"This is the sixth one…" Sergey muttered, pushing another infected body away from himself.
The corpse hit the asphalt with a dull thud. The sun was already sinking toward the horizon, painting the streets in dirty orange tones. Shadows stretched longer, and the city slowly drowned in twilight.
A little more — and night would fall.
Sergey wiped the blood from his hands with a rag and looked around. He needed shelter for the night. His eyes caught on a two-story private house with peeling paint and an overgrown yard.
"This should do."
He opened the door and froze in the doorway, listening. Silence. No footsteps, no rasping breath, no clicking sounds. He stepped inside, locked the door, and slid the bolt into place.
Safety first.
He methodically checked the first floor, closing all the curtains, then moved upstairs. Rooms, closets, bathroom — empty. Only dust, mold, and the stale smell of abandonment.
Satisfied that the house was clear, Sergey went to the kitchen.
The refrigerator opened with a pitiful creak. Inside was nothing but a rotting, blackened mass that had once been fruits and vegetables.
"Yeah… even a mouse would hang itself in here."
He shut the fridge and started checking the cabinets. Dishes, old spices. He took the spices — might come in handy, though he wasn't sure if they even spoiled over time.
Then he paused.
"Whoa… honey. Last time I had this was about three years ago."
A small jar went into his backpack. That was it. No canned food. No weapons. No ammo.
"And where's that stereotype about every American owning a gun?" he snorted. "I'm not seeing it."
He checked the garage. A blue pickup truck stood there, buried under a thick layer of dust. Sergey opened the hood and looked inside.
"Fweet… yeah, that's bad. Even worse than my old 'seven'."
Memories surfaced — his first car, constantly breaking down, draining his nerves and money. How he tried to fix it himself, failed to sell it, and eventually scrapped it for metal. The only upside was learning how engines worked.
"I'm not dealing with this," he said, closing the hood. "Too much time. Maybe I'll find something better later."
Back upstairs, he entered the bedroom, closed the door, dropped his backpack, and collapsed onto the wide bed. The mattress was surprisingly soft.
He stared at the ceiling, covered in mold stains.
He hadn't spoken to anyone for months. And now, the loneliness weighed heavily on him.
I hope I meet people soon…
With that thought, he fell asleep.
Morning
Sergey woke to light. Sun rays filtered through the window, filling the room with pale warmth.
"Morning…" he yawned, sitting up.
Breakfast first.
He took out his gas burner, went to the kitchen for a kettle, rinsed it, and filled it with water. While it heated, he glanced at an empty bottle.
Water supplies were running low. No plumbing worked anymore. Only his flask remained.
I need to find people… or a new water source. Fast.
The kettle whistled. Sergey turned off the burner, poured boiling water into an aluminum mug, made coffee with sugar, and let it cool. Breakfast was simple — crackers and the last of the jam.
After eating, he checked his weapons and left the house.
Lighting a cigarette, he walked calmly down the street, scanning the buildings. The streets were empty.
On a brick wall, he noticed a mural — a mature woman with closed eyes, as if praying. Beneath it were the words:
"Feel Her Love."
Sergey frowned.
"Wait a second…"
He recognized that symbol.
"Seraphites… or 'Scars,' as the The Last of Us Part II factions call them."
According to rumors, they had settled in Seattle and on the nearby island.
"So that's where I am."
"I'm not joining either side," he muttered. "I've had enough fanatics in my previous world."
A thought came naturally.
The aquarium.
If this was the right time period, he could meet Owen, Mel, and Abby there. Better company than wandering alone.
A goal was set. Now he just needed a map… or a guide.
He crushed the cigarette under his boot and was about to move on when he spotted an infected standing with its back to him.
He drew his knife, crouched, and moved silently. A sudden grab — arm around the neck, blade at the throat. The infected thrashed and wheezed, trying to bite.
Sergey tightened his grip and slowly dragged the blade across its throat.
Blood dripped onto the asphalt.
The body went limp.
"Easy," he said lazily, pushing the corpse aside. "This world doesn't seem that dangerous."
And then—
"Khhyaa!!"
He spun around.
Behind a store window stood an infected, eyes bloodshot. It slammed its hands against the glass again and again.
Cracks spread.
A sharp crash.
The glass shattered, and the infected charged.
"Shit!"
Sergey drew his suppressed PM.
Shot.
Shot.
The bullets shattered the skull. The body collapsed just a few meters away.
Then he heard it.
Noise.
A lot of noise.
Shouts. Footsteps. Breaking glass.
Sergey began backing away.
From a nearby building, two shamblers emerged, twitching as they moved toward him.
And then—
from alleys, doorways, shadows—
a horde of runners.
More and more of them.
"Fuck…" he breathed and turned, sprinting forward.
I'm such an idiot.
Why did I open my mouth?!
Memories of the Zone flashed through his mind — every time he relaxed, everything went to hell.
Worst case — rifle and a grenade…
A roar ahead.
A runner.
Sergey stopped for a split second and fired twice. The body dropped. He leapt over it and kept running.
There were too many.
"Hey! This way!" someone shouted from the side.
He saw a bearded man waving him over from an alley. Without hesitation, Sergey changed direction and ran toward him.
The man slipped behind a chain-link gate. Sergey followed. The gate slammed shut, the bolt slid into place, and a trash container was shoved against it.
"Questions later," the man said, quickly scanning Sergey's gear. "First, we lose them."
He turned and moved deeper inside.
Sergey stared coldly at his back and followed.
Something tells me this guy is trouble…