Fridiary – Project Zomboid Survival Guide

I have to be completely honest with you – I didn’t really enjoy reading the Zombie Survival Guide.I was expecting trivia, nonsense and hilarity, instead it told me exactly how much of a useless, unfit sack of shit I was, and how I would die near-instantly were a zombie apocalypse to occur. I much preferred World War Z, which told me that if an old, blind Japanese man can survive, so can I.

But I’m starting to wish I’d paid a little more attention to the boring yet practical survival guide, ‘cause those things wandering around outside don’t look very friendly, and they don’t smell particularly fresh…

But it’s ok, because I’m Anna Brown, and I was a Firefighter before the whole world turned to shit. Obviously I’ll be able to survive quite easily…

My house is a glorified caravan – one bedroom, a tiny bathroom, a combined kitchen, dining and living area, and no wheels. Actually, considering the current circumstances I would probably prefer a caravan.
I take everything from the cupboards and the fridge, just in case I need to abandon this shack at some point.

The houses nearby are basically identical, with the most glaring difference being the fact that their doors are locked. I try a couple with no luck, but as I’m getting a bit of attention from the zombies nearby, I decide to crack a window and hopefully find some useful equipment.

Shit. The place is alarmed.

The good news is that the alarm is a loud enough distraction to get the attention of the zombies who had previously been shambling towards me… the bad news is the zombies are coming in from all around.

I race back to my shack and see a veritable horde moving towards the noise. Lucky I’m inside where it’s safe.

Oh shit, my shack was in the way of the herd.


But it’s ok, because I’m Jeffrey Howard, and I was a construction worker before the whole world turned to shit. I could never quite work out how to wear a shirt, but I’m pretty handy with tools. Obviously I’ll be able to survive quite easily…

My house is fairly small, but it’s no shack. I built it myself so that I would have a place to call my own, where I could walk around without a shirt on and not be judged.
There’s some food in the fridge, and pants in every cupboard and chest of drawers in the house; you can never have too many trousers in too many rooms.

I check the neighbours’ houses, but the doors are all locked and I can’t figure out how to get my broad, construction worker shoulders through the windows. It starts to get dark, so I wander back over to my house.
On the nearby road there are two zombies. A man’s home is his castle, and you don’t want the undead hanging around outside your castle. One of them scratches my foot, but I put them both down without too much trouble.

After the fight though I’m panicked, and after I wander back into my bedroom it takes me a few hours to remember how to sleep.

I wake up bright and early at 10am. I can see that the windows on the nearest house have been smashed. Perhaps I should wander over and make sure everyone’s alright, and perhaps help myself to some of their bacon and eggs for breakfast, eh?

My broad, construction worker shoulders can fit through a broken window apparently, and I don’t even get scratched by the shards of glass. Brilliant.

The wife and mother of the family that used to live in the house is standing at the door, staring into the white paint that covers the wood grain. She used to look at my pecs like that when I took the rubbish out without a shirt on. I walked around her with my baseball bat ready, but she doesn’t notice me.

I open the oven and find matches, a can opener, shopping bags, and various bits of food. I’m not sure what it was all doing in the oven, but as a bachelor I too have been known to get lazy with putting the groceries away. I fill up the shopping bag, load some of the heavier stuff into my backpack and leave the kitchen.

This time the wife hears me and comes at me. I tell her, “Goodbye, love” and give her a couple of quick bashes to the skull.

I head upstairs. The master bedroom doesn’t have anything of value in it, nor does the bathroom. I crack open the door to the second bedroom and come face to face with three zombies. I think one of them was the husband, but I’m too busy swinging my baseball bat to pay too much attention.

I just can’t keep them all at bay. The scratches… the bites… I can’t…


But it’s ok, because I’m Shirley Allen, and I used to be a Park Ranger before the whole world went to shit…



[I’m sure The Indie Stone would want me to point out that Project Zomboid is still in beta. Everything you see here is still being worked on and tweaked. They’ve come a long way since the first build I played (possibly 2 years ago?), but the unforgiving nature of the survival aspects and the bald player character models are still right where they should be.
It should also be immediately apparent that I suck at this game. Hopefully I’ll be able to post a follow-up once I’ve relearned how to build barricades and what-not.

You can follow development and buy the game here.]


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