The Last Of Us: Summon, Scavenge, Survive

It was supposed to be a quiet maintenance check.

Late evening, just after lights-out across most of the QZ perimeter. Lia had headed home an hour ago. Joe was somewhere aboveground, probably charming a guard out of his shift schedule with half-finished lies and pocket-warmed smokes all the while probably pocketing, their unattended ration bar. While Rusty and the rest were sorting tools or already asleep, the kind of restless, half-alert sleep you only get underground. In Donnys case, the usual.

I'd come to the warehouse again, same as I always did. Routine. Boring. Safe.

Or so I thought.

I was leaning against a support beam near the western wall in the left room that we barely touched, also the one with the worst insulation half-listening to the distant hum of solar inverters and the rhythmic click of Marta reassembling something sharp. The generator buzzed once and settled back into silence.

Then I heard it.

Voices.

Muffled, low, and wrong. From outside.

Nani the fuck?

Not from the tunnel side, thankfully but a bit ahead of me, the place where the old freight wall caved in months ago, buried under debris and concrete slabs like the world had tried to swallow it whole.

I froze.

They were faint, like a wind carrying words half-spoken.

"…don't think it's open."

"No, I heard it. Just a second ago. Like metal moving."

"Joel," the woman's voice said — sharp, hushed. "Don't go poking if we don't know what's on the other side."

Joel. It cant be the big bad daddy with daughter problems, he isn't here.

That name wasn't exactly common. And in Boston? Combined with the tone, dry, gravelly, and utterly exhausted it clicked into place like a long-forgotten jigsaw piece. The rumors Lia had mentioned, the conversations my parents had months ago about some smugglers. The names I'd heard whispered in smuggler circles.

Joel.

And the woman must've been Tess. Or someone just as dangerous.

I crouched low, back pressed to the wall, listening hard. The voices stayed near the collapsed side for a few minutes, discussing angles, exits, whatever they thought might be beyond.

But they never found a breach. Never even got close.

The thick cement and twisted rebar still did its job, a shield I hadn't even earned. A fluke of luck and old-world decay.

Still, I didn't move until the sound of their footsteps finally faded. Even then, I stayed low and basically ninja frog walked to the other side of the room, making no sound.

Tasha stirred on her cot, eyes briefly opening and locking on mine from across the dim glow of the power box. She said nothing. Just smiled in that too-wide way of hers, like she'd been awake the whole time.

Fuck is she looking at, dont tell me she knew someone was poking around and didint tell me?

Later at home I didn't sleep much that night.

I started sketching a new fallback plan in my notebook, the one with yellowed pages and a metal gear solid sticker. A tunnel route, a fake exit, a cache point.Because if people like them were sniffing around...

Then eventually, someone else would get through.

The next morning, I wasn't even halfway through faking attention in school when the full weight of the night before finally hit me.

Joel.

THE motherfucking, gunslinging, infected head bashing Joel. And he had been outside. Real. Breathing. Close enough that I could've thrown a rock and probably annoyed him. 

And he hadn't gotten in.

That was the part that stuck with me. Not that someone came poking, I figured someone eventually would. But that someone like him, the kind of whispered-name scavenger had a reputation for never showing up on anyone's radar unless it mattered, even he couldn't find a way inside.

He heard something, though. They both did. And if they did, others could too.

I needed a fallback plan.

Not a trap, I couldn't exactly wire up landmines or build spike pits, even if I wanted to. I didn't have access to the outside part of the collapse, not without exposing myself. The warehouse wasn't inside the QZ, just barely nestled beyond its official reach, a crumpled old cargo depot lost in the cracks between forgotten sectors.

But I could redirect. Prepare. Reinforce

By nightfall, I was at the warehouse chalk in hand, crouched near one of the old foundation columns. I sketched the map from memory, using the reinforced support beams as anchors.

Then I made a fake route, a false wall. It wasn't real yet, just an idea.

A side tunnel that led to a bricked-in dead end.

I could make it look like a path worth trying, hang some rags, maybe half-open a sealed crate nearby, scatter a trail of broken supplies. If someone came through from the outside, that would be their first guess.

And if I had time before that happened, maybe I could dig just enough to reinforce it. Or bury something in there that looked like "all there is." A smuggler's stash. Something valuable and fake. Just enough to make them think they got what they came for, and leave.

Tasha wandered by while I was working, twirling a bolt between her fingers.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Backup."

She didn't press.

Good.

Rusty caught on later. Came to stand behind me as I dragged a crate slightly to the left to hide part of the tunnel entrance. He said nothing at first, then grunted.

"Someone sniffing around?"

I nodded.

"Smart to prepare," he muttered. "Dumb to wait."

I raised an eyebrow. "Not planning to wait. Just not planning to die over a hallway either."

That got the faintest smirk from him, or maybe it was just his face relaxing from its usual grimace.

By the end of the night, I'd set up the bare bones. Moved some debris. Piled fake supplies. Left it looking messy, abandoned, but worth something.

It wasn't perfect. But it was enough.

Enough to make someone like Joel think they just missed the party.

And enough to buy me time when the real guests showed up.

Lia showed up two days later, dragging a crate lid behind her like it owed her money. She dropped it near the supply wall, kicked the dust off her shoes, and squinted at me through the grimy warehouse light.

"You hear it yet?" she asked.

I blinked. "You realise how little it narrows it down? I have working ears you know? You'll have to narrow that down. I hear a lot of things in this rat cathedral."

She didn't smile. Not even close.

"There's a rumour. Couple of smugglers notables, tried to break into a collapsed FEDRA depot near the western part of the outer ring. Couldn't get in. Word's spreading."

That sentence settled in my chest like wet cement.

As Yoda once said. Fucked I am, horrible this is. Yes.

I straightened up from the box I was sorting. "Who's talking about it?"

"Dockside runners. One of Hector's old contacts. Says the place was quiet for years, then suddenly someone heard movement inside. Clanks, voices. Sounded occupied."

Well at least I know this is an old FEDRA depot.

I kept my face still.

"Did they describe it?"

She nodded. "Collapsed front. Bent loading gate. Some patchwork solar strips on the roof."

I stared at her.

"Cal."

"Yeah?"

"That's this place."

No fucking, I realised that.

"Anything else?" I asked, voice smooth and calm, or as smooth and calm I could make it.

She hesitated. "Not much. Just that whoever was there didn't come out to greet the visitors. No signs of life. But something was alive in there. And they couldn't find a way in. Gate was sealed. No side access, too high for ladders to reach the small windows"

I exhaled through my nose.

I wanna go to bed and never crawl out of it.

She crossed her arms. "You think it's them?"

"I know it's them."

Lia tilted her head, eyes narrowing.

"Who?"

I considered lying. Then didn't bother.

"Joel," I said quietly. "And the woman with him."

Her expression didn't change. Not fear. Not awe. But a flicker of recognition followed by calculation, like someone moving a puzzle piece in her head.

"You're sure?"

"I heard them. Through the wall. He didn't sound like a scav. He sounded tired. Smart. Familiar. Old as fuck with that cowboy Texas accent"

I hope he looks like in the game and not Pedro 'Anxiety Touching' Pascal. Like don't get me wrong, loved the guy in GoT, but as Joel he's like 6/10.

If Ellie is Bella Ramsey I am locking her in with whatever is behind the welded door.

That was all I needed to say.

Lia leaned against the nearest stack of crate planks. "That's not a problem yet," she said slowly. "But it could be. If they come back."

"They will," I said. "Curiosity's a disease. Smugglers never really let things go."

She nodded. "So. You want me to spread a counter-rumor? That someone already looted the place? Or it collapsed more? Filled with infected?"

I paused. Then shook my head. "Not yet. Let it breathe. See who else is watching."

Lia clicked her tongue thoughtfully, the way she always did when filing mental risks into neat little columns.

"You think they're dangerous?"

I thought about the calm in Joel's voice. The lack of panic. The way he knew someone was inside without needing proof.

"I think they're competent," I said. "And that's worse."

Lia didn't argue. Instead, she pulled out her notebook, the small one she used for things she didn't trust to memory, and jotted down two names she hadn't written before.

One underlined.

A silent acknowledgment: this warehouse wasn't a secret anymore.

Just a mystery waiting for someone to solve.

Lia didn't waste time.

By the next morning, she was already working the outer trade ring, blending into the chatter of ration traders, caravan runners, and the kind of sketchy barterers who always seemed to know things before anyone else admitted they'd happened.

We met near the eastern tram depot ruins. A place no one really loitered unless they were either bored, stupid, or meeting someone with information. Lia, of course, was none of those she waited, crouched by a burnt-out ration kiosk with her notebook in one hand and a half-eaten food bar in the other.

"Three sources," she said before I could even ask. "One of them solid. Other two are drunk half the time, but consistent."

I sat down beside her and leaned back like we were just another pair of kids skipping assigned maintenance duty. "What do they know?"

She tore a corner off the food bar and kept talking. "They've heard about a depot, off-grid, full of locked crates. Said two smugglers came up from the docks about a week ago. Got pointed that way by some old scavenger route passed around in whispers. Claimed it had 'deep storage potential.' Whatever that means."

"That means us," I muttered.

Lia nodded. "Probably. Apparently, these smugglers tried to get in. Front gate looked sealed. Roof was unstable. One of the pair, tall guy, quiet circled it twice. Said he 'felt eyes.'"

I didn't react. But yeah. That tracked.

"And they couldn't find a side entrance?"

"None. The place is sealed good. Which is probably the only reason you're not dead or displaced right now."

"Great," I said. "We're not exposed, just… observed."

She pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket a sketch one of the drunks had given her. Childlike scribbles of a structure with a cracked overhang and what looked like solar strips.

It was close. Too close.

Lia flicked her eyes toward me. "You're going to need a longer-term plan."

"Already working on it," I said. "Got a fallback route mapped. If someone does break in, we lead them to the wrong section, stall them, or just evacuate fast. I even rigged a few crates to look emptied. I should probably make a plan where we point them towards the red crates, the one with safety mechanism that can probably kill or maim."

"Smart," she said, which coming from Lia was basically a standing ovation.

She stared down at the sketch again, then at me. "But this means more attention. You're not just hiding from FEDRA anymore. You're playing in the smugglers' backyard now."

"Let them look," I muttered. "As long as they don't find anything."

Lia folded the sketch and slid it into her coat.

"Either way," she said, "they'll come back. You know that, right?"

I did.

Of course I did.

"They always do."

Next day I was dragged into a FEDRA meeting, I didn't really get a choice.

It was one of those long, dragging mornings where my name was suddenly on a list I never agreed to be on, and next thing I knew, I was wearing a slightly-too-formal shirt, my hair forcibly tamed by my mother's comb of passive-aggressive discipline, and being marched down into the administrative zone of Boston QZ like a disgraced page boy heading to a kingdom-wide disappointment.

Apparently all mid to high tier officers and their families are to be briefed on the state of things.

Why their families as well? Probably because we are the ones who are most likely to be selected for officers when a new spot is open due to our familiarity with their work already and our on paper high loyalty.

Gotta love state enforced nepotism.

"Try not to fidget," my mother said, not unkindly, which meant she was in full FEDRA-mode and trying not to throttle me in public. "And no sarcastic comments."

"Define sarcastic," I said, which was apparently sarcastic and earned me a glare.

The room we were herded into was the old community performance hall, repurposed years ago into a semi-official 'Assembly Centre' for senior FEDRA briefings, interdepartmental briefings, and the occasional forced morale event. Rows of creaking chairs filled the floor, the old stage now draped in beige tarps with FEDRA logos and a single flickering digital banner at the back reading:

"STABILITY THROUGH UNITY – STATUS BRIEFING 38-B"

Catchy. What's next? Singing our national FEDRA song while doing questionable salutes?

I sat with my parents in the designated "Family Cohort Row" basically the kiddie pen for those of us lucky enough to have both parents still alive and employed. On my left, Mason — the smug jerk whose dad ran the whole QZ logistics, my dads boss who loved just shoving work on his workers and then claiming the credit.

The little shit stain was whispering something to another kid with gelled hair and a clipboard. On my right, my father just stared straight ahead, unmoving, like the chair had become an extension of his spine.

It was boring. So boring it looped around and became almost metaphysically interesting. Slides clicked through on the screen. Someone up front droned about rotating patrol coverage in Sector 9B. A discussion on water purification metrics got an entire paragraph, followed by another about paperwork delays on solar grid expansion.

Riveting.

Meanwhile, I used the time to plan. Mentally mapped out my fallback crates, calculated how many calories I could stretch if the next supply drop failed, thought through fake IDs and scavenger tags I might need to forge. I was halfway through mentally designing a second warehouse outpost (one day) when something changed.

A name popped on screen. A heading:

SUPPLY ROUTES – ROCKY MOUNTAIN LINE

The speaker, a tall, balding man in a captain's uniform, cleared his throat. "This next portion is for verified logistics staff and strategic partners only. However, in light of recent events, General Voss has approved limited transparency for personnel families."

My mother straightened slightly.

I leaned forward too.

"FEDRA's primary trade and supply line from the Rocky Mountain command base has seen a marked increase in disruptions," he said, clicking to a map showing three red Xs across a mountain stretch. "Over the last three months, six caravans were delayed. Four never arrived."

People shifted uncomfortably. Even Mason shut up for once, thank god for small mercies. 

"Raider activity," the captain continued. "Coordinated. We believe they're intercepting on both sides of the route, one group stalls, another ambushes. Our escort teams have begun implementing double-back protocols and signal jamming."

Someone toward the front raised a hand. "Are these the same raiders who hit Denver QZ?"

"That remains unconfirmed," the captain replied. "But similarities in ambush patterns suggest at least shared tactics, if not resources. We believe they are affiliated with the fireflies."

He then continued to drone on about plans, orders and everything else. Meanwhile I didn't move. Just memorized everything. Even in my seat, I was already thinking how this affected me, my trade lines, my contact windows. If the bigger caravans were getting hit, I had to assume anything moving on foot was even more at risk, even inside and around the QZ.

And more importantly, it meant that FEDRA main QZ command was nervous. Not about raiders, necessarily, but about looking weak in front of their own people.

Bad for them.

Interesting for me.

Some 15 minutes later the room got darker, not literally, but in that way where all the small talk and shuffling and eye-rolls dropped out at once. Like even the air stopped making noise.

It was the commander himself who walked out next. General Voss, the old man with shoulders still too broad for someone his age and a voice like sandpaper against concrete. He didn't use a mic. Didn't need to.

"This next part," he said, eyes scanning the crowd, "was not intended for this audience. But I think you all deserve to hear what sacrifice sounds like."

His words weren't theatrical. They were the kind that made people sit straighter.

He turned to one of the staff at the edge of the tarp stage and nodded. A static click followed, then a projection screen lowered with a whine that dragged on too long, like the machine wasn't quite sure it wanted to do this either.

The logo of FEDRA flashed for a second. Then, a black screen. The date: July 15th, 2027.

[TRANSMISSION LOG: AUDIO ONLY – RELAY NODE 4D]

A faint hiss. Then a man's voice. Tired. Slurred, like someone holding back pain with a clenched jaw.

"...repeat... this is Sergeant Calhoun... 7th reconnaissance unit. We diverted a horde... southwest quadrant... using flares... rigged fuel traps... didn't... took major casualties... Group of them. They... broke through... Bloaters!."

A pause.

In the silence, I swear you could feel the entire room clenching.

"I'm the last one. All others confirmed dead. Collins tried to hold the ridge. When they swarmed, he set off the charge manually."

His breath rattled through the speakers like it was leaking out of something torn.

"You tell command we did it. The horde is going away from Boston and, there was a supply convoy that attracted it initially. Some of it made it past, most critical supplies are safe. Mission completed. Don't let it be for nothing."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"And... if someone ever hears this, someone who knows Anna... my daughter. Please... tell her I'm sorry. I was gonna make it back this time. I really was."

A low, rasping breath. Then the unmistakable sound of a revolver being cocked.

"I ain't letting them get me. Not like this. Tell her I didn't scream."

A gunshot, followed by a thud.

End of transmission.

The screen blinked back to the FEDRA logo. The room stayed quiet, like even the chairs were too stunned to creak.

No one clapped. No one whispered.

General Merritt stepped forward again, not looking at the screen, just out at us.

"We sent in a recon to gather leftover supplies and burry the dead, in the distance they spotted a horde at least 5 thousand strong with bloaters and some mutations. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we're up against. Not just infection. Not just raids. But the truth of what it costs to hold the line. Those men and women didn't hesitate. Neither can we."

He stepped down. And just like that, the lights brightened by a few notches and the hum of the old projector system died. The illusion of control tried to crawl back in.

But it didn't work.

I saw a lot of kids suddenly not fidgeting anymore, some of the younger one on the verge of tears. Even Mason had his mouth shut.

I just sat there, jaw set, heartbeat somewhere between furious and afraid. Because the man on that recording didn't beg. He didn't scream.

And still, it felt like the kind of thing that echoed louder than any speech ever could.

By the time the assembly ended, I was running cold behind the eyes. The kind of tired that doesn't come from work, but from thinking too much in too short a time.

The gunshot still echoed in my head.

We were ushered out of the meeting hall with the same dull efficiency FEDRA always managed. Officers lined the walls, nodding politely, watching for signs of disorder. Parents resumed small talk, kids started whispering again, and the mood tried to crawl back to something resembling normal. It didn't work.

I walked beside my parents in silence. Dad said nothing. Mom gave me one of her usual side-glances, the kind that meant "I saw you watching. I know you're thinking something" but didn't comment. Not here.

Later, back home, I sat stiff-backed at the small dining table while my parents stood by the radio unit. It was one of the older models, thick with knobs and sputtering static in short, rhythmic bursts. Mom monitored it during off hours like a hawk guarding its eggs. Right now, she was tuning in to background frequencies, listening for encrypted pings or border transmissions.

Dad, arms crossed, leaned against the kitchen frame. His uniform still creased from the day's meeting.

"It's not just the Rocky Mountain route," he said finally. "Midwestern lines are quiet. No one's heard from the Indianapolis QZ in a week."

"That doesn't mean it's gone," Elena replied sharply.

"It means supply caravans are hesitating. And if they hesitate, we get half rations next quarter."

She didn't argue. That silence was the argument.

I stayed quiet. Pretending to be doing math homework I never intended to finish.

Mom clicked the dial one more notch and finally gave up with a sigh, powering the radio down. "I'll report in later. Let the admin office hear it from us first. Better that than letting rumours start in the ranks."

"I already heard worse on the rations floor," Dad muttered. "People talking about new groups forming outside the walls. Scavenger bands consolidating. Even heard someone say Fireflies might be recruiting again."

Elena looked over sharply. "From where?"

"Doesn't matter. The point is, they're saying it."

Mom then looked at me, meaningfully. "Be careful who you trust, Cal."

I blinked at that. It wasn't her usual style. Not vague like that. Not... worried.

Then I remembered what Lia said yesterday.

That some notable smugglers found a collapsed warehouse. Couldn't get inside.

Notable.

As in people with names.

People like Joel.

And suddenly, the circle closed a little tighter.

If they found the warehouse but couldn't enter... how long until they tried again? Or told someone else?

And what if they weren't the only ones who knew?

I excused myself, left the apartment, and climbed up the emergency fire ladder to the roof of our building.

The city looked calm. It always did from up here. Smoke from fires in the outer zones drifted lazily in the sky. The old skyscrapers leaned like quiet sentinels, and the walls of the QZ cut across the landscape like concrete scars.

I could feel something pressing down on it all.

The system pinged quietly at the edge of my vision.

[Notice: Inventory reaching capacity – Crate Backlog: High]

No kidding.

I'd need to do something soon. But with whispers of raiders, Fireflies, and worse scraping at the edges of Boston... I might need something else, too.

Protection.

Real protection.

FEDRA was ruthless, but they were also predictable. If I played it smart... maybe they could become a shield, one I didn't have to believe in, just use.

But that meant giving them first pick of my best trade goods. Ammo. Meds. High-demand salvage. No more even split with Fireflies or independents.

And if I made that choice... there was no going back.

My eyes drifted to the lights in the distance. I didn't know if Joel was still out there. Or what Tess was planning. Or whether the whispers about Firefly resurgence were real.

But I did know this:

They were all circling the same dying world.

And I had something they didn't.

A system.

A base.

A secret.

And soon... a decision.

That night, back in my own room small, safe, forgettable with that god damn hello kitty poster still stuck, whenever I try to get it off or scrape it the wall breaks even more so I just gave up.

No summons. No crates. No weapons drawn or whispers through the walls.

Just quiet. Real, dangerous quiet.

The kind that comes before things change.

I turned onto my side and let my mind wander, as it always did after too much reality.

FEDRA's assembly played on loop behind my eyes. The QZ Commander's voice, stiff, controlled declaring the Rocky Mountain supply lines under threat. The revelation that even the best-defended convoys were getting torn up by raiders or worse. That a horde had been diverted, barely with the last known soldier's voice ending in an apology and a gunshot. A transmission soaked in guilt and silence.

It all painted the same picture.

Boston QZ was stable. But only just.

And that meant opportunity.

If FEDRA was cracking down on outer patrols, if Firefly cells were sniffing around again, and if Joel and Tess or whoever the hell they were were out scouting collapsed warehouses...

Then it was only a matter of time before someone figured out what I had going.

I'd already started threading the needle. Fake front, neutral trade contact, supply runs by proxy. But that could only hold for so long.

So, maybe... it was time to make a deal.

Not with the Fireflies. Too unstable, too righteous.

But FEDRA?

They were a machine. Ugly, slow, brutal but predictable. If I gave them consistent salvage, good trade, and loyalty painted just well enough to seem real... they'd look the other way. Maybe even protect the areas near my warehouse. Let patrols shift just far enough to give me more breathing room.

But it would come at a cost.

Priority trade meant priority goods.

Rations, meds, ammo they'd want it first. No sharing with other factions. No playing both sides unless I did it through triple-blind intermediaries.

The system wouldn't care.

But I would.

It meant giving up independence in exchange for safety. Trading leverage for legitimacy.

Could I live with that?

Yeah. I could. I already lied to everyone else in my life family, friends, summons what was one more silent compromise?

But it had to be slow. Calculated. I'd need to test their appetite first. One good delivery. One test run with my contact, routed to the right FEDRA hand. See how they react. If they bite, we move forward. If not... well, I'd still have the Fireflies as a fallback. They didn't care who you were, only what you had.

A soft ping interrupted the spiral of thoughts.

[Reminder: New Quest Available – "Build the Network"]

Objective: Establish at least one consistent, secure, and concealed trade route.

Reward: Unlock Strategic Upgrade Path

I smiled, just a little.

Even the system was nudging me toward it now.

Maybe it knew what I was about to do.

Or maybe... it was just adapting to the monster I was becoming.

Either way the network was coming.

One deal at a time.