I can’t believe I died. I thought sourly. And now, for some reason, I’m stuck in this stupid zombie game. I was both aggravated and perturbed. First things first. I’m the realest. No, but seriously, I’m getting rid of that corpse. I was very put off by the idea of a corpse in the vicinity, something I guess I would have to come to terms with eventually. I continued to search through the remaining rooms in the house, finding a black garbage bag and tarp to wrap up the body and slide it into the laundry. I went downstairs and stood by the head. I bent down to scoop it up in the garbage bag, but upon opening the bag I was thrust back into the interface purgatory. Right, so every time I open a bag, I come to this place. Great. I noticed that in my inventory was now the baseball bat, duffle bag, tarp and garbage bag. I hovered my hand over the list and further words overlaid on the duffle bag. Set duffle bag as primary? Yes or No. I grabbed towards yes and then exited the menu.

  Back in the kitchen, I tried to wrangle the bag without opening it, in order to collect the head. I twisted and flipped it around without success when I looked down and realised that the once-fleshy head was now just a skull. It had probably only been an hour since the initial confrontation, so this bloke was decomposing fast! At this rate he’ll be gone by tonight! Somewhat triumphantly, I threw down the garbage bag to the bench, it opening slightly on the way down. Hang on, that bag is open! Why aren’t I back in the menu thing? Confused, I decided to open the bag fully. Still nothing. Okay, what about the duffle bag? I opened the zip of the duffle bag and found myself back in the interface. It seemed that now I could only access the menu when opening the duffle bag. Well, I guess I’d better not lose you! I exited the menu and slung the bag across my chest.

  I walked back into the living room and threw the tarp over the now skeleton before I sat down on the couch. I had reached a state of disassociation, staring blankly into the black screen of the television. It must have been shock. I was dead. My life as I knew it was over, but here I was, feeling as alive as I normally had. Not only that, there were potential threats everywhere and I had no idea how to approach them or what to expect. I must have stayed on that lounge for hours, as it wasn’t until the light began to dim that I snapped back to what was now my reality.

  Oh my god, there could be zombies surrounding the house! Thankfully, I had closed all the blinds, doors and windows when I thought I had just murdered someone, so at least they couldn’t see in. I decided to conduct a reconnaissance of the outdoors, peeking ever so slightly out the curtains to see what I was dealing with. I started at the front of the house, peeking out the window to the street. I saw the empty front lawn, a small maple tree and a metal letterbox. The house was on a small suburban street without lights – well, none that I could see. So far, so good. I walked to the living room and peered out of that window, lifting the curtain only an inch. I could see the house next door on the right. It was two storeys house with a small porch affixed to the front. Lights were on within the house, so I kept an eye on the ground-floor windows that were illuminated. After a couple of minutes of silent surveillance, I saw what I feared: movement within the house. I saw two pallid bodies wandering about, what looked like a man and a woman. Reflexively, I pulled the curtain back down, but it was unlikely they had seen me as I had kept the home in darkness. I recoiled in terror, but knowing I had no-one else here to help, I continued with my recon.

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  I went to a window at the back of the house and parted the curtain slightly to look over the backyard. I could see little of any substance, save from a small bird bath and charcoal barbeque. Thankfully, I couldn’t see anyone, perhaps due to the fact it was enclosed by a tall chain-link fence.

  I continued on, heading over to the kitchen to try to look at the other neighbour. The house on the left was only a small single-storey cottage surrounded by a waist-height picket fence. I noticed there was only an exterior light on at the cottage, lighting up their backyard. I gazed for a moment when I saw motion. Oh god, another one! As I stared more closely, I noticed that it was not in fact a zombie, but a large tan-and-black dog!

  That poor puppy! Hang on – is that a zombie dog? Can dogs become zombies? I was concerned at the prospect of zombie dogs, but all the fibres of my being would not let me leave the issue alone. I closed the blind and fumbled as silently around the kitchen as possible, reacclimating to the darkness. I opened the cupboards, looking to see what remained now that my focus wasn’t on finding a head-toting bag. A box of cereal, a packet of chips and a jar of hotdogs were in one of the cupboards – the others were bare, save for a jar of pickles and a can of lemonade. I slumped down onto the floor, leaning against one of the cupboards.

  Oh hey, the head has gone! This called for a celebration, so I cracked open the lemonade and chip packet as silently as Anne Frank would have. Munching faintly on my snacks, I heard a whimpering from outdoors. Ignore it, Kelly – not your circus, not your monkeys. I returned to my snack – but, unable to ignore the obvious pitiful sounds of a dog in turmoil, be it emotional or elsewise, I stood up and peeked back out of the window. The dog wandered to the side of the yard closest to me, so I could now see him clearly. He just looked like a normal dog, no obvious discolouration, no lesions or missing limbs. Surely not a zombie dog. I had to know.

  Okay, what do zombies eat? Brains. People. But what do dogs eat? Hotdogs! I bent down to the cupboard and retrieved the unopened jar from the shelf. I opened it up and took out a frank, the briney meat-pickled water dripping onto the counter and the front of my shirt. Gross. Hotdog in hand, I tiptoed over to the side door. I unlocked it noiselessly. I grabbed the baseball bat and proceeded to crack open the door to the side yard. I scanned the area furiously and seeing no immediate signs of life – or death, as it were – I stuck my body out of the door only about a foot. I turned towards the dog and hurled the hotdog in his direction; it clocked the poor dog in the back of the head. Startled, he started barking boisterously. Shit! I quickly retreated back indoors, locking the door behind me. For some reason, crawling seemed like the best course of action, so I crawled back over to the kitchen window and peeked out to see the possible carnage.

  Much to my dismay, but not surprisingly, the dog’s barking had roused the zombies of the area, who were now teetering over to the cottage. The dog, who was agitatedly running around his yard, noticed the zombies approaching from several directions. About six appeared and headed towards him. After surveying the area, he circled back to the side of the yard closest to me, snuffling around on the ground until he found the meaty projectile. Satisfied with his acquisition, he picked up the frank and trotted into a small kennel, that of which I had only just noticed.

  The zombies trudged into his yard, clumsily toppling over the picket fence. They beelined it straight over to the kennel, but after about two minutes of motionless grunting, they dispersed. It would seem that zombies were not interested in dogs of either kind.