As the headless, chunk-less corpse lay motionless on the floor, the realisation that something was very wrong, but in a very different way, started to kick in. Did I miss something? Was there some sort or virus about causing necrosis ahead of time? Why was there a state of martial law? Where even was Mount White? I looked around the open-plan ground floor of the home and saw the old picture-tube television in the corner of the living area. I flicked it on, hoping to find answers.

  Channel 1: Static

  Channel 2: Static

  Channel 5: A blue screen. “This is the emergency broadcasting signal. A statewide threat level has been established. Stay in your home.” The message repeated over and over.

  Channel 7: “Today on Chef’s Kiss, we’re making macarons!”

  The banal television program continued while I stayed inside and contemplated what to do. I glanced over to the kitchen area and couldn’t help but stare at the lifeless head of the man. I turned off the television and decided that if anything was going to get accomplished, I couldn’t have a head staring at me. That was a crazy notion. But what was I going to do with it? I couldn’t kick it outside; the television specifically said stay indoors, and I worried that by touching it directly I would catch some sort of virus. I looked around the sparsely furnished home for something to cover the head with, but short of making a couch-cushion fort around it, found nothing.

  “Okay, let’s look upstairs,” I said to myself as I scurried over the head and up to the second storey. It was also unremarkable, with four doors angled off a landing and short hallway. The last door was to the bedroom I found myself in when I woke up, and I knew there was nothing much in there, other than sheets. I decided to tackle this systematically, so I headed to the nearest door and proceeded inside. This room was also a bedroom, but with a stark change of décor. It could be best described as grandma core. In here was a large wicker couch with pink cushions, a dark-brown four-poster bed, two daintily carved bedside tables and a small dark-wood writing desk. Also within this room were two doors. Sheepishly, I approached the first door and swung it open to find a small ensuite complete with a shower, basin and toilet. A mirror hung above the basin, and I caught a glimpse of myself for the first time since waking. I looked at my hair and skin. My once bright yellow and black balayage was now fully electric blue, and the intricate and busy fine-line tattoos that covered my arms had become a generic traditional style. I’m so confused. How long had I been asleep that all of these changes didn’t rouse me? I had no clue, but I could not let it distract me. I needed to think clearly, and I needed to remove the potentially contagious corpse from the situation.

  I rifled through the cupboard in the ensuite and found a shower curtain but no bags. I could at least use the curtain to cover over and potentially move the body into another room downstairs. I moved back into the bedroom and decided to open the other door. More determined now, and for some reason less petrified, I swung open the door to reveal a simple closet. Bam, duffle bag – the perfect head-removing accessory! It’s heavy, though – best clear it out.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I started opening the zipper of the bag when all of a sudden everything went black. I found myself in some sort of dark purgatory where you could see around you but there was nothing there. Then, in front of me, text appeared: ‘Zombie Planet 1995’ it read at the top of what almost looked like a screen. On the left, under the heading, was a short profile bio: Kelly Brass – Unemployed – 26. That’s me! Well, more accurately, that was my name; I wasn’t unemployed, or twenty-six – I was twenty-five, thank you very much.

  Under my name was a list of categories with little boxes after them – mostly black, but some had been partially filled with green.

  Athletics, strength and stamina were the first set of categories, and there were only about three green boxes after each of them. I tried to reach out and grab the words to no avail, but when hovering my hand over the boxes, further text was overlaid: Athletics – Level 3 – 35/400

  I moved my hand down to see Strength – Level 4 – 78/500 and Stamina – Level 3. It’s like I’m in some game.

  Under the initial categories were more specific fighting-style skills. Long blunt, blade, short blunt, archer, firearm, hand-to-hand and rope. All of the boxes here were black, save for one small sliver of green after the long blunt category. I hovered my hand over it: Long blunt – Level 1 – 30/200.

  Further categories were listed under these, which were more normal skills: culinary, foraging, carpentry, mechanics, metalworking, gardening, animal-training, first-aid, fishing, hunting and trapping. Again, all the boxes were dim with no green in sight.

  Lastly came a list of other qualities: charm, stealth and lore. The boxes after these were also dark.

  Okay, so I’m in a zombie game? This is weird. I perused the rest of the interface. On the right side of the screen were three sections. The top section was labelled Inventory and only listed a baseball bat. The next section down was labelled Attire. It showed the jeans, T-shirt and glasses I was wearing, and had the number 36 in a circle in the bottom right corner. Last was a section called Team Information. Beneath it were three paragraphs: one entitled Team Members, but I was the only person listed; under that was Advantages, which had nothing noted; the third was Handicaps, in which there were a slew of things listed, including poor vision, conspicuous, clumsy, high sense of smell and anxious.

  “Alright, I’m in a game and I’m a bit shit,” I said to myself. I tried to spin around, but nothing was behind me other than blackness. Facing the interface again, I noticed two small icons in the top right corner: a gear and a cross. I reached out to the cross and immediately purgatory was gone – I was back in the bedroom, holding the bag and looking into a closet.

  “I’m in a game…” I repeated to myself. The realisation of what had occurred only just hitting me: I too was dead.