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.