Six of us piled into Killing Floor. There were no survivors.
Martin is in trouble. This was our first game, before we’d actually found a stable server or invited anyone else to join. We survived the pistol round, albeit with no ammo, then met variously sticky ends out in the dark of the fields. Lesson learned: stay near the light.
The B is, once again, in trouble. Being the last man left alive is similar in pressure to Counter-Strike – you know your team are watching you in spectator mode – but more so, since their lives and the continuation of the game hinge on your survival.
This is a type of zombie that seems to have ripped off one of its arms and stitched it to the other, creating a weird sort of double-hand, between which he’s wedged a large blade. Or, you could just hold it.
CloakRaider likes knives. I didn’t realise he, Hypnotoad and Macca had joined us and were watching in spectator mode, until the wave ended and they were able to spawn in the game. We suddenly started doing a lot better with six guns firing.
“Dude, dude, dude, wait up, I wanna show you something.” After most of us had died, Hypnotoad was chased by this thing all around the map, ammoless, about three times, trying to lead him to the other remaining survivor to help.
It doesn’t hold them forever. A lot of good hole-up spots, though, have two main entrances. Welding one shut to deal with the influx from the other works well. It also leads to a tense moment when the first stream is exhausted, and all the remaining specimens are banging against the door, and you have to just wait ten seconds or so for them to breach it before everyone opens fire.
Oh God Flesh Pound. Flesh Pounds get angry when you shoot them, which makes them ultra-fast. They’re already ultra-deadly and ultra-tough, so this can rapidly ruin your day. I think the idea is for everyone to hold their fire until they’ve all got their main weapons out and fully loaded, then unleash at once. It’s rarely played out that way for me, and most of the ways it has played out involve me getting my flesh pounded by an angry Flesh Pound.