Backlog of the Damned: Dead Rising

Dead Rising and I have a strenuous relationship. Way back in the golden days of 2006 – when I was but a young boy and the occurrence of zombie infestations were fairly low – I cruised (fumbled) through my Xbox 360’s marketplace in search of things to cure my boredom, and came across what would come to be both my obsession and the bane of my existence.

This beacon of zombified morose; this example of all things I have now learned to hate about video games; a relative plague on my psyche and the cause of so many lost hours in front of my old SD television – the Dead Rising demo. Now, I’m not saying I spent hours upon hours playing the demo, running through a singular section of the much larger piece of game-space killing only zombies due to lack of skill and/or design, for that honor must be bestowed onto the actual game. But this small taste of what was implied to be something bigger, and perhaps better, was enough to send me into a veritable panic. I was killing zombies, with a katana! A katana! In a mall! What could be better?

Sure, even the demo had the restraint of a time limit. But most demos have time limits. You can’t have it all for free, so who cares? And so I went on playing that demo over and over, carefree and in genocidal bliss, doing my young teenage things – probably sitting alone and not talking to girls – until the day I gleefully skipped home with a real, tangible, full-on copy of Dead Rising. Oh the exhilaration!

My hands began to shake when I placed the disc in the drive and started to giggle as the drive spun up. It was time; time to break free of Paradise Plaza and venture out to discover the wonder and mystery of Willamette Mall.

 

And so we begin…

My expression towards the first cinematic was one of intense excitement. Here’s Frank West, seasoned photojournalist, entering a town quarantined from the outside world, uncertain of the trials ahead, but ready to get the “scoop” on whatever sinister plot is unfolding. He’s strong, steadfast, and determined. He’s covered wars, ya’know.

But wait, what’s this?

What has happened to these people?

Oh my, they’re eating that poor man!

…

Woah, did you see that gas station explode? Radical!

 

Frank couldn’t be more oblivious.

But look ahead Mr. West! The Mall! Why is it so huge compared to the rest of the town? That doesn’t matter, just take me there helicopter pilot – who I later learned was Brad (or is it Ed?) – and give me three days to figure out this mess.

Upon "landing" on the rooftop of the mall, I met a very tanned and gruff looking fellow who called himself Carlito. Carlito informed me that the town is “Hell” and promptly left without saying anything further. Things were going well.

Downstairs provided little information as well. Some old fat man was yelling about zombies and stacking furniture, and this woman wouldn’t shut up about her dog. At that time I took the opportunity to snap a few “photographs.” Walking around I noticed a woman with a similar tan and style as the guy I spoke with on the helipad. Coincidence? Pshh.

Then, out of nowhere, the old hag starts screaming.

Wait, where are you going lady!? It’s only a dog! No! NO! Oh, come on! Really? You just open the door holding back the zombies? Thanks for killing us all, idiot.

 

Location: Safe Room.

In the Safe Room – which could only now be accessed through the most arduous fashion – I met Otis. Otis is a scourge, and will most likely get you killed whenever he chimes in over the walkie-talkie. And get this: if you cut him off, or perhaps are attacked by one of the zombies that surround you at every moment, he won’t just shrug it off and leave you alone. Oh no, he’ll call you again…and again…and again.

Also found in the safe room was a well endowe…proportioned woman by the name of Jessie. I’ve never understood whether Jessie is just eye-candy or if she ever really served some other purpose. I know that she’s an agent for Homeland Security, but is this like the Fox News division? She’s wearing a tight dress-suit with heels and turns her ankle as soon as she steps out of the safe zone. Objectify much? 

So far the game seemed fine; no real zombie killing had taken place yet, but I was hopeful. Only when I was freed from my expository chains did the real fun – and by fun I mean sadness – begin.

Otis rings.

Survivors? Well, I guess I should save them.

No, do not save survivors. Survivors are completely incompetent and are second only to Otis in the “will get you killed” department. It doesn’t matter whether you give them weapons or guns, or even hold their damn hand; they are more than likely going to die. And don’t feel the need to blame yourself, because it’s not your fault if they can’t follow simple instructions or are not able stay away from crowds of flesh-eating monsters.

 

Interesting story, bro.

So I was walking through the park at the center of the mall, escorting a couple of moronic survivors to their inevitable doom. A cutscene plays, and what looks like three prisoners in a hijacked jeep are tearing through zombies. Oh, and the jeep has a turret. Why? How the hell would I know? So wonderful, I’m parading this gaggle of dunces that possibly have the collective intelligence of a goose, and now I have to dodge the jeep and the bullets coming from the jeep, all while jamming on the “Y” button to push my minions to the nearest door. They all die, of course, leaving me alone with the convicts.

Since this is a game what ‘bout killing the undead, I immediately whipped out my gun and started spraying lead in their direction. But, much to my surprise, it did nothing. So I consulted the strategy guide I had bought along with the game – because that’s a thing I did once.

“Go to Al Fresca Plaza and grab the sub-machine gun.”

Fine. Not five minutes later was I back with that SMG and spewing bullets at orange-clad meatheads. Once again, no damage was dealt.

 

Well, f#@% this then.

And so I continued my journey, carefully dodging fire when necessary, until my old rooftop buddy reared his rugged, chiseled head. Two men (actually three, but my partner "Other Brad" was pretty useless) facing off against one another in mall combat. It was mano a mano; toe to toe; me versus…a sniper rifle. So guess what – that open-shirted, rifle-wielding Latin man-god showed up and taught me the meaning of “safe-saving.”

What did I do to deserve this Carlito!? For Christ’s sake, I thought I was pretty cordial to you back on the helipad, so would you cut me a little slack?

But no, Carlito was not a compassionate man. He beat me savagely for hours, until I finally reached the breaking point, then quite angrily put down my controller, removed the disc from the drive, and threw what some would call a “hissy fit” that ended my adolescent experience with Dead Rising once and for all.

Four Years Later…

Cut to four years later. I’ve moved on; on to better games, with more polish and class. I’ve learned to pick and choose which games I purchase, based not only on demos and promotional material, but also on the word of friends and professionals, who work tirelessly day and night to give me the best gaming opinions possible. I’d like to think I’ve become a better person – a more knowledgeable being – who is able to identify poor decisions and refrain from harboring bad ideas.

Well, apparently I haven’t. Even after all these years, after all I’ve earned under the name of WallacetheGreat me, I’m tricked into played Dead Rising through the same means as before: Dead Rising 2: Case Zero.

I thought I had grown up! How could I be suckered into this again?

As it turns out, Canadians make better zombie games. Both Case Zero and its bigger, more fuller-on brother – while still suffering from the same restrictive time limit and harsh gameplay imbalances and headaches – tweaked the Dead Rising formula just enough to rope me back into the decaying quagmire.

To be frank, I played a lot of Dead Rising 2. Two whole play-throughs; then Overtime; hit the level cap; killed anyone who wanted my Zombrex, and then saved them out of guilt the second time. For some reason – against everything I knew – I felt compelled to play, as if Dead Rising 2 was my Zombrex, and I had to have it administered every 24 hours or else I would turn into a zombie.

But all good things must come to an end,

And leave their undead void in my…head. 

So – bored, starved and lusting for more zombie slaughter – I decided to commit the unthinkable; an act I promised myself never to attempt again.

It's symmetry, y'see.

Oh, hey Carlito…again.

Fully prepared to rip his finely tailored dressings a new one, I clutched my dusty old unhelpful strategy guide tightly and delved once again into the muck. Not again would I be humiliated in front of me and myself…

Yes, I know about the zombies. (Oh no, the ol' bat is heading towards the door.)

Damn woman, do you not hear this man hollering about the undead? Don’t. Open. That. Do…crap.

Hi Jessie, I uh… oh my, you haven’t changed.

What’s that Otis? Sorry I hung up on you earlier, I was too busy being EATEN BY ZOMBIES!

As before the first hour or so was peaceful, given the circumstances. The convicts arrived in their usual annoying fashion, causing me to hastily escort my foot-in-the-grave sheep to safety; none survived. Angered by the stolen PP bonus, my only option again was to resort to gun-on-gun violence. But this, as always, failed to yield any result. Now, angered even more by continuously reloading saves, I finally decided to change up my game.

Anyone who’s anyone (my strategy guide) knows that to beat Dead Rising, you must have Adam the Clown’s dastardly mini-chainsaws. Couple them with a magazine to extend their life threefold, and you’ve now made yourself into a win machine. The problem is, to get the saws you must beat Adam at his own lethal game. This isn’t easy, because every psychopath fight is like running a marathon with your feet tied together. Using patience, cunning, and just a smidge of luck, Adam and I tangoed to the death, and only one emerged the victor.

Swipe. The convicts went down easily, and there was much rejoicing. With these new little motorized beasts in my hands I felt like a god, and there was one man that I knew must be smitte…smote.  

 

Carlito, you’re going down.

Returning to our field of battle I felt confident in my future success. The tables had turned; now I was the Latin demigod. And down he went, with each swipe from my silly, shrunken sawblades.

YES! WOOOOOOO! SUCK ON THAT YOU MOTHerrf…woah…calm down Pat; it’s only a game.

After basking in my triumph – and many fist-pumps whilst I remembered the years of not playing it took to make this moment possible – I decided to keep going; to venture farther than I ever had – to see the ending for the first time. But…

Frank, there’s a problem.

Frank, I need your help!

Frank, I need you to carry me!

Frank, I’m hungry! Could you go get me some food?

Frank, I need you to locate, collect, and get rid these bombs before they destroy the entire mall!

 

Can you people do anything on your own?

I'm amazed by their confidence in my work. Throughout the game every man, woman, and old guy cheers me on towards my fast approaching outcome. Tatered pages are strewn in all directions, still filled with information for which I could not find any use. 

Everything is done. The cases are solved, the survivors smart enough to run have escaped, and I've even snuggled up to Isabela. I have nine hours of game-time left; all is good. So what now?

Well, I can't explore the mall, since armed military types roam the halls ready to shoot anything that moves. I can't go underground, those tunnels are too confusing to navigate — even in a car. What does one do in this situation?

 

Change the channel.

I then calculated that nine hours in Dead Rising translates to 45 minutes in real time. So should I just roam around? No, the aforementioned military complex have parked themselves outside, so I'll just stay in this safe zone here and wait it out.

…

Well, this sucks. *grabs remote*

Oh look, Chintown is on!

Chinatown, starring Jack Nicholson as a private detective in 1930's Los Angeles. I watched him solve a murder, get cut, and then get laid for the next 45 pleasurable, intrigue-filled minutes, pausing only to finish the game I had been soldiering through for the past eight hours. At least I got a good movie out of the deal.

 

In Memorium

This article is dedicated to Brad(Ed) the helicopter pilot.

You will always be my favorite character.

 

 

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