Author's Note: Self-inserts are typically seen as pointless and self-indulgent. I want to reverse that trend and try to make myself nuanced and believable as a character. TLOU seems like a good setting for that.
Everyone's name except mine has been changed to protect their privacy.
OUTBREAK DAY SELF-INSERT: A LAST OF US STORY
Chapter 1 - Don't Open The Door
29 September 2013 - Davis, California
"STEVEN! HELP!"
My eyes widen in horror as the terrifying news reports I had seen over the last week come to life in front of me in dramatic fashion.
My roommate is being chased down the hall by two of the sick. There is nobody else left in the residential hall; everyone else has gone home, been killed, or…
NO!
I recognize one of the sick. She lived down the hall from me.
"STEVEN! KEEP THE DOOR OPEN!"
This is the moment I replay in my head for years, awake and in my dreams: Alvin, my roommate, running towards the door as fast as he can. The crazed sick chasing after him, gaining on him. His shoelace coming undone. Him tripping. A final wail of agony before the sick rip him apart.
The scene is burned into my brain because I stare for longer than I should have. Long enough for the sick to notice me.
I close the door just in time. And still, they pound relentlessly on the other side for over an hour while I silently thanked the universe (DEFINITELY still an atheist after this) for making college dorm room doors so thick.
-odsi-
It has been two weeks, and I am sick of soda and snacks.
It was all that was in my room when I closed the door. But I cannot open it. The power went out yesterday; the Internet two days before that. But both were on long enough for me to identify the deadly danger outside of my door:
Spores.
Opening the door would turn me into a sick - or Infected, as they had been called in the last news article I read on the Internet. But the food was running out - I had enough for two days, and even then I would be hungry.
So what to do?
-odsi-
The bedsheets have been made into a rope. I am on the third floor up - the thought reminds me of my online British acquaintances, and how I would be on the second floor up on the other side of the pond. I try not to think about their crazed infected eyes or mutilated bodies, but it is hard.
But I can't worry about that right now. Instead, I worry about a clip from a 9/11 documentary that now plays in my head on a loop: a businessman making a rope out of clothes to scale down the World Trade Center. Him slipping. Losing his grip. Splat.
At least the fall is shorter for me. I make it down one window before I slip, lose my grip, and break my ankle on the fall.
My tortured scream draws the attention of two infected. They immediately run towards me. I have no weapon - neither knife nor gun. This is the end.
Or not.
Chapter 2 - Awake to Emptiness
Author's Note: Chapter title is taken from The Years of Rice and Salt.
Two weeks later…
"How's your leg, Steven?"
"Getting better."
"Good to hear. Man, you are SO lucky I was right there when those runners came charging."
"Yeah, you've said that already."
"It bears repeating!"
We are at the top of Sproul Hall, the nine-story building that towers over UC Davis - and indeed, all of Yolo County. My savior, a medical student named Maya, set my leg and helped me up the nine flights of stairs to what she calls her "Nest". It is defensible. Safe. There are many books to read.
I have not seen any non-infected but her. In my dreams, I see only two things: Alvin, ripped apart by the infected. And my campus.
My campus. Bodies littered everywhere, some I recognize and almost all in various states of decomposition and/or dismemberment (my RA, barely recognizable with half of his face torn off). Graffiti: "THE END HAS COME". And most of all, the stench.
The unbearable, poisonous stench.
"You should try to read something," she says for the fifth time.
"I can't." Also the fifth time.
"Then maybe we could-"
"No."
"Right, sorry, I forgot you already turned me down."
She didn't forget, but I will not change my mind. I am autistic. Sex repulses me, or perhaps simply scares me. No matter. I am determined for Maya and I not to pair up as we would in a movie. Now is not the time to open myself up. The world is over. Vulnerability is dangerous.
"So," she says conversationally, "freshman, huh?"
"Yes," I reply. She already knows this.
"Hell of a first year, isn't it?"
"Haven't really thought about that. None of this feels real."
"Well, it is. And you better get used to it, because I don't think things are going to get better."
No, they won't.
Chapter 3 - Bandits
2 months later…
"Kind of morbid reading, don't you think?"
I put down my copy of I Am Legend, slightly annoyed. "I thought you'd be happy that I was reading."
"Well, it's better than staring off into space but…I Am Legend? Delusions of grandeur, much?"
Maya smiles, and I laugh. Our friendship has become ironclad over the last few months. Even without romance, our bond is unbreakable.
"I don't think I'm Robert Neville," I explain. "And I'm 99% sure those animals aren't like the vampires. But…well…kind of reminds me of our situation, you know?" I paused. "I guess we're higher up, though."
She was silent for a moment, and changed the subject when she spoke. "We need more supplies."
I frown. "Maya, we can't go out there."
"We have to. We'll starve if we don't."
She has brought this up before, but her tone seems resolute. Determined.
I sigh and get up.
-odsi-
"Jesus, the town is even worse." She shakes her head.
I take a long whiff of the putridness. "Think it's the rotten food. There's lots more of it downtown because of all the-"
"Shh! There's one over there."
We crouch down behind the nearest available car. We are on G Street, near the Illusions Smoke Shop that I would have been a frequent patron of in another lifetime.
"Want to try your knife-throwing skills, Steven?" It is more of a statement than a question. I respond accordingly.
WHOOSH!
The knife hits the runner square in the back of the neck. It falls, twitches for a moment, and then it is as still as the bodies it had feasted on.
"Nice work," she complimented. "Move up."
We cautiously moved forward. The Stench (capital letters in my mind) becomes more powerful as we make our way past Woodstock's and the G Street Wunderbar. The windows on both are shattered, and the smell of the bodies and rotten food mix together as Maya said they did when she had made that scouting trip to the dining hall a few weeks ago.
I am repulsed by the thought that I will have to get used to this. But my thoughts are stopped when two men appear from behind a car.
"Well, well, well." He viciously grins. Both of them have guns. Only Maya has a gun. I have, quite literally, brought a knife to a gun fight.
"Out of our way, assholes." Her voice betrays no fear. I am impressed.
"Sure thing - as soon as you give us your s-"
Another moment replayed:
She shoots the man before he can complete the sentence. The other one quickly shoots her in the gut in retaliation just before my knife makes contact with his head. Horror. Holding Maya in my arms for moments before she demands I shoot her in the head. A simple grave, dug in the nearby ditch next to the train tracks.
For a day I wait in the smoke shop. I'm not sure what I am waiting for. But, somehow, a large military truck labeled "FEDRA" rolls into town.
I flag it down, and my life in the Sacramento Quarantine Zone begins.
Chapter 4 - Sacramento
Sacramento feels crowded and broken. Even though only twenty thousand souls inhabit a fraction of a city that had once held half a million - the tiny remnant of it neatly bisected by 29th St - I am still left with the overwhelming impression that far too many people call this dystopian wreck home.
It has only been a few months, but already all the shops have been looted and boarded up. Trash fires serve as open-air ovens and bring with them a smell as foul as the bodies, their existence a direct result of the refuse overflowing from neglected cans. Every person bearing the same appearance a homeless person might have five months ago. And always, from above and below, FEDRA soldiers patrol the Zone with watchful eyes.
This is the open-air slum that is the Sacramento Quarantine Zone.
I look down at the small card I had been given to identify myself. The face staring back at me is haggard, unshaven. Weary. "STEVEN VEACH, 19. OCCUPATION: FIELD HAND."
I would find out what that was tomorrow. For now, I would make my way to my J Street "apartment," a converted hair salon.
-odsi-
In the nights, I read books. Perhaps in memory of Maya, perhaps to keep the demonic nightmares away. Probably a combination of both.
Cloud Atlas sticks with the the longest, perhaps because I had seen the movie last year. I lose myself in the nested stories. More than once, I am struck by the morbid thought that the post-apocalypse depicted in Sloosha's Crossin' would be preferable to our own.
But most of all, I think of the liberating escapism of books. Movies are gone. Television is gone. Video games are gone. But books? The electronic ones vanished, but these physical ones remained. I scoff at the memory of my arrogant high school self who dismissed paper books as "obsolete". I cringe when I remember I once wrote a blog titled The Death of Printed Media.
Printed media is all that survives in the dark reality we now inhabit. I cherish it accordingly.
Chapter 5 - Field Hand
The agricultural fields are harsh, but opportunity quickly arises.
For the first few days I am focused on learning the tasks: tending to the crops, harvesting them before the winter sets in (the Outbreak had bad timing), and so on. I quickly notice the expectant looks on the faces of my fellow hair salon-dwellers, followed quickly by disappointment due to my failure of some unforeseen test.
Before long one of my Field Hand friends lets me in on the secret:
"All of us grow pot on the side. FEDRA turns a blind eye because the soldiers like to smoke it off duty. They can't exactly enforce federal law anymore. Frankly, Steven, you'd be an idiot not to grow it and sell it to your neighborhood. Just make sure you give the Feds their cut."
Thus my life as a field hand, pothead and drug dealer of Sacramento began.
-odsi-
2 years later…
My first tattoo:
Two knives, crossed. The words "SACRAMENTO QUARANTINE ZONE" on top. The unofficial Zone motto, "WE FUCKING SURVIVED," on the bottom.
It will always be my favorite ink.
1 year later…
FIELD HAND: Steven, have you heard about what the feds are saying?
STEVEN: No…?
FIELD HAND: They're talking about abandoning the zone.
[terror.]
STEVEN: What…? Why would…?
FIELD HAND: Rumor on the street is that we're not pulling our weight anymore. Too many mouths to feed here and in San Francisco. They're going to convert the whole zone into agricultural. Supposedly they're going to evacuate us to San Francisco, but…
STEVEN: They won't.
[flee.]
Chapter 6 - Sleep Train Arena
The tragedy of the Sacramento Kings:
The basketball team arrives in the city in 1985 to great fanfare. At long last they receive glory with the Greatest Show on Court, only to be felled by poor officiating in the 2002 Western Conference Finals. Facing year after year of mediocrity, the owners of the franchise decide to sell the team to owners based in Seattle, hoping to give the latter a team again (and pocket cash for themselves) following the tragic departure of the Sonics. At the last minute, Commissioner David Stern intervenes and the team is kept. In 2013, the Kings are saved from relocation.
Then the cordyceps arrives, and the NBA dies shortly thereafter.
I think about this cruel twist of fate as I sit in the broken down remains of Sleep Train Arena. FEDRA had long ago cannibalized it for materials, leaving a hollow shell that had been permanently exposed to the elements. Yet it was this hollow shell that formed Sleepville, a peaceful settlement which I now find myself living in.
FEDRA had, as expected, abandoned the Zone and all of its residents. Most had died of infected or the anarchy that followed the government's departure. But a few had made it here. And even fewer of the more perceptive, such as myself, had made it here before the withdrawal.
It does not matter now. This is my community. I must embrace it.
-odsi-
1 year later…
Alcohol is poison.
I think that to myself as I leave Sleepville for the last time, the glares of the townsfolk clearly felt on the back of my neck. It doesn't matter that I don't drink, nor that Nathan is a notorious abuser. The latter is more charismatic than me, so I was accused of the rape I did not commit. Without evidence they could not kill me, so they settle for exile.
Into this world.
-odsi-
Against all odds, I am alive a month later. I have decided to move North. Why, I do not know. I am now in Crescent City, near the Oregon border. For some reason, I feel compelled to go further.
Perhaps because it is far away from the failure of Sacramento and the betrayal of Sleepville.
Chapter 7 - Survival
7 months later…
"PLEASE DON-"
The protests of the man who fell into my trap are neatly cut off by the bullet I shoot into his skull.
I try not to think about my mother. She is dead by now, unless she had the unbelievably good luck of reaching the mythical Jackson, which seems unlikely to me. Though it pains me to admit it, I am glad she is not here. I am also glad I am an atheist - indeed, perhaps I must be an atheist. I cannot bear the thought of her seeing the person I have become from an afterlife.
This is regret, not guilt. Regret over what circumstances have forced me to do. Not guilt, because circumstances left me no choice.
Yet there are still lines I won't cross. I think of them as the young girl stares wide-eyed at her dead father.
"Leave," I say. "Now, or you're dead!"
The little girl runs away, no doubt replaying this moment in her dreams for the remainder of her life. Such is our world.
-odsi-
"So," the FEDRA officer says neutrally, "why should we let you into the Seattle Quarantine Zone?"
"I can be a good soldier."
I don't know why those words come out of my mouth. I never wanted to join the military. My father was a Marine, and not even the apocalypse has softened by hatred of him. But for some reason, my instincts say it is a good idea.
"That so?" The officer arched an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"
"Simple, sir. I can fight, I can survive, and I can take orders. I made it up here after Sacramento collapsed."
"No shit? Well, I suppose it's worth a shot. I'll get the paperwork in a minute."
He held out his hand. "Welcome to the Federal Disaster Response Agency, Mr. Veach."
I shook it. "Thank you, sir."
Chapter 8 - Seattle
FEDRA OFFICER: What's going on, Private?
STEVEN: Sir, I wanted to be discreet about this, but…well, I saw two soldiers raping a civilian.
FEDRA OFFICER: And?
[shock.]
STEVEN: And…it's a rape, sir.
FEDRA OFFICER: These are messy times, private. We do what we need to to maintain order in the Zone.
STEVEN: I…with all due respect, sir, how does RAPE maintain order?
FEDRA OFFICER: By keeping our troops happy. We can't pay them, and we can only make the accommodations so luxurious. This is a necessary part of our job, private. Don't like it? Feel free to leave the Zone.
[pause.]
FEDRA OFFICER: Understood, private?
STEVEN: Yes, sir.
7 years later…
FEDRA OFFICER: Steven, this is the last time I am going to tell you this: Drop. It.
STEVEN: But-
FEDRA OFFICER: That is an ORDER, corporal! We do what is necessary to maintain order in the Zone. And if I hear another word out of your mouth about our methods, I'm going to have you court-martialed for treason. Understood?
"Understood."
"Good. Back to work, now."
-odsi-
I stare at the graffiti in front of my apartment. "PIG" in giant letters. "FUCK FEDRA" directly beneath it. I scowl. But I also think about it. Seattle is not pleasant if you are not one of us.
Before I can contemplate this further, I am grabbed from behind and chloroform is forced onto my face.
Chapter 9 - Wolves
The hoodie is itchy and uncomfortable. Intellectually I understand it is necessary; you didn't kidnap a FEDRA soldier and then let him know where your headquarters was. But it is still irritating.
At length it is finally removed and I am sat upright. I find myself staring at an older black man whom I instinctually know has the air of a leader. I make a guess that the white man with graying hair standing next to him is his right-hand man.
"Do you know why you're here?" The black man asks.
I shake my head.
"You do, you just don't know it for certain yet." His eyes narrow. "You won't get our names. You haven't earned them yet. But you're here because you're a FEDRA soldier that hates FEDRA. Aren't you?"
"What?" I try my best to sound offended. "How could-"
"Shut up," the gray-haired man interrupts. "We've been watching you. Bribed a few soldiers to learn about you. You want FEDRA gone just like we do and you regret joining the wrong team."
The gray-haired man pauses.
"So how would you like to be a mole?"
I consider the question, long and hard.
-odsi-
5 years later…
"FUCK FEDRA! WE'RE THE WOLVES!"
I enthusiastically sing the final lyrics to our fight song as the last bus makes its way to the Stadium, which I happen to be on.
The civilians are wary. They are being taken from the safety of the quarantine zone into an uncertain future in the Stadium. But I have heard of Isaac's plan, and I am confident in its success.
Today is a new day for Seattle.
Epilogue: Ellie
Present Day (2038)
Steven loved sniping from the Monorail. The Scars usually figured out where he was before long, but he always made it down in-
"Veach? You there?"
I pick up the radio. "Yup."
"We've got a situation down by the old arcade. Really tough trespasser. Think you can handle it?"
"Of course!"
-odsi-
He couldn't, obviously. Ellie is the protagonist, and Steven is merely a background soldier. He has no chance.
Thus when he surprised Ellie shortly after she had defeated the Arcade Room Bloater, they struggled for a few moments before the knife landed in his throat just as it did Jordan's. The final words he heard were the same ones Jordan did: "GOT YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!"
Thus Steven Veach ended his life as one of the many redshirts killed by Ellie in her relentless quest for revenge.
