From where I’m perched, Harran looks desolate. Plumes of smoke pour out of buildings, and roads are dotted with cars ablaze. But other than the few infernos and the billowing palm leaves, it looks almost peaceful. Clambering down the the Tower of Babel-sized radio tower, the real Harran starts to reveal itself; the zombie-infested city that serves as Dying Light’s blood-drenched stage.
That’s the problem with being above it all - I start to feel safe. But the moment I hit street level, that changes. Falling out of windows, crawling on top of cars, smashing against fences, zombies fill every nook and cranny of the Turkish city. So I swifty ascend again, Spider-man without the jokes, and I stare out across the roofs. These are the real streets of Harran, the rooftops and balconies, and I sit there and plan. I have to, because the hell below is bubbling with danger.