Posted on August 1, 2011, Phil Hornshaw Dead Island Hands-On Preview: The First Hour (Twice)
The hotel’s deserted, but there are bags and luggage abandoned everywhere. Stumbling, you try to shake off the hangover as you step into the hallway. A voice over a PA system, recorded, advises you to evacuate the building. You don’t smell smoke, there’s no heat — is it a fire? Where the hell is everyone?
The hallway ahead empties onto a balcony. You step out, surveying the tropical island resort all around you — a beautiful, picturesque vista that stretches out for miles. Not a soul, not a sound.
And then two bodies — screaming, swimsuit-clad fellow guests of the resort — drop past the balcony, hurdling toward the ground far below. They disappear from sight as you stumble back from the railing.
You snap out of it a second later. Evacuating. Sounds like a good idea.
You rifle through a few bags, grabbing a few things to take with you that might be helpful: a few bucks, a lighter, some other odds and ends. You never know when you’ll need to make like MacGuyver to get out of a jam, right? Hurrying down the hall, you find the emergency stairwell, heavily blocked. Almost…barricaded. That’s, uh, weird.
Stepping into a nearby room, you discover something else, just as horrifying: a couple, holding hands, on the floor. Dead. Blood everywhere. An ax between them.
You leave the room and continue down the hall. The other elevators are jammed, but the doors for one are still open. The car is between floors beneath the one you’re on, but if you can pry open the emergency hatch…there. Inside. And then the car is falling, ripping down the shaft toward the bottom. It stalls, hands start to reach in, and then falling again — and stalling again.
A voice. A camera. Someone, somewhere else, telling you to get out, piping in over the hotel PA system. “You’ll need a weapon,” he says. “Head down to the supply closet at the end of the hall.”
You climb out of the elevator and start down the hall, following the instructions. Right turn at the bend, where there seem to be people milling around. You start toward them; they see you; they turn; they start to shamble, to half-run toward you. Something’s wrong.
“It’s the infected! Run! Run to the supply closet!” the voice shouts.
You turn on your heels and sprint in the other direction, toward the waiting closet. The voice shouts you on but you can’t hear anything but your own breathing as you run flat-out for the open door, then slip inside, slamming it behind you as you go past. Panting, you turn — to find an infected waiting for you, snarling and swinging away, and biting into your flesh.
Fade to black.