Surviving The Last of Us

Lieutenant Stroud's father descended the stairs like a man possessed, his footsteps echoing in the metal stairwell as his ragged breaths filled the air. With pistol in hand, he turned and fired blindly behind him, his bullets whizzing dangerously close to Elliot and Stroud. One ricocheted off the wall mere inches from Elliot's head, forcing him to duck instinctively.

The old man shoved a man emerging from an apartment, knocking him over with a grunt as he veered sharply to the right on the next level. His movements were erratic yet calculated, as if he knew precisely how much of an advantage he needed to stay one step ahead.

"Don't let him escape!" Stroud roared, pulling the trigger of her pistol. Her shot struck the corner of the hallway, just inches from the fugitive, but the man didn't stop.

Elliot raised his own weapon and fired once. The bullet struck a ceiling lamp, shattering it into fragments that crashed to the floor.

The fugitive, undeterred, reached the end of the hallway where an open window revealed a lower rooftop on the other side. In one swift motion, he shot at the glass, shattering it into a rain of shards that scattered across the floor.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but I can't stay here!" the man shouted, his voice tinged with mockery. Without hesitation, he charged through the window, leaping across the gap and landing with a heavy thud on the rooftop of the adjacent building.

Stroud reached the edge of the window just in time to see him roll from the impact and struggle to his feet, staggering as he ran toward a fire escape at the far end of the roof.

"Damn old man!" she muttered through gritted teeth, raising her pistol to shoot.

"Go another way!" Elliot yelled without waiting for her response. He sprinted toward the window and leaped into the void, his body crossing the distance between the two buildings. He landed hard, the impact jarring his knees and shoulder, but he forced himself to roll to disperse the blow. A sharp pain radiated through his injured shoulder, but he ignored it.

Stroud cursed under her breath as she turned and ran toward the building's stairs, searching for an alternate route to intercept him.

Elliot quickly got to his feet, brushing off dust as he spotted the fugitive descending the fire escape. The man fired upward again, but his shots were wild, driven by desperation. The bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the brick walls and metal railing.

"Surrender, old man! You can't escape!" Elliot shouted, starting to chase after him.

"Never!" the man retorted, his voice a mixture of defiance and mockery.

Elliot reached the edge of the roof and began descending after him, skipping steps two at a time as the sound of his boots echoed on the fire escape. Every time the man glanced back, he fired another shot, but Elliot pressed on, forcing him to keep fleeing.

Meanwhile, Stroud emerged into an alley at the base of the building, her eyes scanning the area quickly. She raised her pistol, aiming toward the fire escape, waiting for the right moment to cut off the fugitive's escape route.

The old man, his chest heaving with frantic breaths, searched desperately for an exit. His eyes lit up when he saw a door boarded up with rotting planks. Without hesitation, he raised a leg and kicked it with all his strength. The wood splintered with a dry crack, creating a hole large enough for him to slip through.

"Damn bastard!" Elliot growled as he finished descending the stairs, just in time to see the man disappear inside the building. He turned toward Stroud, who was running into the alley. "Go around the building!" he yelled.

Stroud nodded wordlessly and changed direction, running to a spot where she could block any attempt at escape.

Elliot adjusted his grip on his pistol and crossed through the broken door, stepping into the building. The air inside was stifling, laden with dust and the smell of mildew. It was an old grocery store, wide and dark, with rusted shelves and crumbling boxes scattered across the floor. The remnants of what once were food and products now served as a feast for rats and mold.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the space but stopped abruptly. A heavy silence settled, so thick that Elliot could hear his own breathing.

"Come on, old man," he said, his voice loud as he aimed his pistol in all directions, advancing cautiously among the shelves. "You know you're surrounded. This won't end well for you."

There was no response, just the echo of his voice bouncing off the walls. Elliot moved further in, his eyes scanning every corner. His boots crunched against shards of glass and cardboard debris on the floor, a sound that seemed amplified in the silence.

Finally, a voice emerged from the shadows, mocking and bitter. "Surrounded? By you and your girlfriend? Please..."

Elliot froze, turning toward the sound, but he saw nothing. "Surrender, old man. You have nowhere to go. Make it easy for both of us."

"Easy?" the man sneered, his voice reverberating from somewhere to Elliot's left. "Nothing in life is easy, kid. Especially when you're a traitor to your own ideals."

Elliot gritted his teeth, advancing slowly. "What the hell are you talking about? All I see is a cowardly old man running from his own daughter."

"Coward?" The voice was closer now, more acidic with every word. "Coward is working for a regime that crushes the weak and calls it 'order.' At least I fought for something bigger than myself."

Elliot barely had time to react as the old man emerged from the shadows to his right, firing his pistol. The bullet missed Elliot's head by inches, striking a shelf behind him.

Elliot dove to the side, raising his own pistol and firing. His shot struck a pillar, just missing the man, who took cover behind a crumbling counter.

"Stop running!" Elliot shouted, his voice echoing as he advanced quickly toward the man's cover.

"Make me stop running!" the old man retorted, firing again. The bullet grazed Elliot's shoulder, drawing a grunt of pain as he raised his weapon and fired back. This time, the shot hit its mark, striking the man in the forearm and forcing him to drop his pistol with a cry of pain.

Elliot seized the moment, launching himself at the man with ferocious momentum. The two crashed against the counter, falling to the ground in a tangle of punches and grapples. Despite his age, the old man fought with surprising strength, his hands reaching for Elliot's throat as Elliot struggled to stay on top.

"Damn brat!" the man growled, his fingers attempting to tighten around Elliot's neck.

Fighting through the pain and exhaustion, Elliot managed to free a hand and punched the man square in the face, breaking his grip. Taking advantage of the moment, Elliot rolled over and pinned the man, though he continued to resist, kicking and thrashing in a desperate attempt to escape.

With a grunt of effort, Elliot grabbed the man by the collar of his jacket and hurled him toward a nearby window reinforced with boards. The impact was brutal; the old man crashed through the boards with a deafening crunch and fell outside, landing in the alley with a heavy thud.

Stroud was there, waiting with her pistol raised.

"Stay where you are," she ordered, her voice cold as steel as she approached the fallen man.

Elliot emerged from the doorway seconds later, his breathing ragged and his shoulder throbbing with pain. "It's done," he said, his eyes meeting Stroud's.

She nodded slightly, her gaze never leaving her father, who now lay on the ground, clutching his wounded arm. "Do you have anything to say before this ends?" Stroud asked, her tone unforgiving.

The man looked up at her, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "You're just like your mother," he murmured with a crooked smile.

Stroud's expression twisted with disgust, her anger barely contained. She crouched beside the man, her pistol gleaming under the faint streetlight as she pressed the barrel against his teeth with deliberate cruelty.

"Say something useful, you bastard," she growled, her voice dripping with venom.

The man remained still, his eyes locked on hers, unflinching even with the gun dominating his vision.

Elliot watched from behind, leaning against the wall to steady himself, the pain in his shoulder pulsing with each heartbeat. He said nothing, letting the scene unfold, though he couldn't shake the knot forming in his stomach.

"Are you going to talk?" Stroud demanded, her voice growing impatient.

The man slowly moved his jaw, prompting Stroud to yank the barrel from his mouth with a rough motion. "Speak," she ordered, her gaze as cold as steel.

The man coughed, gathering himself, before meeting her eyes directly. "To hell with you and your fascist FEDRA, dear daughter." His tone was firm, and the mockery in his voice was unmistakable.

"Wrong answer," Stroud replied with terrifying calm before shooting point-blank into one of his legs.

The shot echoed through the alley, and the man's scream tore through the air. Blood poured from his leg, the scent of fresh iron filling the night.

"Talk, damn it!" Stroud roared, aiming again. "Or I'll make you wish you'd never been born!"

"Damn daughter of a bitch!" the man shouted through his pain. "I'm your damn father! Don't you have any mercy?"

Stroud gritted her teeth, unflinching, and fired into his other leg. The sound of bone shattering under the impact made even Elliot look away for a moment.

"Talk, damn it," Stroud said as she planted a boot on his stomach, applying pressure while he writhed in agony. Then, with almost surgical precision, she grabbed his arm and twisted it until a sickening crack filled the air.

"Ahhh! Okay, okay!" the man screamed, his voice now broken and panicked. "I'll talk, just don't kill me!"

Stroud raised an eyebrow, leaning closer. "Looks like we're finally understanding each other." Her tone was icy and cruel. "Talk."

The man gasped, his words coming out in painful bursts. "The leader of the Fireflies… she's moving more of her people and weapons into Boston. They might arrive in a month, maybe less. I don't have the exact date, but they're doing it through FEDRA convoys coming from the south."

Stroud pressed her boot harder against his abdomen, making him groan. "Keep going," she ordered.

"There's a commander," the man continued, his face a mask of pain. "The Fireflies are paying him to let their people in."

"I need more," Stroud said, her voice a whip. She lowered her pistol to one of the bullet wounds in his leg and pressed it mercilessly, eliciting a scream of anguish. "Tell me everything, you traitor."

"Ahhh! Damn it! My pocket… in my pocket!" the man gasped, his face drenched in sweat and tears. "There's… locations of the Fireflies in Boston. They're preparing to attack."

Elliot, struggling to maintain composure, quickly crouched to search the man. In one of the inner pockets of his jacket, he found a small, worn notebook. Opening it, his eyes scanned the information. When he finished, he looked up at Stroud and nodded.

"It all seems to be here," he said, his voice more serious than usual.

Stroud looked down at the old man, her face a mixture of contempt and satisfaction. "Is that everything?" she asked coldly.

"Yes… that's all," the man gasped, his body trembling from the pain. "Now… get me a damn medic!"

Stroud let out a short, bitter laugh, leaning down toward him with a twisted smile. "A medic? Sorry, Dad, but I don't show mercy to Fireflies."

The man raised his hands, desperate. "Wait, wait, wait!" he began to stammer, but his plea was cut off by the deafening sound of a gunshot.

The bullet pierced his forehead, and his body collapsed to the side, lifeless, with a final ragged breath.

Stroud straightened, holstering her pistol as she stared at the corpse for a moment. Then, with a faint smirk, she turned to Elliot, who watched her with a mixture of surprise and resignation.

"Let's go," she said, her tone as casual as if she had just finished a mundane task.

Elliot nodded slowly, slipping the notebook into his jacket as he followed Stroud.

End of Chapter 10