This project was very much inspired by The Last of Us game series. Since I didn't like some things about the 2nd game, I wanted to create a new story with new characters and aspects. THIS IS NOT A FANFIC OF THE LAST OF US, BUT A SERIES OF ITS OWN. I JUST LIKE THE NAMES OF SOME OF THE CHARACTERS LIKE ELLIE AND JOEL.
The rain wouldn't stop.
It fell in long, fraying strands from a sky the color of rotting steel, threading through the broken windows of collapsed buildings, tapping against rusted metal like a memory that wouldn't die. The air stank—of gasoline, wet concrete, and old blood.
Joel stood beside the truck. The tarp was half-torn, rain seeping into the crates in the back. Two boxes. No labels. No questions.
"You son of a bitch!" Gustaf roared. His voice cracked like it couldn't decide whether to cry or rage. "You said you'd be here if they came! And where the fuck were you?!"
Joel didn't look at him. He stayed quiet, steady, unmoved.
"I said I'd deliver. I did."
"They overran us, man! Two people dead! One missing. You could've—"
"I couldn't have."
He finally turned to face him. There was no anger in his voice. No apology either. Just that cold, quiet certainty he wore like armor.
"I don't make promises. Especially not for other people."
Gustaf stepped closer, fists clenched. "You could've helped! Fucking done something!"
Joel slowly rolled his sleeves up, eyes steady, his voice low.
"If I stopped to fight every time someone screamed, I'd be dead a hundred times over."
Silence. Just the rain.
"The shipment's here. Now give me what you owe me."
Gustaf swallowed the rest of his rage, yanked a folded map from his coat pocket. Heavy paper, damp around the edges.
"This is everything we got. CITADEL outposts, primary lines, comms channels. Rough layout."
Joel took it, gave it a brief look, then folded it neatly and tucked it away.
"Mariana wants to see you. Second outpost, northern sector. Not far."
"What's she want?"
"Didn't say. But she looked like shit. Like someone who's seen something they can't unsee."
Joel nodded once.
Then he walked.
The world outside wasn't peaceful. Just quiet. And silence out here didn't mean safety.
Rotting houses leaned in over cracked streets, their windows like hollow eyes watching from the past. Some buildings had collapsed in on themselves. Others were being swallowed by nature—vines curling up through shattered stoplights, weeds cracking through concrete. The city was dead, but it hadn't stopped breathing.
Joel moved like a shadow—silent, deliberate. Ducking through cover. Listening. Always listening.
He didn't trust silence. It had teeth.
CITADEL was the only group that still held things together—barely. Structured. Organized. Efficient. No fanatics. No preachers. No heroes. Just power, claimed and held. Joel didn't like them. But he liked them better than the alternatives.
After nearly three kilometers, he spotted the second outpost. An old police station fortified with tarps and barbed wire. Two guards at the gate, rifles low but ready. They knew his face. They let him through without a word.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet plaster and disinfectant.
Mariana was waiting in the comms room. Thin, pale, a cigarette dangling half-dead between her fingers. She looked older. Emptier.
"Joel," she said.
"Mariana."
No small talk. She handed him a folder. He opened it.
"Post Three. No signal for two days. No radio. No movement."
Joel grunted.
"Dead?"
"Maybe. Maybe jammed. Maybe something worse."
"What do you want from me?"
"Go. Check it out. Bring back whatever you find. People. Documents. Or—"
She hesitated.
"Or proof of why there's no one left."
He stared at her. Long and flat.
"Might get ugly."
"It will."
He closed the folder.
"Then I need a hot cup of coffee. And a new cartridge."
The rain had stopped, but the world still reeked of death.
Joel moved through a narrow alley where rainwater had pooled into muddy veins. His boots made no sound. He was always quiet. Always had to be.
The route to Post Three led through the remains of an old industrial sector—collapsed warehouses, rusted scaffolds, skeletal cranes that groaned under their own weight. No signs of life. No birds. No rats. Nothing.
He knew this kind of quiet.
It wasn't empty. It was waiting.
He checked his magazine. Then the flashlight. Everything was in working order. Mariana had come through with the cartridge. He'd passed on the coffee. Too bitter. Too burnt. Like everything else in this world.
A rusted sign peeked through the overgrowth: Coldstream Industries – Authorized Personnel Only.
Once, this was someone's job. Now it was just another place to die.
He stopped. Took cover behind an overturned excavator. Just ahead—an abandoned camp. Rough. Temporary. Three sleeping bags, a dead fire, empty cans scattered like relics. Footprints in the mud—faded, but recent.
He rose slowly, gun drawn. Each step was deliberate.
No movement. But as he drew near, he saw the stains.
Blood. Dry. But not washed away.
Something happened here.
He knelt, touched the ground with two fingers. The blood was old. Two, maybe three days. Beside one of the sleeping bags lay a radio. Antenna bent. But otherwise intact.
Joel picked it up. Clicked it on.
Static.
He adjusted the dial. A crackle. Then—
"—hello? …please… can anyone hear me?"
A voice. Young. A girl. Thirteen, maybe fourteen. Frightened. Alone.
Joel froze. Lifted the radio closer.
"—don't know where I am… they're gone… I… I think I'm sick… please…"
Then silence.
Dead air.
He stared at the radio.
He could've shut it off. Could've tossed it in the dirt. It wasn't his problem.
But something in that voice—
It stuck.
It didn't let go.
Too many years too late.
He tucked the radio into his coat, slow and wordless.
Then kept walking.
Post Three lay just past an old train line. The final stretch was wide open. No cover. No retreat.
Joel crossed fast, low, rifle drawn. The building ahead was once some kind of administrative center. Two stories. Reinforced windows. Security bars. Now, just another ghost.
The front door hung open. Pushed inward. No light. No sound.
Joel felt it. That twist in the gut. The wrongness in the air.
He pressed to the wall. Listened.
Silence.
He entered.
The corridor was damp. Muffled. The air reeked of mold and iron. A gurney lay flipped on its side. Blood on the walls. A single overhead light flickered weakly from an emergency generator somewhere deeper inside.
He didn't call out. Never did.
He moved like smoke. Room to room. Quiet.
Bodies.
Three of them.
Two men. One woman. All wearing CITADEL gear. All dead long enough to rot. No signs of a fight. No bullets. No blood trails.
This wasn't a battle.
It was a message.
He searched their gear. Found a keycard. A half-charged battery. Cigarettes. No intel. No maps. No folder. Not what Mariana wanted.
The radio room was dark. Cold. Silent.
He sat.
Breathed.
Then pulled out the girl's radio.
Held the button.
"You there, kid?"
Static. Then—
"…who… who is this?"
He paused. Eyes flicking across the room. Then unfolded a map from his jacket. Checked the signal range. Checked the routes.
"Where are you?" he asked.
A sob. Then:
"I… I don't know… there's a sign… something about Lindenfeld. And… and a tunnel. I—"
Lindenfeld.
He knew it. South. Two days on foot.
If she was there—and not bait—he had a problem.
Or a choice.
He set the radio down.
Three dead. No data. No survivors.
Right?
He looked at the door.
Then picked the radio back up.
"Goddamn it," he muttered. "I fucking hate children."
And left the building.