As social animals, what could be more terrifying than violent persecution by our own tribe? I wonder if zombie fiction endures for the reason Simon Pegg suggests - because it evokes the inevitability of mortality, shuffling slowly but implacably towards you - or whether it’s because zombies are the familiar rendered unfamiliar: human society turned suddenly, inexplicably hostile.
They’re occasionally seen waddling back and forth amid the tumble-down houses of otherwise deserted townships and, if you’re unlucky, stabbing you repeatedly with large, conical shivs which have been bandaged onto their stump arms. It’s not clear exactly what triggered the disaster that has befallen Miscreated’s world, but there seems to be radiation involved, and, inevitably, some sort of zombie-like menace. So far, my survival plans are going exactly as well as I’d imagine they would if civilisation actually collapsed. In fact, when I first toggle into thirdperson, it appears I don’t even have legs. In this particular post-cataclysm nightmare, I play a bald man of grim countenance, maniacal staring eyes and no pants.
This week he staggers through the irradiated online survival sandbox of Miscreated. Each Monday, Marsh Davies scours the apocalyptic desolation of Early Access for precious artifacts and/or tins of beans.
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