Surviving The Last of Us

Elliot was lying on the floor, one hand pressed against his throbbing jaw. Anya's strength was relentless, and that particular punch had left him reeling. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth as he tried to focus his vision.

"You're a goddamn son of a bitch, Torres!" Stroud roared, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Her eyes burned with rage, and her breathing was as erratic as her movements. "What you did goes against everything we are, everything we fight for! Do you have any idea what you've risked?!"

Elliot, still unsteady, got to his feet with difficulty, leaning against a nearby wall. "Those are your ideals," he rasped, wiping the blood from his lip with his sleeve. "You think I give a damn about the Fireflies or FEDRA? Neither of you is worth a damn!"

Anya's face twisted in fury. "You should care! They're the bastards attacking us every day, sabotaging every attempt to maintain order! Or have you already forgotten how many comrades we've lost because of them?"

Elliot let out a bitter laugh, despite the pain. "You know why they attack, Anya? Because they're a reflection of the shit we are! Look at you, look at us: a bunch of fascists with guns, crushing anyone who doesn't follow our orders. Do you think I enjoy walking the streets knowing everyone wants to kill me? Do you think I'm proud of what we do?"

Anya stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes boring into him. "Don't give me your sermons, Torres! We do what we have to do to survive! You're nothing but a goddamn coward who doesn't understand how this world works!"

Elliot took a step forward, pointing a bloody finger at her. "Survive? Is that what you think we're doing? We're nothing but executioners in uniforms. I don't want to be part of your goddamn FEDRA, Anya! I was forced into this, just like everyone else here! And now you expect me to swallow your bullshit ideals and kill kids without blinking? Go to hell!"

Elliot's words were gasoline on Anya's fire. In a fit of rage, she crossed the space between them and landed another punch, this time directly to his cheekbone. Elliot stumbled backward, but before he could regain his balance, Anya grabbed him by the vest and threw him against a table, which toppled over from the impact.

"You have no idea what sacrifice is, Torres!" she roared, pouncing on him. Her fist smashed into his face once, twice, three times. Each blow echoed in the small room like the release of long-contained fury. "You didn't watch your friends die in front of you, didn't carry their bodies, didn't hear civilians begging for their lives while the Fireflies tore us apart! You have no right to judge me!"

Elliot tried to raise his hands to protect himself, but Anya struck him so hard in the side that all the air left his lungs. He coughed violently, trying to speak, but his voice was barely a hoarse whisper. "And you think that gives you the right to be just like them?"

Anya grabbed him by his shirt, pulling him up until their faces were inches apart. "I'm not like them. I protect. I do what's necessary."

"Protect?" Elliot wheezed, his voice barely audible. "Or do you just kill because you don't know how to do anything else?"

That was enough for Anya. She threw him to the ground like a broken doll and kicked him in the stomach, making him writhe in pain. "You dare judge me after everything I've done for you, Torres! After all the times I've saved your ass!"

Elliot lay on the floor, struggling to breathe, as a trickle of blood dripped from his nose. Despite the pain, he lifted his head, his eyes meeting Anya's. "I never asked you to save me. I never asked to be part of this shit. And I sure as hell didn't ask you to turn me into someone like you."

Anya stared at him for a long moment, her chest heaving with labored breaths. Finally, she let out a growl and stepped back, moving away from him. "You're nothing but a coward, Torres. A goddamn idealist who doesn't have the guts to do what's necessary. You wouldn't last a single damn day without us."

Elliot, with effort, sat up against the wall, his lips curving into a bitter smile. "Maybe not. But at least I won't die being a cheap copy of what I hate most."

Anya looked at him with a mix of contempt and something that almost seemed like... pain? But she said nothing. She simply walked out of the room.

-x.X.x-

Elliot had recovered just enough from the beating Anya—no, Lieutenant Stroud—had dealt him a week ago to function. The bond he'd thought they shared was gone, replaced by the cold steel of her professionalism. He'd been cast aside, reassigned to the outskirts of his own squad, a punishment masquerading as a mundane duty: escorting convoys through the quarantine zone for resource collection. His ribs still throbbed with every breath, a constant reminder of her ruthless precision. But at least this exile gave him space—away from her, away from Boston, away from everything.

The convoy crawled along a shattered road, the bones of a once-thriving city framing their path. From his spot in the Humvee, Elliot scanned the desolation: skeletal buildings standing like mourners over the corpse of civilization, rusted cars piled in lifeless heaps, and dry, invasive trees clawing through the rubble as if trying to reclaim what humanity had abandoned.

He didn't care where they were or where they were going. A crumpled map lay on the dash, ignored. It didn't matter. Everywhere looked the same—an endless wasteland of broken dreams and ash.

The convoy was four vehicles strong: two supply trucks flanked by two armed Humvees, carrying a total of twelve soldiers. Silence reigned, broken only by the hum of engines and the crunch of tires over debris. But even the monotony felt like a reprieve. Here, he could brood in peace, think without Stroud's shadow hanging over him. His thoughts drifted to Ellie and Riley. If they'd reached safety, maybe they'd already discovered Ellie's immunity, the potential for salvation in her blood. The Fireflies would be stirring soon; he could feel it in his gut. And when they did, Boston would burn.

When the convoy stopped abruptly, the soldier at the wheel muttered something into the radio. "We've been here before?"

"Negative," crackled a reply. "Not marked on the map."

"Let's check it out. Might find something worth taking," came the order.

Elliot disembarked with the others, boots crunching against the cracked asphalt. The air was thick with the smells of decay: wet rot, sour mold, and the sharp tang of rust. The abandoned town sprawled ahead, frozen in a tableau of destruction. Collapsed houses leaned drunkenly against one another, windows shattered, doors torn from their hinges. A few faded signs hinted at what this place once was, but it had long since been swallowed by the apocalypse.

"Teams of two," barked the convoy leader, his face scarred and grim. "Sweep the buildings. Don't touch anything infected, and if it looks dangerous, call it in. Keep sharp—this place is too damn quiet."

Elliot fell in with a pair of soldiers and made for a crumbling gas station. His rifle was steady in his hands, the MK12's barrel leading the way. The pumps outside leaned at odd angles, their metal skeletons eaten away by years of exposure. Inside, the air was stale and damp, a cloying mix of old gasoline and something more putrid. Shelves had toppled in chaotic heaps, scattering rotted goods and dented cans across the floor.

At the back, a metal door hung ajar. Elliot nudged it open, revealing a flight of rusted stairs leading into darkness. He thumbed the radio on his shoulder. "Torres. Found a basement. Checking it out."

"Copy that," came the reply. "Keep the line open."

The stairs groaned under his boots as he descended, rifle ready. His flashlight pierced the gloom, revealing rows of dusty shelves and stacks of sealed fuel drums. A small generator sat in one corner, its condition dubious at best. But what drew his attention was a makeshift curtain of black plastic at the far end of the room. It billowed slightly, as if disturbed by an unseen breeze.

When he peeled it back, the stench hit him like a physical blow. Behind the plastic lay the grim evidence of violence: human remains scattered across the floor, bones picked clean and flesh rotting in dark, rancid pools. Dried blood splattered the walls in grotesque patterns.

"Shit," Elliot muttered, taking a step back. Whatever had happened here, he wanted no part of it.

Meanwhile, outside

The other FEDRA soldiers had started ransacking the town. Moving from house to house, they scavenged anything remotely useful: canned food, tools, clothing. Some stuffed their bags with jewelry and trinkets—items that once held value but now were little more than personal trophies.

"Hey, check this out!" one soldier shouted from across the street. He'd discovered an old radio, still connected to a battery. When he switched it on, static crackled briefly before a faint transmission came through: music, a classic tune from the eighties that shattered the oppressive silence.

"Turn that shit off!" the convoy leader barked from his post near the trucks. "You're gonna draw unwanted attention!"

But it was already too late.

A dull thump echoed from the nearby forest, followed by guttural growls and the unmistakable clicking sounds of the infected. The FEDRA soldiers froze, their grips tightening on their weapons as the noises grew louder. The shuffle of dragging footsteps and the guttural screeches drew closer with each second.

"Positions!" roared the leader, raising his rifle toward the vehicles. "Form a perimeter! Prepare for contact!"

Chaos erupted almost instantly. From the treeline, a horde of infected burst forth: frantic runners leading the charge, followed by the erratic, terrifying movements of clickers. The soldiers opened fire, the staccato of their rifles cutting through the air as bullets tore into the oncoming infected.

Elliot emerged from the gas station basement just in time to witness the scene. The street had become a warzone. A runner slammed into a soldier, tackling him before he could react. The infected tore into his neck with feral teeth, wrenching a bloodcurdling scream from the man as crimson sprayed in all directions.

"Fall back to the convoy!" the leader yelled, blasting a clicker at close range as it staggered too near.

The soldiers retreated toward the trucks, but the horde was relentless. One by one, they fell, overwhelmed by the sheer number of infected. The air was thick with the smell of fresh blood, gunpowder, and the acrid tang of fear. Shouts of pain and the guttural cries of the infected mingled in a cacophony of carnage.

"Torres, move it!" a soldier called out as Elliot fired round after round into the mass of attackers. But for every infected that dropped, two more seemed to take its place.

A clicker got to him. Elliot felt the searing pain as its teeth sank into his left arm. He cried out, shooting the creature point-blank to shove it off. But before he could recover, a runner lunged at him, sinking its teeth into his right forearm. Elliot roared in pain, driving a knife into its jaw with his free hand. But it was too late. Blood gushed from multiple wounds, and darkness edged his vision.

Stumbling and barely able to stay upright, he retreated back to the gas station. The sound of infected and gunfire roared behind him. Slamming the door shut, he toppled a shelf against it, collapsing to his knees as his body trembled violently.

"Shit... shit..." he muttered, staring at his ravaged arms. Blood streamed down his skin in thick rivulets, the pain excruciating.

He forced himself upright and stumbled back down into the basement, collapsing in a dark corner. His breath came in shallow gasps as the sound of infected pounding on the door above echoed in his mind.

Then he heard the roar of engines. The convoy was retreating, tires screeching and sporadic gunfire fading into the distance.

"Bastards..." he muttered, his voice hoarse, as he fumbled in his pack with trembling hands. He managed to retrieve a roll of bandages, though his blood-slick fingers struggled to unwrap it. He pressed the gauze against the wounds, tightening it as much as he could to stem the bleeding. But he knew it was futile.

He was infected.

The realization struck him like a hammer. He could feel the telltale tingling creeping through his veins, the viscous, unnatural sensation that every soldier feared. It was the prelude to the end, the warning sign that he wouldn't be himself for much longer.

Elliot let the bandages fall from his hands, his arms dropping limply to his sides. He rested his head against the cold, damp wall of the basement, his breath hitching as he let the darkness close in.

Then something jolted him.

A flash of blue appeared behind his closed eyelids, like lightning in the void. Elliot's eyes snapped open, and what he saw made his breath catch.

A holographic window hovered before him, translucent and glowing, its ethereal light casting strange shadows on the basement walls.

It was impossible—something that had no place in this ruined, desolate world.

CONGRATULATIONS, YOU HAVE UNLOCKED YOUR SURVIVAL SYSTEM

The text was clean and minimalist, accompanied by a soft electronic hum that seemed to resonate in the air.

Elliot blinked, his mind struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. "What the hell...?" he whispered, raising a bloodied hand toward the window. His fingers passed through it as though it were a projection, but the words remained clear, unyielding.

The window flickered, displaying new lines of text:

CURRENT STATUS: INFECTED

SURVIVAL LEVEL: 1

PROGRESS: INITIALIZING...

Elliot ran a trembling hand down his face, his breath hitching as he tried to steady the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume him. Panic, disbelief, and the faintest spark of impossible hope churned in his chest.

"What the fuck is this?" he said aloud, his voice trembling. The window shimmered again, as though responding to him:

WELCOME, SURVIVOR. ADAPT OR DIE.

End of Chapter 15