“It wasn’t Gary!” Jonathan blurted out. “He didn’t kill those people! It was his uncle! It must have been, he’s a bloody freak.”

A few seconds earlier, a notification had appeared.

The magician who cast Charm Person on you is dead.

You are no longer under the influence of the spellcaster.

The survivors were sitting in the farmhouse’s living room, under the watchful eyes of Privates Smith and Milligan. There had been little conversation between any of them since Gary had been captured and marched off by his uncle. Peter and Chantelle had sat looking at each other with frustrated expressions, both knowing that this was all wrong. Goremaster had paced around the room, swinging his mace whilst Silvia had sat with her head in her hands. There’d been no sign of Fran since David had taken her to the basement and the soldiers had been ordered to keep everyone together until the latest issue was resolved.

Jonathan’s declaration interrupted the sound of gunfire from nearby field.

“Everybody stay calm,” Private Smith ordered.

“That’s what we were trying to say,” Peter said to Jonathan, indicating himself and Chantelle. “After everything Gary did, the idea he was only doing it to kill us all later is ridiculous.”

“You changed your tune,” Chantelle added, raising an eyedrow at the teacher.

“I was under his influence,” Jonathan shook his head. “He cast a spell on me, made me see things differently.”

“Are you saying that Gary’s uncle is a murderer?” Private Milligan asked.

“Yes, I am. It makes far more sense than Gary being the killer. David is some kind of psychopath and he’s been using his powers to control people. You must have noticed your captain behaving oddly.”

Privates Smith and Milligan had noticed that, and had conferred on the captain’s strange behaviour and his insistence that they had orders to protect the magician at all costs.

“Yeah,” Private Smith spoke up, “I knew something was off about all of this.”

“What are you lot on about?” Goremaster interjected, swinging his mace, “You’re talking nonsense. Gary is a zombie. We should have put him down ages ago. His uncle is alright. Look at what he can do, right? We need that kind of power on our side.”

The mood in the room was against Goremaster, however.

“Right,” Private Milligan said. “Sod this, if the Captain has gone cuckoo because of the magician, then his orders don’t count. We should never have left the others behind in Oxford. This is desertion.”

Private Smith nodded, “Agreed. So what do we do?”

“My vote? We get out of here and get back to where the action is. There should still be fighting in Oxford, that’s what we signed up for.”

“Wait, hold on,” Jonathan said, “You can’t just abandon us.”

They were interrupted by Fran entering the room, a wild look on her face.

“It wasn’t Gary!” she shouted. “It was his uncle. He’s a total psycho.”

Chantelle rolled her eyes. “Yes, Fran, we know.”

“Right,” Peter said, “Assuming that’s the case, then don’t we owe it to Gary to, you know, save him at this point? Fuck knows what his uncle is going to do…”

“His uncle is dead,” Jonathan said. “That’s why the spell broke. So whatever is going on out there, Gary is also either dead or alive at this point. You heard the gunshots.”

“So what, we’re just going to do nothing?” Chantelle asked.

“I think we sit tight and…”

“No,” Peter said, “No, I won’t do that. And neither should you. For all we know, Gary is out there injured, and he might need out help. So I’m going out to see if he’s okay. The rest of you can come with me or try to get in my way.”

“Sorry, can you explain to me which rule of the zombie apocalypse going out to rescue a zombie is?” Goremaster snarked.

“It isn’t. It’s just common sense at this point. We all need to be sticking together and helping each other out, or we’re all dead.”

Goremaster scoffed, “That sounds fucking stupid. What about the soldier saying Gary had killed a civilian?”

Peter scowled, “Whatever happened at the McPearson’s, it sounds a lot more likely that Gary’s uncle killed someone and not Gary. So this is the situation: Gary needs our help. It’s that simple. Who’s with me?”

Before anyone could answer, there was a tap at the living room window.

And then another one.

Everyone turned to see a skull at the window, its bony fingers pressing against the glass.

“What the hell?” Jonathan shouted.

He span round to see more skeletal figures at the double-glazed doors which led from the living room into the garden.

“You were supposed to be keeping an eye on the map!” Jonathan shouted at Goremaster.

“Got bored,” Goremaster mumbled, “Sort of forgot.”

“You idiot! Where the hell did this lot come from?”

The onlay answer was the sound of glass breaking as the undead smashed their way into the farmhouse, looking for their next meal.

*

Gary watched as the thirty strong horde surrounded the farmhouse. His eyes narrowed as the screams started.

He walked over to the corpse of Captain Vaughn and retrieved the two Nightblades.

Hunted, hated, attacked. Gary felt little sympathy for what the survivors were going through right now.

Anger had overtaken him, eradicating the empathy he usually felt.

Play the game, he thought, his uncle’s words - and Juliet’s - coming back to him.

If he played the game, then all that mattered was getting experience points to level up with.

Gary counted.

He needed another 3000 or so experience points to hit level 4. The skeletons and half-zombies that he’d unleashed were worth another 13 experience points each, so maybe another 400 if he killed all of them. That wouldn’t be hard. They were only level 1’s so they wouldn’t fight back.

But there were more lucrative experience point earners close to hand.

There were five survivors in the farmhouse - Goremaster, Fran, Silvia, Peter, Chantelle - who were worth 100 points each, for 700 experience points total.

Then there was Jonathan, of course, who would be worth 200 experience points. The soldiers might also be worth more if they were smart enough to decide to ignore their orders and level up. Gary guessed they must be level 2 by now. Maybe even level 3, depending on how many undead they’d killed. He’d gathered that they had all been instructed not to interact with the screens, so they wouldn’t have taken any of the bonuses available. He was unclear if this meant they would be valued at the higher level in terms of experience point bonus, or if that would only apply once they claimed their upgrades. Assuming the former, they’d be worth at least 200 experience points each.

If he killed them all, he’d get a good 1300 experience points. Plus the 400 if he killed all the skeletons. He’d still be a thousand plus points short of level 4.

But then there were two more soldiers back up at the McPearson’s farm, and James and Gemma. Assuming he could take them out, he’d be looking at another 400 to 600 experience points. That would push him over the edge to level 4. And then there was Rain, a level 19 assassin tied up on the kitchen table. Another 2000 or so experience points just waiting to be claimed.

As an added bonus, if he used the Nightblades on the living, he’d be able to fill them up with two healing potions, and then, of course, he could claim experience points for digging their graves. Another 100 points or so. Wait a day, resurrect the corpses, kill them all off again. That would be worth another 130 or so points.

More than enough to get him to level 4 and start pushing towards level 5.

After all, they’re all just zombie fodder in the end, aren’t they?

*

Everyone inside the farmhouse received the same notification.

Undead Horde Attacks! Wave One (of Three)!

Five mud-caked skeletons smashed through the windows and the double doors to the garden, clicking and gnashing. Silvia screamed and backed away as the others turned to fight.

“Shoot them!” Jonathan shouted at Private Smith and Milligan.

“With what? We ran out of bullets in Oxford!”

Jonathan stared at the soldiers in disbelief.

“You mean you’ve been ordering us around with empty guns?”

Private Smith shrugged and grabbed the barrel of his assault rifle. “There’s only five of them, we can take them.”

“Agreed,” Peter said, pulling a shovel out of his stash.

“You kept a shovel?” Jonathan asked.

“If it’s good enough for Gary,” Peter shrugged.

Jonathan snarled and lifted his sword, swinging at one of the five skeletons and scoring a critical hit, smashing it to pieces

“They’ve only got fifteen hit points,” he shouted. “Smash them!”

Goremaster, Chantelle and Silvia were on the far side of the living room when the first wave hit, with Jonathan, Peter, Fran and the two soldiers on the opposite side, closer to the kitchen. Between Jonathan’s sword, Peter’s shovel, Goremaster’s mace, Chantelle’s hammer and the soldiers using their automatic weapons as bludgeons, they made short work of the remaining four skeletons. Fran and Silvia were both unarmed.

Jonathan let out of a fierce shout of exultation as the undead fell beneath their blows. Finally they were fighting back.

“Bring it on!”

“That was only the first wave,” Peter cautioned. “Is anyone injured? Scratched or bitten?”

“I got scratched,” Private Smith said. “Is that bad?”

“Check your notifications,” Fran hissed. “It will tell you if you’re infected!”

“My notifications? What do you mean?”

“The screens, with the character sheets. Check that!”

“We were told to ignore them,” Private Smith replied.

“Well, you can’t, just look at them!”

“Uh, it says here I’m second level and I need to choose a class,” Smith said, “Nothing about being infected.”

“Yeah, same here,” Private Milligan replied. “I knew we should have been paying attention to them...”

“Good, that’s good,” Fran replied, “Right, you need to…”

Before she could give any further advice, another notification appeared.

Undead Horde Attacks! Wave Two (of Three)!

Fourteen skeletons smashed into the living room.

“Bring it on!” Jonathan screamed again and launched himself at the first of the skeletons.

*

Outside, Gary watched as the horde he’d unleashed attacked the farmhouse.

Aside from the shouting and the screaming, it was all very peaceful.