Dead Island: A Survivor’s Diary

A weekend in the eyes of a Dead Island survivor.

Nash Herringtonby Nash Herrington

Friday, September 9, 2011

Dear Diary,

Today has been a strange day. This morning I was walking through the aisles of the videogame section in Blockbuster, and now I am fighting for survival in the middle of a zombie apocalypse on the remote island of Banoi. Now I’m not the most geographically aware of men, but up until my fending off the hordes of undead here I had never heard of this “Banoi”, and I sure as hell don’t remember getting here. I also don’t remember being an African-American, but that’s an entirely different story.

My fellow survivors have panic in their voices, although you would never be able to tell that they were afraid from looking at their faces. Perhaps it is all the bloodshed and violence that they have witnessed that has made them so emotionless, or perhaps it is just poor animation – as I picked up a paddle and began to cave in the skull of my first zombie, I had stopped caring.

A local lifeguard named John Sinamoi has requested my help. He is sporting an unsightly facial tattoo and appears to be attempting an Australian accent. At first I assumed he was joking, trying to see the funny side in a bad situation, but now after meeting quite a few of the residents of this island I have realised that they have all adopted this strange way of talking.

Even the British holiday-makers I encountered on one of my quests seem to have learnt their dialect from analysing Dick Van Dyke’s performance in Mary Poppins. As an Englishman I would take offence, but as I appear to have taken the guise of a black American gangster-rapper I can do nothing but shout mildly offensive clichés and make references to New Orleans.

 

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Dear Diary,

I have been aided by two friends, Adam and Jamie, to help me with my quest for survival. I can’t remember Adam being a hot Chinese woman, but at this point I am willing to believe anything. Although 80% of the inhabitants on the island seem to have been infected with a deadly virus, the other 20% seem to have been infected with crippling laziness, most of them simply refusing to walk the 10 metres required to retrieve a bottle of booze, or whatever other unnecessary item they can think of that will only further serve to convince me that humanity isn’t worth saving.

I have been appointed as the designated driver. By appointed I mean that I jumped into the driver’s seat without saying a word to my passengers, then proceeded to race at breakneck speed to our destination, steamrolling over zombies whilst giggling maniacally. I sense my companions’ frustration at my inability to “play the game properly”, but choose to ignore their existential complaints and instead throw propane tanks at them. Who says you can’t have fun in the middle of the apocalypse?

 

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Dear Diary,

We made our way to a church before Adam and Jamie left me to fend for myself. Apparently this is a safe house, although when we arrived here there were 10 zombies banging on its walls and the members of the parish inside seem to insist on leaving the door wide open. I’m sure that this unorthodox method of keeping yourselves safe has some religious subtext to those inside the church, something along the lines of “never closing the door on God”, but when there are a dozen brain-eaters shambling around outside I think God would understand if you just shut the f***ing thing.

I was told by the members of the church to travel through the sewers to the City Hall. The sewers are infested with the undead and they soon swarm me. Flailing my Debilitating Scythe wildly I hack the limbs off of a few of them, but it’s just not enough. They surround me, biting, gnawing and clawing their way through my flesh and bone. I drop to the ground. Everything turns black. I have died.

I wake up 5 seconds later. The zombies that just killed me are still ambling around aimlessly. $73 has been taken out of my wallet. What has just happened?! I continue to barge my way through the groaning hordes and finally make my way to the City Hall. It’s not as safe as I imagined. Zombies line its wall and you can hear them screaming for our blood. Against my better judgement I am going to stay here for the night. If you’re reading this, then I am already dead.

Please, wait for me to respawn.