at her former dog and mouthing something silently.
Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical. Dangling from one hand is a half-empty bottle of Bell's Amber Ale.
You offer the guys a weak thumbs up, slide the door open and step over the corpse into the kitchen.
"See," Perry wheezes, "the brain." He settles heavily into a kitchen chair and taps at his temple. "This proves..." he takes a another breath that rattles deep in his lungs, "this proves the visus is centralized. So far 100% of test subjects went down from head trauma."
You wipe your face on your shoulder. It sucks but it looks like he might accurate. The lore, in this case, might have some basis in truth. Crap, you hate it when he's right.
[["Fine, yeah, you called it."]]
[["Along with a ton of other damage. This was too messy to say for sure."]]
Bang!
Perry sits back heavily and rolls to his side in exhaustion. The zombie's arms wave vaguely, like sea anenome. Beyond Perry, Wilson sags against a wall and his putter is covered in blood and fur. Luke is on his knees chopping at the dogs neck with his butchers knife.
[[Again.]]
Bang! The skull collapses around the crushed orbital lobe and the zombie shudders violently before sinking into stillness. The mess is spilling dangerously close to your socks and you tiptoe around the mound of meat, bone and blood.
Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical. Dangling from one hand is a half-empty bottle of Bell's Amber Ale.
You offer the guys a weak thumbs up, slide the door open and step over the corpse into the kitchen.
"See," Perry wheezes, "the brain." He settles heavily into a kitchen chair and taps at his temple. "This proves..." he takes a another breath that rattles deep in his lungs, "this proves the visus is centralized. So far 100% of test subjects went down from head trauma."
You wipe your face on your shoulder. It sucks but it looks like he might be right. The lore, in this case, might have some basis in truth. Crap, you hate it when he's right.
[["Fine, yeah, you called it."]]
[["Along with a ton of other damage. This was too messy to say for sure."]]
The moon is a fat, blind eye staring down at you, dead and unblinking. Whatever happens tonight and in the days that follow, the world won't care.
The golf club is still sticking out of the creatures eye socket like an antenna. It might disrupt your aim so you move the 9 iron to the side. The leverage twists the zombies head to the side giving you a clearer shot at the side of its skull. Perfect.
You step on the club so it can't move and the zombie moans. Is it trying to say something? Is there some intelligence still tickling in the back of its brain, some awareness of its state? It doesn't matter anymore.
You raise the brick over your head.
Inside the kitchen you see Wilson deliver the goods. You've never witnessed anyone attempt a drive using a putting iron but Wilson's form is beautiful, all loose torque and fluidity, and Pansy's head explodes like the tulips in Caddyshack, spraying bone and brain against the kitchen wall.
Luke is a savage whisper. He glides across the floor to Pansy's twitching body and removes the soft remains of her head with a series of brutal chops using his butchers knife.
Good, the dog is down.
The zombie at your knees offers a moan that sounds a little mournful, like bagpipes drifting over a moor. With its rumpled suit the monster could've been someone's dad. It's not a big city and chances are you might've known the same people. Those people are probably dead.
You aim for the creature's temple and swing the brick down with all of your strength. The skull caves in like a melon, exposing gray brain and dark, glistening blood. Maybe the golf club already upset the strutural integrity of the skull or maybe stone just always beats bone but you're surprised it was that easy.
[[Hit it again.]]
Slow and steady wins the race. Your life, and your friend's lives, are stake so you're going to can't afford to make any more mistakes.
The moon is a fat, blind eye staring down at you, dead and unblinking. Whatever happens tonight and in the days that follow, the world won't care.
The golf club is still sticking out of the creatures eye socket like an antenna. It might disrupt your aim so you move the 9 iron to the side. The leverage twists the zombies head to the side giving you a clearer shot at the side of its skull. Perfect.
You step on the club so it can't move and the zombie moans. Is it trying to say something? Is there some intelligence still tickling in the back of its brain, some awareness of its state? It doesn't matter anymore.
You hold the brick about six inches from the monsters temple.
Inside the kitchen you see Wilson deliver the goods. You've never witnessed anyone attempt a drive using a putting iron but Wilson's form is beautiful, all loose torque and fluidity, and Pansy's head explodes like the tulips in Caddyshack, spraying bone and brain against the kitchen wall.
Luke is a savage whisper. He glides across the floor to Pansy's twitching body and removes the soft remains of her head with a series of brutal chops using his butchers knife.
Good, the dog is down.
The zombie at your knees offers a moan that sounds a little mournful, like bagpipes drifting over a moor. With its rumpled suit the monster could've been someone's dad. It's not a big city and chances are you might've known the same people. Those people are probably dead.
Tap. You hit the creatures skull with the brick. That gets its attention and it glowers at you with its one good eye.
Tap. The back of its head bounces off the patio.
Tap. The corpse spasms and Perry is nearly bucked to the floor.
[[Keep tapping.]]
You're not taking any chances. Pulling the brick from the sticky bowl of the zombies skull, you wipe your face on your shoulder and hit it again.
Bam! Bones splits, pushing its way through skin and thick, black blood oozes onto the patio paving stone.
[[One last time.]]
Bam! Your brick cracks against the paving stone under the zombies head and chips of red stone mix with the pulp and goo.
On the other side of the door Perry sits back heavily, rolls to his side then braces himself on the kitchen table so he can stand. His legs are shaking visibly.
Beyond Perry, Wilson sags against a wall and his putter is covered in blood and fur. Luke is on his knees and appears to be sending a text message.
Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical. Dangling from one hand is a half-empty bottle of Bell's Amber Ale.
You offer the guys a weak thumbs up, slide the door open and step over the corpse into the kitchen. You walk to the sink and start washing the gore from your hands.
"See," Perry wheezes, "the brain." He settles heavily into a kitchen chair and taps at his temple. "This proves..." he takes a another breath that rattles deep in his lungs, "this proves the visus is centralized. So far 100% of test subjects went down from head trauma."
You wipe your face on your shoulder. It sucks but it looks like he might be right. The lore, in this case, might have some basis in truth. Crap, you hate it when he's right.
[["Fine, yeah, you called it."]]
[["Along with a ton of other damage. This was too messy to say for sure."]]
You imagine Bruce Lee and his one-inch punch, angle the brick so the corner will connect with the zombie's temples.
Tap. Something crunches. Maybe the crushed orbtial lobe has totally compromised the integrity of the skull but this might be easier than you thought.
Tap. Another crunch.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The skull is caving in; bones cutting through skin, thick black blood bubbling up through the cracks.
[[Progress! Keep going!]]
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Triangular vertices of bone collapse inward towards the brain.
You throw a little more chutzpah behind the brick.
Crunch. There's an concave indentation large enough to serve a small bowl of pasta. The dark, glistening curls of brain even look a little like jumbo elbow macaroni.
Crunch. The brains pulp, seperating like a soft cheese that's grown old and hard. You're vaguely surprised the brain isn't softer yet wetness squeezes through your fingers, contrasting with the hard planes of the brick.
Time slips and shifts, you're lost in the repetition of slowly churning the creatures head into a paste. It becomes a meditation, a moment of calm, in an otherwise horrific night. You gaze is soft and you are steady with the brick, patient, flowing like water.
Someone, maybe Perry, calls your name.
[[Open your eyes.->One last time.]]
Biting down on the zombie's finger to immobilize its hand, you drop the fist full of hair then reach out and grab the side of the zombie's head.
Its hand is digging into the muscle at your side and you struggle not to pass out from the pain. What comes next isn't going to be easy.
You lean forward and feel the fingers slipping under your skin. Moaning in agony you take a deep breath through your nose and press your thumb into the zombies eye. It's harder than you imagined and you double down, driving your thumb inward, expecting the eye to pop like a bubble. Instead, it resists momentarily then //shifts// to the side and your thumb buries into the socket.
You squeeze its throat and hook your thumb until the eyeball hemorrhages, collapsing like an overcooked egg, and a thick, clear fluid pours over your hand. You hit bone and the zombie doesn't react.
Crap. You thought maybe you could get to the brain through the eyeballs.
[[Blind it.]]
[[Defend.]]
A brilliant burst of pain erupts in your side and your head spins. The wave of accompanying nausea is overwhelming but you manage to stay on your feet.
Ignoring the fingers buried in your side, digging like worms, you pull your thumb out of the creature's eye socket. Clear fluid glistens on your hand and you drive your thumb into the other eye. This may not kill it but maybe you'll have a better chance if it's blind.
The eye bursts and there's no pain reaction but a second later the creature pauses. It stops clawing at your face and it's other hand freezes, fingers half buried in your side. It's mouth opens and closes as it evaluates it's blindness.
The creature's head rotates, following the sounds of Wilson and Luke. Behind you there's a thump and quickly following the sound of Pansy yipping you hear a knife chopping through meat into the linoleum.
You glance at Perry and he's lining up a shot at the zombies head.
Anything you do might trigger a reaction but you have to do something.
[[Remove its hand from your face.]]
[[Remove its hand from your side.]]
A brilliant burst of pain erupts in your side and your head spins. The wave of accompanying nausea is overwhelming but you manage to stay on your feet.
You need to protect yourself.
Reaching out, you grab its throat with your free hand, freeing up your arm on the same side that's being clawed.
A quick glance at Perry and he's lining up a shot at the zombies head.
Years ago, in middle school, you got a tick while hiking with family in Yankee Springs. The bug was a parasitic violation and you wanted to get it off as quickly as possible but your father cautioned patience. It needed to be levered out slowly.
You need to deal with the monster's hand ripping at your side. Now.
[[Remove the hand slowly. Like a tick.]]
[[Remove the hand fast. Like a band-aid.]]
Slowly, you release its finger with your teeth and let go of it's throat. You need to get its hand away from your face so it doesn't end up taking out of your eyes.
Gently you guide it's arm away from your face and try to read it's expression. What's going on in that diseased brain? It's eyes are a gelatinous mush but there's something innocent, almost child-like, in the way the creature reacts to its blindness.
Perry slides over to get a clear angle on the zombies head and gives you a small nod. He's ready. In the window above the sink you see Wilson's reflection sagging against the wall. Luke, you sense, is on the floor from where he dispatched the dog.
From this close and in this moment of silence it strikes you how deeply you've stepped into the uncanny valley. The creature in front of you is abomination but its the details that are most disturbing: the lack of breathing, the stillness of its chest, and that it didn't blink. You know, before you crushed its eyes.
You hear a small gasp behind you.
[[Look around. Slowly.]]
Slowly, you release its finger with your teeth and let go of its throat. You need to get its hand away from your face so it doesn't end up taking out of your eyes.
Gently you guide it's arm away from your face and try to read it's expression. What's going on in that diseased brain? It's eyes are a gelatinous mush but there's something innocent, almost child-like, in the way the creature reacts to its blindness.
Perry slides over to get a clear angle on the zombies head and gives you a small nod. He's ready. In the window above the sink you see Wilson's reflection sagging against the wall. Luke, you sense, is on the floor from where he dispatched the dog.
From this close and in this moment of silence it strikes you how deeply you've stepped into the uncanny valley. The creature in front of you is abomination but its the details that are most disturbing: the lack of breathing, the stillness of its chest, and that it didn't blink. You know, before you crushed its eyes.
You hear a small gasp behind you.
[[Look around. Slowly.]]
"What are you boys doing in..."
Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical. Dangling from one hand is a half-empty bottle of Bell's Amber Ale.
"...here?" Her gaze drifts across the room and settles on the small lump of black fur on her kitchen floor. "Pansy?"
//Oh no...//
The beer bottle hits the floor and her scream shatters the moment of silence.
The monster's head snaps up, lips peeling from its teeth. You take a step back but its fingers dig like knives into the exposed muscle of your side. Gasping in pain you stumble backwards as the zombie rushed forward.
The room tumbles and you hit the floor in a scrum of limbs, teeth, and blood. You recall the glistening arcs of golf clubs raining on the creature, the flash of Luke's knife and relief when your friends separate you from the creature. It's head lay on the floor near you, it's mouth covered in your blood.
*Well*, you think, *that didn't go as planned.*
YOU'VE BEEN INFECTED
[[Try again. Slam the zombies head into the wall.->Slam its head into the wall again.]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
One of the monsters fingers is still in your mouth and you bite down even harder so it's hand won't slip free. It's disgusting but as long as its other fingers don't reach your eyes you should be fine. Assuming, of course, the zombie virus only tranmists via saliva, like rabies. You'll find out soon enough.
Dropping your right hand so it floats over your hip like a gunfighter you take a deep breath. It's now or never. Reaching you hand into the open wound at your side you slowly close your fist around the monsters fingers and lever them backwards, against the joints. A human, a living human, would be screaming in pain but the corpse just keeps pushing forward.
Fine. It may not feel pain but it can still be broken.
You clear its hand from the wound at your side and snap its fingers so far back the fingernails almost touch the back of it's wrist. There's a moment of resistance then you feel the joints start dislocated.
[[Keep going.]]
One of the monsters fingers is still in your mouth and you bite down even harder so it's hand won't slip free. It's disgusting but as long as its other fingers don't reach your eyes you should be fine. Assuming, of course, the zombie virus only tranmists via saliva, like rabies. You'll find out soon enough.
Dropping your right hand so it floats over your hip like a gunfighter you take a deep breath. It's now or never. Grabbing the monsters wrist you push down and away from your side with all of your remaining strength.
It works! The zombies hand comes away from your side and you feel a rush of adrenaline.
Perry shouts your name. He's still dancing around, looking for a clean shot with his 9 iron. //What?// you think, //I've got this.//
Then you look down and see the ragged hunk of your flesh in the zombies hand and the threads of skin connection the meat and muscle to the crater in your side. Blood is everywhere. Your face warms - prickling with heat - your vision occludes into a white tunnel. Your knees are rubber.
"Duck!"
That seems like a good idea and you slump to the side. You imagine a graceful duck and roll but your legs give away and the floor hits you like a truck. The glittering arc of Perry's 9 iron whistles through the air, staving the creature's face with a crunch.
It's a good time to lay back and take it easy. With some effort you raise your head.
[[Look at Wilson and Luke.]]
[[Look at Perry.]]
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Laying on the floor you look up and see Wilson and Luke upside down. Pansy is immobile, several feet from your head and a matted lump of inert black fur, but Wilson is in the throes of a berzerker fury and clubbing the dog over and over with his putter. Blood splatters the walls and Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen, mouth agape and a forgotten Bell's Amber Ale in her hand.
The room is spinning and your back is wet. Funny, did someone leave the water running? You roll over and try to sit nope. Nope, you fall back to the floor, face first into the red water. The room is a soft smear that slips in and out of focus. Red water?
Maybe it's better just to lay here for a bit. Take your time sitting up. Time. The grandfather clock in the corner is doing its thing - tick, tock, tick, tock, tick - and you think about the tick from your hike so many years ago. Your dad was right. Ticks and zombies, you need to take your time.
Good ol' dad. You vision goes black.
THE GOOD NEWS? YOU'RE GOING TO BLEED TO DEATH BEFORE THE VIRUS HITS YOU.
[[Try again. Slam the zombies head into the wall.->Slam its head into the wall again.]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
The 9 iron is buried in the creatures eye socket. Everything is in slow motion: Perry tugging to dislodge the club, the zombie is pawing at the handle. It makes you think of an old Atari 2600 controller. Laughing, you make a note to tell the guys about that later.
The room is spinning and your back is wet. Funny, did someone leave the water running? You roll over and try to sit nope. Nope, you fall back to the floor, face first into the red water. The room is a soft smear that slips in and out of focus. Red water?
Maybe it's better just to lay here for a bit. Take your time sitting up. Time. The grandfather clock in the corner is doing its thing - tick, tock, tick, tock, tick - and you think about the tick from your hike so many years ago. Your dad was right. Ticks and zombies, you need to take your time.
Good ol' dad. You vision goes black.
THE GOOD NEWS? YOU'RE GOING TO BLEED TO DEATH BEFORE THE VIRUS HITS YOU.
[[Try again. Slam the zombies head into the wall.->Slam its head into the wall again.]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
Squeezing the fingers together you twist them violently and you're rewarded with more pops and sharp release of fingers breaking. He won't be clawing anyone else.
Slow and steady. You're going to wear this fucker down with glacial brutality. Its hand is scraping at your face, Jesus you must be a mess, but no serious damage is being done there but you need to protect your side.
Looking out of the corner of you eye you see Perry dancing around and looking for his shot. Okay then, the 9 iron will do more damage than your fists.
You could just release its finger from between your teeth and step back or you could be a little mean.
[[Release the finger.]]
[[Bite the finger off.]]
You unclench your teeth to release the finger and the monster immediately claws with renewed vigor at your face. One hand on it's neck and the other holding its broken fingers you shout at Perry, "Now!"
Letting go of the zombie's neck and hand you dive through the open door into the backyard. You see the glittering arc of Perry's 9 iron as it whistles within inches of your hair and staves the creatures face with a crunch.
Perry tugs to dislodge the club but its stuck and the zombie is pawing at the handle. Behind Perry you see Pansy is immobile, a matted lump of inert black fur, but Wilson is in the throes of a berzerker fury and clubbing the dog over and over with his putter. Blood splatters the walls and Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen, mouth agape and a forgotten Bell's Amber Ale in her hand.
"Dude!"
Perry's voice brings you back to the moment.
"A little help here!" He's wrestling in a tug of war with the zombie, who's grabbed a hold of the golf club.
[[Grab the club.]]
[[Grab the zombie.]]
You flip the lock and Luke pulls the sliding glass door open leaving just enough space for Pansy. A few minutes ago the zombie human was struggling with the concept of glass but somehow it knows an open door when it sees one and lurches for the gap.
Everyone starts shouting but you can't tell what they're saying because Pansy, the tiny hellhound, has squeezed her way through the gap and it's all you can do to track her between the forest of adult legs.
She darts for one of your bare feet and you curse the slacker impulse that made you ignore the mass of laundry growing on your bedroom floor. Not that a sock would help much.
You sidestep the undead terrier and punt it across the room. In middle school you played goalie on your soccer team. You weren't very good and your team lost that season 3-10 but you could kick the hell out of the ball. Pansy hits the cabinet full of collectible owls plates and crashes through front plate of glass. You have about two seconds to grin before the zombie, the former human, barrels into you.
Oh shit. You let go of the door.
[[Captain Kirk it.]]
[[Drive it backwards.]]
With effort you ignore the self-preservation instinct that's telling you to get away from the corpse and, instead, lean in harder against the door. The creatures teeth snap inches horrifyingly close to your face.
Something, someone, crashes into a cabinet featuring a collection of early twentieth century owl-printed plates and you're sure Wilson's mom will freak out. But who wouldn't freak out? Her dog is undead, her collection of yardsale plates destroyed and her near future will likely be defined by a losing battle against a sea of corpses.
"Wilson," his mom screams from the living room, "what the hell is going on in there?"
Great fucking question.
"Got it!" Perry tosses his sock, a threadbare carcass, aside and leans into the back of the sliding glass door.
[["About time!"]]
[["Wait," you shout, "don't push!]]
The sudden increased pressure on the door propels you forward and stumble face first into the zombie. It's grip on your shirt pulls you to the side and as you flail to regain your balance the red pit of the corpse's mouth fills your vision. Yellow teeth flash and dig savagely into the flesh of your cheek.
You don't remember letting go of the door but suddenly you're sprawled across the floor and the monstrosity is on top of you, ripping at your face. There's a distorted yip then Pansy pounces, drawn by the blood. The undead terrier claws and bites at the ragged wound in your neck and try to shield your face but you've overcome by an overpowering lethargy. There's no hope, you realize.
//Luke better put that knife to work//, you think. Maybe the hole in your neck will make it easier for him to remove your head. You'd hate to come back for your friends.
YOU AREN'T DEAD YET BUT YOU'RE ON THE WAY
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
You're already close enough to slow dance with the creature and you can't risk Perry pushing you closer.
"Hold it," you say. "Hold it right here!"
Perry pauses and you see the realization creep across his face. He's never been the best at taking direction but he nods and eases up. His thick brown eyebrows furrow and the black dots of his eyes bounce between you, the zombie and the chaos unfolding as Pansy does darts around the kitchen.
Maybe you should have all taken the time to put on some shoes.
[[Grab the zombie.->"There's no time, Perry, do your best!"]]
[[Put on some shoes.]]
Together you push the table and chairs away from the sliding glass door so you'll all have more room to move. Bottles tip, spilling more soda and beer across player characters sheets and maps but this time no one cares. Dice slide off the table and roll across the linoleum floor.
You're about to ignore the dice when your OCD kicks. Of course it would hit at the cusp of the zombie apocalypse. You scoop up the dice and put them back on the table. Its hard to explain the urge you get when something feels out of place. The imbalance isn't always about cleaning messes or correcting asymmetry but it'll itch at the back of your mind until its fixed.
From the living room Wilson's mom shouts, "What are you boys doing? You better not be scuffing my floors!"
Perry's breathing heavy from the exertion, it's been a long time since he played college hockey, but manages to grumble, "It's a singular floor. Not floors."
"You guys ready?"
You and Luke position yourselves by the sliding glass door. You're in the front so you can manage the lock and Luke has his fingers dug into the door frame, ready to pull it back. The butcher knife rests on the table near him and your 7 iron is 'sheathed' at your belt.
"Wilson?"
Your friend is sweating and his face is flush with anxiety but he gives you the thumbs up then grips his golf club, a putter, with both hands. Somewhere in the distance someone is laying on a car horn and a siren cuts through the night.
[["Ready? Set? Now!"]]
Grabbing the zombie's lapels you roll backwards and try to plant your feet on it's stomach. In theory the creature's forward momentum combined with the straightening of your legs should propel the monster up and over you like a grisly rainbow.
In practice you're betrayed both by physics and a general lack of judo knowledge. You hit the floor with a flat back, roll with all the grace of a brick, and fail to plant your feet on the creature's stomach. Captain Kirk made it look so easy!
Suddenly you're sprawled across the floor and the monstrosity is on top of you in an unholy missionary position, its teeth snapping at your face and its cold, bony fingers clawing for purchase. A thread of red drool hangs from it's chin.
[[Grab it's neck!]]
You dig deep, channel your inner berzerker lineman and stuff the zombie. Your bare feet squeak on the floor and the creature stops dead in its tracks.
Hah! Dead in its tracks?
Grabbing its neck with one hand you lean forward, loop your other arm around its waist and start pumping your legs forward like pistons, lifting the thing off its clammy dead feet and slamming it into the wall next to the sliding glass door.
Behind you glass crashes and you risk a glance over your shoulder to see Wilson pull back his putter and tee off on Pansy. Iron meets small furry body with a thump. The terrier does a flip, bangs off the dishwasher where it leaves a bloody smear, then lands and begins running in circles.
Teeth snap inches from your face and the zombie accountant, or dad, claws at your face with cold, bony fingers. Right. Time to do some damage.
Keeping your grip on its neck you grab a fistful of dry hair with your other hand and crack its head into the wall, leaving a small crater in the dry wall.
[[Do it again.->Slam it's head into the wall.]]
Wilson looks wounded.
"Fine," you concede, "it won't kill us to move the table."
Perry sighs. "We have two zombies just beyond the threshold and you two want to play Martha Stewart?"
"First," you say, "Martha Stewart's been to prison, which is way more badass than anything you've done. And second, you want to get zombie blood all over your stuff?"
Perry looks at the stack of papers, the character the meticulously crafted map and his stack of books: the DM's guide, the Monster Manual, the Fiend Folio and the Player's Handbook.
"Let me give you a hand."
[["That's what I thought."->"Good call," you say. "Luke, give me a hand?"]]
Like a mind reader Luke is there, sliding across the linoleum on his knees. The butcher knife flashes and you have just enough time to snatch your hands away from the creatures head before the blade sinks into it's neck and buries into the floor with a thunk.
Thick, black blood gurgles from the wound and the creature struggles, pinned by the knife. Spasms shudder through its body and the zombie nearly bucks you off its chest. Its arms whip at your face and it's ragged nails draw blood. What the hell?
Luke tries levering the blade free but its stuck. Really stuck. So, instead, he grabs the creatures hair (absurdly you think there's more hair pulling in this zombie confrontation than a high school girl fight) and pins its head back before leaning his weight onto the knife handle.
It sinks a little deeper but the monster keeps struggling.
[[Check on Wilson and Perry.]]
[[Focus on the zombie.]]
Squeezing its neck you fumble to draw the 7 iron from your belt as the creature claws at your arms.
Suddenly Luke is there, sliding across the linoleum on his knees. He grabs a handful of the monsters hair, nods at you, then lays across its torso, pinning it to the floor. You flop backgrounds, towards the creatures legs, try to stand and get momentarily tangled in your golf club.
Out of the corner your eye you see both Perry and Wilson unloading on Pansy with their golf clubs. Grunts are accompanied by the soft whump of impact.
"What's all this noise?"
Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical. Dangling from one hand is a half-empty bottle of Bell's Amber Ale.
"Oh my god," she says, "what have you done to Pansy?"
[[Calm her down.]]
[[Deal with the zombie.]]
You hazard a look at your friends. Wilson is poking at Pansy's inert form with his toe and Perry is sagging against the refridgerator, breathing heavy and staring at you. He wipes his nose on his forearm.
"Don't look at me," he says and points at the zombie, "you have still have shit to deal with."
[[Deal with shit.->Focus on the zombie.]]
Luke gives you a look that you take to mean //Can you hold that thing still while I figure out how to separate its head from its body?//
"Yeah," you say, "I got him."
The head seems pretty well pinned by the knife so you just need to contain the creatures arms and legs. Easy enough. You scoot further down so you're straddling the creatures legs, squeeze it's arms to its sides and try not to dwell on the fact that you're hugging a corpse.
The zombie doesn't seem so happy either.
Luke stands, looks around, shakes his head then stomps on the knife. It's sudden and unceremonious. The blade digs deeper and tilts on impact, sort of rending a larger, messy, v-shape crater in the creatures neck. Still, it struggles against you.
"Dude," you say, "just cut the spine."
Luke scowls. He's the only one of your group who refuses to take off his shoes at Wilson's house and he's wearing black Doc Martens with a thick Vibram tread. He lifts his foot and stomps down hard, completely missing the knife and impacted squarely with the creatures jaws.
You're about to give him shit for poor aim then you realize what he's doing and look away. This isn't going to be pretty.
Luke starts stomping like he's making wine. Boot hits skull and skull hits floor. There's a splintering crack, a series of crunches and the wet, sucking, sound of walking in deep mud.
The zombie has long since stopped moving when Luke steps back, stumbling into the kitchen table, scattering dice, paper and bottles. He's panting, breathless with the effort.
[[Inspect the damage.]]
[[Collect yourself and avert your eyes.->Stand up.]]
It's not as disturbing as you expect because A) the thing had been trying to kill a minute earlier and B) there is nothing left that seems even remotely human. Granted you aren't digging through the mess looking for teeth but at a glance it looks like someone spilled a big bowl of gumbo. Perversely, your stomach growls.
Outside you hear a siren wailing into the night. You look out the sliding glass door and the moon is swollen and pale, staring at you like a enormous, dead eye. Something crashes in a neighboring house and is followed a beat later by screams.
Someone should do something.
You look around the room at your friends and realize this is your moment. You're out-of-shape, exhausted and want nothing more than to close your eyes and sleep but you're friends need you. Your community needs you. Hell, maybe even the world needs you. For years you've been training for just this kind of thing: running sims of non-conventional problem solving, weighing strengths, weakensses and probabilities. The dice and dungeons are gone but your skills remain.
[[Stand up.]]
Your knees are wobbly but you manage to stand without falling over.
Perry opens the refridgerator, pulls out a sixpack of beer and begins popping bottles open on the edge of the of the kitchen counter.
"Hey!"
Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical. Dangling from one hand is a half-empty bottle of Bell's Amber Ale.
Perry begins passing the beers around. "Sorry, but your Formica doesn't seem so important anymore. You know...in the larger scheme of things."
She takes in the scene. The broken cabinet, the remains of her plate collection, the corpse whose head terminates in a bloom of red soup and the tiny pile of ruined, bloody, black fur.
"Is that...Pansy?" She asks. To her credit her voice wavers only a little bit.
[["Sorry about the mess. Things got a little out of hand."]]
[["Yeah, we didn't see that coming either."->"Sorry about the mess. Things got a little out of hand."]]
[["You may want another beer."->"Sorry about the mess. Things got a little out of hand."]]
"Who's gonna...," her lower lip trembles and she gestures around the room with her beer bottle, "who's gonna clean this up?" She's in shock, unable to process the scene, which makes things easier for the moment but she's bound for a serious meltdown later. It'd be best if you've all cleared out by then.
"We will," you volunteer. "But that can wait a bit. Guys?"
Perry looks up from a cold slice of pizza and stops chewing. Luke wipes a hand on his pants and slides a chefs knife from the butcher block. Something like a smile flickers across his face then disappears in a scowl. Wilson's eyes are hard and sharp. He stands with some difficulty but straightens his back, brings his putter to bear, and gives you a nod.
"We've got a world to save."
END OF CHAPTER 1
[[Replay scene.->"I think your dad’s a golfer, bring me an iron. Actually, you better get the whole set of clubs.”]]
[[Play again from the beginning.->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
Grabbing its neck with both hands you push it away, rolling the monster to the side. The bad thing about the undead? Well, they're the living dead. The good thing? They also have a horrible sense of balance. It's like the thing was dead just long enough that its eustachian tube corrupted.
The zombie hits the floor and you scramble to your knees, push the monster back and straddle its chest like you've seen in the UFC.
A few feet to the side both Wilson and Perry are unloading on Pansy. Small tufts of black fur float in the air, and streaks of blood spatter the walls.
[["Luke! I need your knife!]]
[["Luke! Hold him still!]]
"Mrs. Issak, there's no time to explain," you hold up your hands, palms forward in soothing gesture, "just let us take care of this."
Fumbling the 7 iron slips free of your belt you hold it up like you're preparing to chop a cord of wood.
"Luke, get clear on three," you say.
He nods. The zombie is struggling under his weight but Luke is surprisingly effectice at containing the creature's limbs while steering clear of its teeth. You're tempted to take a minute to catch your breath but every second represents greater risk.
Wilson's mom looks dazed. Her eyes are glazed, jumping from the warm smear of her pet to the pinned zombie but seeing nothing. You think for a second that you can almost hear the static buzzing in her head then you realize the sound is the blood rushing in your own ears.
"One..." Your voice is muted, distant and unfamiliar. Its the voice of a child who has no place here.
Wilson's mom is mumbling about her plates.
"Two..." You imagine yourseld standing there, gasping for air. You're unrecognizable - terrified, absurd and merciless - wielding a gold club like a morningstar. You've spent years roleplaying as a cleric, smiting the undead and now here you are...
You roll your shoulders, pull the 7 iron up and back.
"Three..." Luke lets go of the zombie's hair and rolls towards the creatur's feet like he's on the last leg of a stop, drop and roll.
Wilson's mom mutters, "No..."
[[Pause.]]
[[Swing.]]
There's no time to deal with Wilson's mom.
The Luke gives you says something like //take the fucking shot, we don't have all night.//
Your golf club flashes and the wedge of the 7 iron goes straight through the creatures teeth, shattering them inward, and destroys it's jaw. //Well, now it won't be biting anyone.//
A surge of power coarses through you. Your gold club is Stormbringer forged of graphite and aluminum, possessing a brutal intelligence and its magic works through you.
In slow motion Luke releases the creatures hair and rolls away from it's head. Time streaks and warps, Mrs. Issak's scream is an abrasive, distorted soundtrack to your savagery and you lose yourself in the moment. Stress uncoils in your chest, years of filtered emotion, as you reduce the creature's head to gray paste of gristle and bone.
The scream decays as you step back, panting, your arms loose and shaking from the effort.
The room swims back into focus, the golf club clatters to the floor and Perry whistles from the other side of the kitchen. "Damn..."
You hazard a look at your friends. Wilson is poking at Pansy's inert form with his toe and Perry is sagging against the refridgerator, breathing heavy and staring at you. He wipes his nose on his forearm.
Wilson's mom shuffles a few steps into the room and her beer bottle drops and bounces off the floor. Spilled beer mixes with broken glass and Pansy's blood. That's a shame. You have an urge to mop up the beer.
[["Sorry about the mess. Things got a little out of hand."]]
Crap. You can't risk her flipping out.
You turn to face her. "Listen, Mrs. Issak," you say, "we can explain everything...well, we'll try to explain everything but you need to give us a minute."
She points at the wreckage of her plate collection. "My plates..."
On the other side of the kitchen Perry leans against the kitchen counter. His legs are shaking visibly but he see's Luke laying on top of the zombie and slowly raises his 9 iron. Beyond him, Wilson sags against a wall. His putter is covered in blood and fur.
"Yeah, your plates are broken," you acknowledge them, shattered and strewn across the floor, "but that's not what's important right now."
"Gah!"
Perry and Wilson snap to attention, looking just beyond you.
You spin, bringing your 7 iron to a swinging position as the zombie claws at Luke's face. Sharp, dirty nails, carve into the soft flesh of his cheek. He pulls away from the bony claw and his fistful of hair rips away from the creature's scalp.
You look for a clear shot at the creatures head but Luke is scrambling and blocking your view.
[[Take the shot.]]
[[Wait for the shot.]]
[[Aim for somewhere other than it's head.]]
Your golf club hangs in the air for an instant, tension winding across your hips, then it's a silver flash that buries itself in the monsters face.
Wilson's mom emits a thin, keening groan.
The club goes straight through the creatures teeth, shattering them inward, and destroying its jaw. //Well, now it won't be biting anyone.//
But it isn't dead. It wails around the head of the golf club, either a moan of distress or some sonic fluke resulting from the escape of air and the vibration of the 7 iron. It's arms flounder, waving like anemone.
Twisting the club you disengage it from the pulp of the creature's mouth, step back, and wind up for a second hit.
The monster is halfway towards sitting upright when Luke rolls forward, butcher knife in hand. The broad blade glitters parallel to the floor, shaves a pancake-sized disc of bone off the creature's forehead and knocks it back to the ground. Its skull bonks off the floor and Wilson's mom rips a scream that, if the dead weren't already walking around, would raise the dead.
Hah.
[[Tee off.]]
Luke is a murderous, gothic, blur. He's a fucking cat. Death in Doc Martens. Following the momentum of the knife he pivots and rolls past the creatures head, clearing the space and giving you room to work.
Your golf club flashes, staving in the creature's forheard, then withdraws and strikes again. It's Stormbringer forged of graphite and aluminum, possessing a brutal intelligence and its magic works through you.
Time streaks and warps, Mrs. Issak's scream is an abrasive soundtrack to your savagery and you lose yourself in the moment. Stress uncoils in your chest, years of filtered emotion, as you reduce the creature's head to gray paste of gristle and bone.
The scream decays as you step back, panting, your arms loose and shaking from the effort.
The room swims back into focus, the golf club clatters to the floor and Perry whistles from the other side of the kitchen. "Damn..."
You hazard a look at your friends. Wilson is poking at Pansy's inert form with his toe and Perry is sagging against the refridgerator, breathing heavy and staring at you. He wipes his nose on his forearm.
Wilson's mom shuffles into the room and the beer bottle drops, bounces off the floor and the spilled beer mixes with broken glass and Pansy's blood. That's a shame. You have an urge to mop up the beer.
[["Sorry about the mess. Things got a little out of hand."]]
Luke is in trouble, the monster has its fingers dug into his face and its other arm has reached around his side, dragging him closer. The hard your friend pushes away the more you can see the meat of his cheek ripping. You don't have a clear shot at the creature's head but you can't waste another second.
Your golf club hangs in the air for an instant, tension winding across your hips, then it's a silver arc that glances off Luke's shoulder and bounces off the floor. Luke grunts with the impact and, stunned, his arms soften just enough the the zombie can use your friends body as leverage to drag itself upright.
Perry shouts, "Damn it!" Footsteps pound then there's a cry and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Pulling back your 7 iron for another shot you glance over your shoulder. Wilson is on the ground, broken glass embedded in his bare foot.
Luke pounds the creature's side with his fist.
The zombie pulls him into a closer embrace and your next shot with the golf club bounces off the monster's back. Luke's scream is swallowed, literally, at the corpse bites into his face, wraps your friend in it's bony arms and cradles him as it chews.
Behind you Mrs. Issak screams.
To Luke's credit, he goes down fighting.
YOU LET SOMEONE IN YOUR PARTY DIE
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
Luke is in trouble, the monster has its fingers dug into his face and its other arm has reached around his side, dragging him closer. The hard your friend pushes away the more you can see the meat of his cheek ripping. You don't have a clear shot at the creature's head so you dance around the pair, your bare feet squeaking on the floor, looking for an opening.
Luke's cheek rips away from his face, exposing teeth and pink gums. He screams and, stunned, his arms soften just enough the the zombie can use your friends body as leverage to drag itself upright.
Perry shouts, "Damn it!" Footsteps pound then there's a cry and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Pulling back your 7 iron for another shot you glance over your shoulder. Perry is on the ground, broken glass embedded in his bare foot.
Luke pounds the creature's side with his fist.
The zombie pulls him into a closer embrace and your next shot with the golf club bounces off the monster's back. Luke's scream is swallowed, literally, as the corpse bites into his face, wraps your friend in its bony arms and cradles him as it chews.
Behind you Mrs. Issak screams.
To Luke's credit, he goes down fighting.
YOU LET SOMEONE IN YOUR PARTY DIE
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
Luke is in trouble, the monster has its fingers dug into his face and its other arm has reached around his side, dragging him closer. The hard your friend pushes away the more you can see the meat of his cheek ripping. You don't have a clear shot at the creature's head but you can't sit back and do nothing.
Your golf club hangs in the air for an instant, tension winding across your hips, then it's a silver arc that smashes one of the creature's kneecaps.
No reaction. Yeah, right. Zombie. They don't feel pain.
[[Try again with the 7 iron.]]
[[Drop the club and pull Luke to safety.]]
You don't have a clear shot you also don't have much of a choice.
Your golf club hangs in the air for an instant, tension winding across your hips, then it's a silver arc that glances off Luke's shoulder and bounces off the floor. Luke grunts with the impact and, stunned, his arms soften just enough the the zombie can use your friends body as leverage to drag itself upright.
Perry shouts, "Damn it!" Footsteps pound then there's a cry and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Pulling back your 7 iron for another shot you glance over your shoulder. Wilson is on the ground, broken glass embedded in his bare foot.
Luke pounds the creature's side with his fist.
The zombie pulls him into a closer embrace and your next shot with the golf club bounces off the monster's back. Luke's scream is swallowed, literally, at the corpse bites into his face, wraps your friend in it's bony arms and cradles him as it chews.
Behind you Mrs. Issak screams.
To Luke's credit, he goes down fighting.
YOU LET SOMEONE IN YOUR PARTY DIE
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
At this distance and with Luke so close to the creature you can't risk using the golf club so you toss it aside. You'll need to pull him away.
Wait a second...
[[Use the butcher knife?]]
[[Forget that, use your hands.]]
You snatch the butcher knife off the table where Luke left it. The blade is heavy, it's one of those wooden-handled, thick chinese knives that's used to cut chickens in half.
There isn't a clear shot at the creature's head but you're not holding a golf club anymore.
As the creature pulls Luke closer you take a deep step forward, swinging the butcher knife in an arc that buries the blade in the monsters's bicep, cutting through muscle and tendons, breaking the fragile, undernourished bone. Thick, black, blood oozes from the wound. Whatever supernatural force has reanimated the dead can't do shit when the underlying physiology of its arm is broken. Without muscle and tendons the creatures hand goes all floppy and it lets go of Luke's face.
Wilson's mom screams.
Without fear of causing himself greater injury Luke knocks aside the creature's other arm, rolls backward onto the broken glass and crabs walk until he hits the cabinets on the other side of the kitchen.
The zombies head rotates, wobbling on its attentuated neck, and your eyes meet. The creature tries to sit up, groping for your forward leg. You lever the knife from the monster's arm, knock it's head aside with the flat of the blade then begin the dirty work of removing it's head.
Time streaks and warps, Mrs. Issak's scream is an abrasive soundtrack to your savagery and you lose yourself in the moment. Stress uncoils in your chest, years of filtered emotion, as you hack at the monter's neck in short, brutal chops.
[[Keep chopping.]]
You drop to your knees, slide across the linoleum, and crash into Luke. This does two things, one of which is good and the other is maybe not so good. The rush to reach your friend and the sudden impact against his back releases the tension in the zombie's arm that is attached to the hand that is clawing your friends face. That's the good thing because Luke's cheek doesn't continue ripping. The not so good thing is that you knock Luke forward, closer to the creature's mouth.
Its teeth start snapping, producing a loud clacking sound that would make any dentist, living or dead, wince.
Luke catches his balaance, hands planted on either side of the creature's head, so he's officially straddling the monster's hips. Briefly, hysterically, you wonder if zombie porn would still qualify as necrophilia.
Wrapping your arms around Luke's midsection you attempt to pull him away from the creature. Your friend can't weight 150lbs soaking wet so your suprised when he doesn't just peel away. Pulling him closer you kick and scramble away from the monster like you're a Navy Seal dragging a wounded comrade across a beach of soft, wet sand. That's how it feels, anyway. It's exhausting. It's a slog and you wonder how could he possibly be so heavy. Luke struggles, thrashing against you with his legs. He's cracked, you think, and panicking. All the more reason to get him away from the zombie.
[[Keeping pulling.]]
[[Stop and look back.]]
The spine severs the its like someone switched unplugged the power. The zombie's head tilts lazily then, drained of power, it slumps backward onto the floor.
The scream decays as you step back, panting, your arms loose and shaking from the effort.
"See," Perry wheezes from across the room, "the brain." He opens the refridgerator and pulls out a six pack of beer. "This proves..." he takes a another breath that rattles deep in his lungs, "this proves the visus is centralized. So far 100% of test subjects went down from head trauma."
You wipe your face on your shoulder. It sucks but it looks like he might be right. The lore, in this case, might have some basis in truth. Crap, you hate it when he's right.
[["Fine, yeah, you called it."]]
[["Along with a ton of other damage. This was too messy to say for sure."]]
You've dragged Luke halfway across the kitchen floor when it registers that people are yelling. It's not just Mrs. Issak's screams. In all the noise you hear words, your name, and something about Luke.
//Yes,// you think, //he's in danger. Now leave me alone so I can drag his ass to safety.//
Something barrels into you from behind. You're knocked backwards and your arms are pinned to your sides. Jesus, another zombie? Did someone leave the sliding glass door open?
Tossing your head back you connect with something, your skull crunching into softer, more delicate bone. Your attacker grunts in your ear and you imagine a zombie's teeth, yellow and bared, biting into your neck.
Twisting and throwing your elbows you manage to escape your attackers grasp and you spot the 7 iron you'd tossed aside.
[[Grab it, spin and attack!]]
[[Get some distance!]]
You're halfway across the kitchen floor when it registers that people are yelling. It's not just Mrs. Issak's screams. In all the noise you hear words, your name, and something about Luke.
You untuck your head, look back and see the zombie has Luke's arms in its bony clutches and it's teeth buried in meat of his bicep. Blood pours from the torn flesh and streams down the creature's chin. Muscle rips and fat blooms, a soft fatty flower, around the monsters mouth as it chews.
That's why Luke was so heavy: you were pulling both of them.
Luke's face is beaded with sweat, a shining pale green the color of your grandmother's couch, and his eyes roll wildly in their sockets. He's still struggling but the movement is listless and heavy.
You've known Luke since since middle school, his older sister was your first kiss and he helped you pour concentrated lemon scent in the vents of your high school nemisis' car. You've matured into men and faced down demons, helped each other move and spent countless hours dreaming of a world where magic and mystery rule. The day has come when your dream world is reality and your friend is bleeding out because you made the wrong call.
You blink, the world goes soft and the blurred forms of Wilson and Perry swim into view, their golf clubs are streaking gray ribbons. Blood roars in your ears, your face prickles with heat and you tilt back, crashing into the floor.
YOU LET SOMEONE IN YOUR PARTY DIE
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
Diving forward you snatch the leather grip of the 7 iron with one hand and spin, torquing through your hips. The head of the golf club whips around in an sharp orbit.
But it isn't another zombie behind you. It's Perry. His hands cupped over his nose and blood leaking from between his fingers.
"Gahd dahmmit," he shouts then see's the silver blur cutting his way.
You try to bail on the swing but its too late. The momentum carries the wedge of the golf club cleanly through its trajectory, clipping him in the temple.
Perry's head snaps back, the impact spins him clockwise and backwards through the open sliding glass door. There's a teetering pause, a micro-moment, where he flounders to regain his balance before he spills messily onto the patio. His head connects with brick tiles - a sickening sound, both brittle and soft - and his body spasms with rigidity then relaxes into sloppy repose.
Crap.
You look back and see the zombie has Luke's arms in its bony clutches and it's teeth buried in meat of his bicep. Blood pours from the torn flesh and streams down the creature's chin. Muscle rips and fat blooms, a soft fatty flower, around the monsters mouth as it chews.
Wilson's socked feet are shredded from the broken glass on the floor and he's slipping in his own blood, trying to get a clean shot at the creatures head with his putter. He swings, misses, and the head of the putter bounces off the floor with a metallic ping.
You blink, the world goes soft and Wilson is a blur, his golf club a streaking gray ribbon that finally connects with the zombie on the floor. Blood roars in your ears, your face prickles with heat and you tilt back, crashing into the floor.
YOU KILLED PERRY AND LET SOMEONE IN YOUR PARTY DIE
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
You dash forward, hit the wall and spin. Perry is wobbling a few paces behind you, his hands cupped over his nose and blood leaking from between his fingers.
"Gahd dahmmit," he shouts and points at Luke.
You look back and see the zombie has Luke's arms in its bony clutches and it's teeth buried in meat of his bicep. Blood pours from the torn flesh and streams down the creature's chin. Muscle rips and fat blooms, a soft fatty flower, around the monsters mouth as it chews.
Wilson's socked feet are shredded from the broken glass on the floor and he's slipping in his own blood, trying to get a clean shot at the creatures head with his putter. He swings, misses, and the head of the putter bounces off the floor with a metallic ping.
Slowly the realization hits you: that's why Luke was so heavy, you were pulling both him and the creature.
Luke's face is beaded with sweat, a shining pale green the color of your grandmother's couch, and his eyes roll wildly in their sockets. He's still struggling but the movement is listless and heavy.
Numbly you step forward, your brain switching to a protective state of disconnection, and drive your bare heel into the zombie's neck. Vertabrae pop like muffled gunshot. The monster tries to look up at you but the bones in its neck won't allow for the rotation and it can only glare out of the corner of one cloudy eye. Fumbling it gropes at your legs.
[[Stomp again.]]
Stepping between it's arms you lift your foot and drop your heel again, crushing one of the monster's orbital socket's, driving that baleful, occluded eye inward until it bursts, releasing thick, clear threads of fluid.
One of it's hands weakly claws at your pant leg and you swat it away.
Your next stomp shatters the creature's temple and you ignore the thin slivers of fractured bone that slice your foot. Will the virus transmit through blood? You don't care. Luke is doomed and your vision has become myopic, singular in your desire to damage the thing that disrupted the beautiful innocence of your life.
Now it's all changed.
Your heel flares in pain as it connects with the broad dome of the creature's skull. Your knee aches and your lungs burn but you are consumed by the savagery radience of the moment. Time blurs, warping with the heat of your anger, folds of brain separate under the crush of your foot. With every impact of your heel pain vibrates through your leg and that white hot, flare of agony is a lifeline connected you to reality.
But you know that's a thread you'll need to let go. And when you do reality will be waiting for you.
YOU LET SOMEONE IN YOUR PARTY DIE
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
Scratch that. Stupid idea.
[[Grab the zombie.->"There's no time, Perry, do your best!"]]
Instinctively you curl up, wedging your sore knee between you and the corpse, then push backwards to create some space between you and the teeth.
The thing vocalizes, a guttural moan, and for some reason that expression of primal need scares you more than anything else you've seen. Maybe its trying to say something or maybe the sound is an accident, the inevitable passage of wind or gas across its vocal chords, but you realize this thing, this dead thing, is intelligent. It's glaucomic eyes focus on you, targeting soft flesh, and you recognize the spark of the priotization processing in its dead brain. Sure, it's just trying to bite the part of you that is closest but that prioritization is the seed of intelligence.
With one hand you grab it's neck and pin it to the patio and with your free hand you violently sweep its arms away. Your t-shirt, the classic 8-bit hero iron-on from the Starworld arcade on Westnedge Avenue, rips at the sleeves. Dang it!
You have to get away.
[[Roll left.]]
[[Roll right.->Roll left.]]
Free of it's clasp you trying diving to the side.
You're hoping for a smooth roll that resolves into an action pose. In reality you slump heavily, hit the patio like a wet sack of flour then scramble away, ripping a fingernail on the bricks and further bruising your knees.
Light pours from the kitchen, strobing as Luke and Wilson'd forms oclude the domed kitchen lamp. Darkness collects in the far corners of the backyard and you feel something maligant gathering in those folds of black. This isn't an isolated incident. Somewhere a car horn is braying loud and steady. Down the block someone is shouting and their voice is ragged, raw with fear. A gun reports, echoing of aluminum siding.
Glass shatters inside the house. Right, you have shit to manage.
Crawling on all fours your right hand rolls on a loose brick. Your arm buckles and your wrist flares in pain.
The creature's finger tips claw at your feet and you imagine its teeth biting into your calf, gnawing through your achilles tendon and your foot going all floppy as the tendon snaps and your calf muscle jumps into the back of your knee.
Focus!
It's teeth and lips are smeared red with Pansy's blood. Screw this, you will never know the hunger in it's cloudy eyes.
[[Kick it.]]
[[Use the brick.]]
It isn't pretty and you won't get points for style but you start driving your heels into the zombie's face and shoulders like you're running in place. Except you're turtled and laying on your back.
Maybe its your imagination but the creature seems genuinely annoyed by the rain of socked heels. It paws at your feet, trying to swat them away and you actually laugh. Hah!
Your foot connects solidly with one of it's eye sockets, snapping it's head back and, surprisingly, it blinks several times before settling it's gaze back on your feet. In that moment, stretched thin by adrenaline, you wonder if blinking is some ingrained bodily reflex that even death can't crush. What other functions are still going about their business in that lifeless, animated, husk?
In that moment you see a trace of humanity in the creature, some remnant of what it used to be. It was someone's father, boss or employer. It had a home, almost certainly a family and those people...what happened to them?
[[You hesitate.]]
[[Kill it.->Use the brick.]]
You dig at the loose brick and fingernails rip as you pry it free. The brick is heavy and cold in your hands, grit rubbing into the bloody scrapes on your fingers, and you squirm forward to create distance between you and the creature. Patio stones bite into your bare elbows.
Cold hands grope at your legs and you kick wildly, socked heels driving into the the monster's head and shoulders.
Heaving yourself ungracefully to the side you scramble to your feet with the brick held in both hands. With a moan of disappointment the zombie pauses, recalibrating your change in elevation, then continues crawling towards your feet.
More glass shatters in the kitchen and you wonder what could be left to break. Are they throwing plates at Pansy?
[[Throw the brick at the zombie's head.]]
[[Smash the zombie's head with the brick.]]
Not everyone who transitions to the undead has died. One bite is all it takes to pull someone across that threshold. So what happens to a person's memories when they become a zombie? Is all that history and emotion wiped out by the virus or is there an internal struggle for control, some part of the brain that retains a sense of awareness?
The creature rubs a knuckle into it's eye and for the first time you see it as a man, a very, very sick man. Then it's eyes snap back into focus and the creature lunges.
[["Crap!"]]
[["Shit!"->"Crap!"]]
Bony figures dig into your socked foot and with surprising strength the creature pulls itself forward, wrapping it's bony arms around your leg and cradling your calf like a football.
There's no restraint or moral compunction, no memories of what is right or wrong to rein in it's desire. The creature bites your thigh, teeth ripping at your pants.
You flail your legs and pound at it's skull with your fists, each impact rocking it's head from side to side, but the thing is relentless, it's bite a dull vice pinching at the meat of your inner thigh.
Then the fabric rips.
Teeth pierce flesh. A fever flush floods your body with the realization that soon you'll find out what happens to an infected person's memory. You scream.
YOU'VE BEEN INFECTED
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
There's no way you're letting the creature get any closer. Taking a step back like you're a quarterback, aim then throw the brick as hard as you can. It connects with the monster's forehead, snapping it's head back and tearing away a ragged flap of skin, then the brick bounces into the yard.
Huh. You expected more from that.
Faster than you expect the creature lunges foreward. Bony figures dig into your socked foot and with surprising strength the creature pulls itself forward, wrapping it's bony arms around your leg and cradling your calf like a football.
There's no restraint or moral compunction, no memories of what is right or wrong to rein in it's desire. The creature bites your thigh, teeth ripping at your pants.
You flail your legs and pound at it's skull with your fists, each impact rocking it's head from side to side, but the thing is relentless, it's bite a dull vice pinching at the meat of your inner thigh.
Then the fabric rips.
Teeth pierce flesh. A fever flush floods your body with the realization that soon you'll find out what happens to an infected person's memory. You scream.
YOU'VE BEEN INFECTED
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
Pulling the brick back, up and over your head, you're caught in the momentary flash of headlights filling the gap between homes. You're a rim lit tableau, a Frazetta masterpiece of power and dynamism silhouetted against a swollen moon, then the car passes and you swing the brick down.
The impact rattles your bones. One corner of the brick is buried at the point of impact in the creatures skull and petals of splintered bone bloom around the crater.
The creature moans and gropes forward, it's arms wavingly lazily.
You wiggle the brick free, lift it high over your head, and take a deep breath as the zombie turns it's head and looks at you with a baleful, glaucomic eye that you crush beneath the brick. The creature'd head hits the patio with a sickening thump and bounces back with some reduced structural integrity. It's skull has gone lopside and soft.
The next blow collapse's the creature's temple and orbital lobe. It's arms drop slowly to the patio like plants wilting in time-lapse. Consecutive blows reduce the zombie's head to paste of grey mash, hair and bone.
You don't realize you're eyes have been closed until you feel a gentle hand on your shoulder. Looking up you see Luke and Perry framed in the door and Wilson is saying your name.
"Yeah," you respond but your voice seems thin and distant.
Somewhere in the distance a gunshot echoes through the suburb and Wilson's grunts.
"Hey guys," he says, "I don't think we're done here."
END OF CHAPTER 1
[[Replay scene.->"I think your dad’s a golfer, bring me an iron. Actually, you better get the whole set of clubs.”]]
[[Play again from the beginning.->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
Free of the zombie's grip you stumble backwards, catch your balance, and risk a glance towards Wilson as he pulls back his putter and tee's off on Pansy.
Iron meets small furry body with a thump. The terrier does a flip, bangs off the dishwasher where it leaves a bloody smear, then lands and begins running in circles.
[[Finish off your zombie.]]
[[Help Wilson.]]
Wilson pounces on Pansy, pounding the undead terrier with his putter like he's playing a perverse, live action version of Whack-a-mole. Blood spatters the wall and tufts of matted hair float in the air like dandelion seeds.
Grabbing your 7-iron from where you placed in on the kitchen table you turn to face the zombie. The knife must not have severed the spine because the monster is still alive, or reanimated - whatever - and pinned to the wall like a bug. It's groping at the knife and only a matter of time before it frees itself.
Clumsily Perry slides his 9-iron out from his belt then makes a small after-you gesture.
Nodding, you square your shoulders, pull your golf club back like you're at the batting cage. In the back of your mind you hear your little league coach, Mr Schonvelt, shouting "Swing through the ball!"
You swing.
The club glitters, drawing a silver line from point of origin to the zombie's head where it messily excises a divot of bone and brain.
[[Make space for Perry]]
Shit. Now there's three of you dealing with the human zombie and Wilson is all alone with Pansy.
"You got this, Luke?"
He nods.
[[Cool.]]
[[Right on.->Cool.]]
"My turn."
You step aside and Perry fills the gap, his 9-iron whistling in a brutal downward strike that caves in the creatures forehead. The head of the club gets momentarily trapped in the shattered skull cavity and Perry has to jimmy it out. It looking like he's shifting gears and when the head of the club emerges its flecked with grey gore.
Luke follows suit, prying the knife loose and the monster sags to the floor as a lifeless lump of deanimated flesh.
"What's all this noise?"
You snap your head around and Wilson's mom is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She's in sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt from her softball league and her hair is an over-dyed explosion of orange. In any other context the look on her face would be comical.
"Oh my god," she says, "what have you done to Pansy?"
"We attempted an experiment." Perry leans against the sliding glass door, covered in sweat and breathing heavily. And," he gestures broadly, taking in both of the zomblie corpses, "it appears we failed to remove a limb."
Outside a gunshot echoes between the suburban homes.
After a lifetime of consuming lore and battling fictional monsters you're tempted to call you mom just to let her know it wasn't a waste of time.
You wipe of smear of sweat from your face. "Something tells me we've get another chance."
END OF CHAPTER 1
[[Replay scene.->"I think your dad’s a golfer, bring me an iron. Actually, you better get the whole set of clubs.”]]
[[Play again from the beginning.->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
Grabbing your 7-iron from where you placed in on the kitchen tabel you turn to face Pansy, take a step forward and your bare foot explodes in pain like you stepped on a caltrop. Crap. The dice.
Your leg buckles and a four-sided die dislodges from your heel. Ungracefully, you slump to the floor.
Pansy is a blur. A black ball of fur fills your vision, claws rake at your face and tiny teeth pierce the flesh of your neck. Grabbing the infected terrier by a leg you swing her like a club and she smacks into the floor.
Your vision is swimming but you catch a glimpse of Wilson's face. He's staring at you, shoulders sloped and putter dangling at his side.
Fuck. This. Dog.
Sitting upright you swing Pansy into the cabinet of owl-themed collectible plates. Glass shatters and little flecks of fur fill the air. Struggling to your feet and stumbling forward you swing the dog in a curving arc that terminates with the kitchen sink. The dog impacts with am echoing metallic gong and you brace yourself with one hand on the countertop and continue pounding the dog into the sink. Gong! Gong! Gong!
Your face is warm and you hear Wilson's mom screaming something but she seems so far away.
[[Keep swinging.]]
[[Stop swinging.]]
Your skin burns. How is that possible? The dog only bit you, what, seconds ago? Minutes? You have no idea how long you've been beating Pansy's lifeless body into the sink but she's unrecognizable as a dog. Fur and skin have peeled away to reveal the underlying muscle and her body is loose, heavy and floppy like a very wet towel. //Awwwww,// you think, //little doggy got the mange.//
You know what will cure that.
With two hands you lift Pansy and swing her down hard into the sink. Little bits of her separate and pool in the drain. It's a good thing they have a disposal.
Breathing heavily you pause and see something, another monster, in the window. Dropping Pansy you turn to warn your friends and realize from the looks on their faces that something is wrong.
What?
Looking back at the window you see your reflection.
YOU'VE BEEN INFECTED
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
Your skin burns. How is that possible? The dog only bit you, what, seconds ago? Minutes? You have no idea how long you've been beating Pansy's lifeless body into the sink but she's unrecognizable as a dog. Fur and skin have peeled away to reveal the underlying muscle and her body is loose, heavy and floppy like a very wet towel. //Awwwww,// you think, //little doggy got the mange.//
Breathing heavily you pause and see something, another monster, in the window. Dropping Pansy you turn to warn your friends and realize from the looks on their faces that something is wrong.
What?
Looking back at the window you see your reflection.
YOU'VE BEEN INFECTED
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Play again from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]
Mentally you construct a timeline. Pansy was okay when Wilson fed her an hour ago. Given your friends mass maybe it'll take the virus longer to consume. Ballpark estimate: sometime in the next hour or two you'll have to put Wilson down.
The other zombie is on the ground next to Luke and Perry is using his foot to remove the 9 iron from the crushed bowl of its orbital cavity. Luke is gasping for air and you don't see the bit mark in his neck until he rolls over and looks in your direction. The zombie's mouth is red and a chunk of Luke's muscle dangles from mouth.
Wilson's mom is in the doorway to the kitchen and she's screaming.
*Ah crap*, you think, *that didn't go as planned.*
YOU LET SOMEONE IN YOUR PARTY DIE
[[Try again. Attack Pansy.->"Pansy."]]
[[Try again. Attack the guy.->"The guy."]]
[[Start from the beginning->10,000 Dungeon Masters]]