Disclaimer: I do not own The Last Of Us, nor do I represent the views of the creators or developers of the game.

Amid the destruction of our past

You stand

A look of anger, a look of fear

The beads of sweat trickling down to your beard

To the tips of your fingers, tracing the trigger,

Unyeilding

The palms of your hands jaded,

Forever crimson from the stains of blood

The blood that remains as a harsh reminder of your guilt

A painting as feverish as the phantasm of Lady Macbeth

The fear that imparts you to anguish

That inflames your transgressions;

Your acts of theft, smuggling and murder

Taking the lives of those undaunted,

And those unloving, unloved, unliving

The lives of the infected.

Joel

Joel admired the scatter of light upon the earth. It upheld a beauty that was only observed in nature. He loved how the sunlight danced on his face, how drops from the waterfall cleansed his hair, how the leaves in Autumn fell from grace, despite the omen of Winter's hasty approach.

Now it was Spring. Swathes of grass protruding from the rubble had birthed clusters of flowers. Fauna flourished in broad daylight, claiming home to the abandoned buildings. For the first time in years, he strolled.

Looking amongst the dilapidated buildings, the flooded streets and the tousles of vegetation growing up the side of houses, Joel was still working on believing this as the world of his reality. How could something so genuine and normal become jarred beyond recognition? His eyes were quick to adjust to the ever-changing tapestry around him; a trait for which he was thankful, and had many a time saved him from danger. Around nature, Joel was in his prime element.

The smell of pine lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of nectar that reminded him of the sweet grass back home. Texas was one of the remaining places that'd remained virtually unchanged since before the array of bombs came raining out of the sky. Of course, it was less abundant in rudiments and people, but on the whole, still discernably Texas. The thought of home only provoked feelings of pain and regret, loss and fear that would often send him into fits of emotional turmoil.

He needed another drink.

Joel was in no short supply of alcohol, what with his growing collection of Molotov cocktails for any malicious particulars who decided to get in his way, but it was now a necessity for survival. To forget the past - even for the briefest of moments - was like lifting the burden that threatened to crush him each passing day. And it wasn't easy.

He produced a bottle of whiskey from his bag, threw his head back and tipped the remaining tablespoon of fiery liquid down his throat.

He strolled amongst the flowers, enjoying the the warmth from the noon sun and the taste of liquor upon his lips. He cracked open another bottle for good measure, longing for the burning sensation at the back of his throat.

In his mild stupor he began to wonder how many people were actually still alive. He knew of many various groups, but surely not enough to re-colonise and re-populate the planet? Caught in trance marvelling at a herd of gazelle, he entertained the idea that he was the last man on earth, overlooking humanity's destruction and the healing hand of nature as it overcame the buildings and reclaimed the land once abundant with human activity.

With a struggled dismissive wave of his hand he tried physically wiping the thought from his mind, which had grown slightly foggier, and he could feel himself beoming more vacuous with each passing moment. He knew it was dangerous being in such a state; he was vulnerable to sudden attack; but something in the air told him no harm was promised today. He chuckled a hearty chuckle, finding his loss of visual depth amusing. He peered down at the ground, watching the earth undulate, bulge and taper for several seconds before the inviting grass came rushing up to meet his face.

Joel awoke to voices off to his left. He had rolled into a steep embankment amongst a cluster of thick plantation, which had done well concealing his body. An ache erupted in his thigh, revealing that he had slept on the hard bulk of his machette. Fortuitously, the effects of a searing hangover were absent, providing him an opportunity to focus.

"-out him, we wouldn't be in this goddam mess," A man's voice hissed from above.

"It's not his fault. He's just a kid, Richard," Another replied, male also.

Joel peeled his way through the silken grass, peering just over the rise of the embankment, trying to get an impression of his intruders. One was tall and lean, hesitant around his companion, exhibiting his inferiority. The other was broad and imposing, the vast selection of holstered weaponry and body language exuding the aura of a leader.

Joel contemplated his next move. Confronting them was out of the question. Judging by the abhorrent physique of the superior and his array of deadly tools, it was best not to attack headlong. He needed another approach.

Meanwhile the two men continued their conversation.

"I don't give a shit about whether he's a kid or not. Kids steal. They lie, they cheat, and they squander, if not more so than adults." The burly man said, bunching his hands into tight fists.

Joel could see the anger building up inside him, the pursed lips, the crooked expression, the precipitation gathering on his forehead.

"Christ Richard, nobody's perfect. Give the boy a chance to make himself useful. After all, I think Philip has taken a liking to him," The taller reasoned.

"I don't care what Philip thinks. That boy is a danger to us all. If we let him stay, he could turn on us in his sleep."

Joel soundlessly removed his bag from his shoulders, and took out a prepared Molotov cocktail. His hand went for his right breastpocket, producing a set of matches. On second thought, he also removed his shotgun from its holster. The fire would be more of a distraction, the shotgun would ensure them both quick, short-pain-lived deaths. He then proceeded to strike the phosphorous head, taking care in restricting the kenspeckle scratch-like noise.

A brilliant burst of red flame emitted on the first attempt, and Joel placed the flaming match on the old wick rag, which instantly caught alight. He threw the bottle in a deadly arc, aiming to hit the space of ground between the two unaware men. Joel, not for the first time, watched in amazement and horror as the once standing men were now on the ground, writhing in unbearable pain and screaming at the top of their lungs. But their pain was temporary.

The shotgun, ever effective, silenced them at once, ceasing their howling and squirming. The explosive sound of the gunshot echoed for miles around, frightening a distant herd of gazelle, which dispersed West, into the heart of the forsaken city of Chicago. Joel walked over to the two charred corpses and stamped out the flames, dually proud and disgusted with his handiwork. Was this what the world had come to? Where people, in the absence of widespread governance and money, had to kill each other for food? He had a choice of course, but betting his life on the odds that these two men wouldn't do the same wasn't worth it. The military was only so effective in excercising legislation, and many people who escaped the quarantine zones had established groups and rules of their own to survive. Joel had been in several of such groups. Over time, he realised their mentality was the same; kill or be killed. Darwinism - may the best and most successful survive. And he was subscribed to this same dog-eat-dog philosophy.

Sometimes it was better to assume the worst in people. At least, that was how Joel had survived through many years. Three of the eight years since he left Boston had been spent in solitude, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts, most of which tended towards his past. Joel's early days of survival saw him persuading himself to find tasks with which to distract himself and ignore his thoughts; the most efficacious of such tasks being driven towards alcoholism.

It began ensuing the death of his beloved daughter and only child, Sarah. Without his brother Tommy's assistance in finding solace for his insufferable pain, Joel was certain he would have continued down a very dark and twisted path. For a while, he found consolation within, taking upon himself the need to care for his little brother. Even the drinking stopped. But then Tommy too left him, claiming a new hope, a new dream of pursual. Joel could remember their last argument all too well. "I don't ever want to see your goddam face again!" Were his brother's final words, ad verbatim. Tommy wanted to join the 'Fireflies', a seditious militia group calling for the return of all branches of governement, adverse to martial law and military junta. Joel was upset. He had taken care of his little brother, provided him food, water, a roof over his head...and it was returned with little appreciation, if not nowise. And so, a few weeks following Tommy's boorish departure, Joel gradually slipped back to the bottle. For a while he didn't go outside. What was the point? He'd thought. The Human population was in shambles, essentials such as food and water diminishing at rapid pace. Joel was surprised it'd even lasted this long.

Joel searched the bodies for useful items, accumulating revolver and rifle ammunition. Among their persons were bags full of canned food, water and tape, all undamaged from the flames. He recovered a photo from the hefty man's pocket. Even though it was burnt at the edges, he was still able to descry the face of a middle-aged woman - presumably the man's spouce. Joel had gone long enough practicing indifference to actually become so, and thus unsurprisingly felt nothing looking upon the photo. He tossed it away as he would a used cigarette, letting it trail in the wind like a memory lost in the plethura of sleep. Joel continued towards Chicago city, Westbound on a journey that never ended. Ever the sole-nomadic traveller, Joel was on the constant move, and so would have remained had it not been for Tess.

Once one of the most populous city in the United States, after New York City and Los Angeles, holding about 2.7 million residents, the city of Chicago was a place of cultural diversity, peace and prosper. The wind for which it was well remembered by now swept over the city's lonely skeletal body, gathering dust and paper and spitting them Eastward in fury. Cars ziggzaged the streets, some abandoned by their owners, others restraining unfortunate occupants who were not able to escape in time. Each turn recited stories of betrayal, misfortune, grief and lost hope. Only in the cities could you truly understand the essence of this disaster.

For Joel it was a surprise to receive hints of vehicular vapor, however before realisation that the outskirts, whereinto he was heading, were occupied by a military dictatorship force, that empowered its use with militant vehicles and sometimes even helicopters. To Joel's discerning eye, this group had done particularly poorly in securing the perimeter; a lack of guards and surrounding low-border fences absent of barbed wire and automated weaponry told him that much. It wasn't until Joel managed to get inside that he got an understanding of the situation. Even post-infection, Chicago had a large number of inhabitants who had avoided contracting the Cordyceps pandemic. This small bearable portion of Chicago city was packed.

Iron gates preceeded the entrance into the ashphalt jungle, giving way to a fenced maze that brought him to a tollgate and a manual ingress. The stern guard manning it gave Joel a scan over, confiscated his weaponry for the time he spent inside the city, and then he was granted access to the city. He stepped forward onto an open concrete foursquare, flanked by decrepit buildings and back alleyways. Almost immediately Joel was hit by a wave of unwashed human flesh; a repulsive smell that made the air from which he breathed heavy in his lungs.

Before him stood a river of body grimy hands, wide bloodshot eyes and skin that hadn't experienced a decent bath in a few days. A whole crowd had gathered in the square to see their newcomer. Most bared their teeth at the sight of him, angered by his presence. Others either stared inert or ignored him completely. He returned the writhing, hissing horde his prosaic impassive stare, unphased by the looks they gave him. Had these people ever been outside the zone?

A hand grabbed the side of his bag. Joel wrenched it free, grabbed it by the bony wrist and pulled his attacker into view. It was a young solven woman, almost his height and donned in bedraggled clothes. Joel could feel water flowing from her hand to his. At least, he hoped it was water. She wore a mixed look of anger, fright and desperation. Joel threw her hand away, and continued to the nearest tavern. The crowd followed him to the door. He quickly leapt the steps and jumped inside.