I have found that games are one of the easiest subjects of fiction writing. A game has already done much of the hard work of establishing a setting, a cast of characters, and an objective. Even better are when completely unscripted events happen in a game due to the way one interacts with the different characters. It also helps that I love playing them. Take Left 4 Dead 2 for instance, a great game where a group of four people struggle to survive and escape the zombie horde. The story practically writes itself. Take this one, which uses the intro movie to Left 4 Dead 2 as inspiration.
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Running. It seems like all I ever do these days. Which is funny because I started out being on the run and now I find myself running for my life. Take now for instance. I’ve already run up fifteen flights of stairs with fifteen more to go and I am dog tired. The fact that I’m not running alone is the only thing keeping me going.
There are four of us together on the stairs. A young hillbilly with baseball cap and faded blue jeans is out in front. A black woman, excuse me, african american, is not far behind. The two older fellas bringing up the rear are myself and a big black guy wearing a purple and gold polo shirt and khakis. Its the kind you sometimes see high school football coaches wearing during practice. I glance back and notice that it even says ‘FHS’ on the front so my guess was right. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not over the hill geezers. One look at my cream colored suit and pants and you would see that I am not the running type. And Coach, bringing up the rear, carries a few extra pounds of flab all around his midsection.
You might ask why are we running up the stairs of one of the big hotels on the outskirts of Savannah. And I’d say, ‘Are you out of your freekin mind?’ Have you not heard the news? Maybe you have and you choose to believe it. That highly contagious infection that they’ve been blabbing about? Its not the flu. Its something else. It changes people. Turns them from mild mannered sheep into mindless rabid wolves, who’d like nothing better than to kick and bite you till you get infected and turn into one of them too. Or, for those few of us who are immune, they kick, bite, punch, and claw us until we’re dead.
Good old CEDA put out the usual warnings. Barricade your homes. Stay away from infected. Report unusual behavior. Wait for further instructions. Some who remembered CEDA’s crappy performance before and after Hurricane Katrina weren’t going to settle for any of that. Me, I thought it was a good opportunity to head south and escape a couple of irate mobsters that fell for my ‘investment opportunities’. Caveat Emptor I always say. Of course, things just kept getting worse until finally CEDA told us they were setting up evacuation centers and flying out anyone who showed up.
“Who the hell…puts an evac station…up thirty flights of goddammn stairs?” That was Coach, who managed to huff and puff a complete sentence while still running. I guess that wasn’t all flab under his shirt. It would have been better to save my breath for the stairs but I couldn’t resist getting a jab in. “Cheer up Coach. Maybe, maybe the helicopters are all made of chocolate.” The look on his face was priceless.
We finally made it to the roof. I could hear the hillbilly calling out as I burst through the door. “Hello? Where is everybody?” I heard helicopters but my blood chilled as I realized the sounds were fading instead of getting louder. I had to shade my eyes as they adjusted to the bright rays of the setting sun, perfetly silhouetting the several choppers that were already headed west.
“I thought they was supposed to be savin our asses,” said Coach. I stooped over to catch my breath. “Looks like there’s been a change of plans.”
The kid waved his arms frantically at the retreating choppers. “Hey! We’re not dead! Come back!”
“Yeah, we ain’t dead,” said the girl. “But we’ve been left for dead too.”