Dying Light review | Thunderbolt
Standing on a rooftop in Harran is surprisingly serene. This fictional Turkish city is not your usual post-apocalyptic playground, after all. Beyond the burnt-out vehicles clogging up its highways and the bellowing black smoke ascending on the horizon, there’s beauty to be found as I gaze out upon its deserted streets from my elevated perch. The clear blue skies, glistening waters of its harbour and the orange hues a setting sun casts upon its ramshackle storefronts and cobbled together living quarters paint a picture of safety. Climb down from my perch, however, and the once distant groans beneath my feet build to a bloodthirsty crescendo of the walking dead, eager to feast on any notions of serenity. It’s easy to become overwhelmed once you’re on the ground, where the zombie population congregates in every nook and cranny of this once bustling city. So back up I scamper, onto the interconnected highways of Harran’s busy network of rooftops; where parkour rules the roost.
