The First Of Us | TLOU Prequel

Chapter One

The world tried to cleanse us so many times; a deep freeze, the age of ice. A flea riding on the back of a rat, the plague. A virus, mutated to infect humans, the Spanish Flu. Volcanic eruption and tidal swells and drought and famine and howling wind to rip us apart. It had tried so many times to shed it's polluted skin of the scabs which formed upon it, farming it's nutrients, drilling it's reserves, mining it's land. For upon this earth the true parasites are not the snakes which burrow holes in the ground and hold poison in their fangs, it is not the ant who works tirelessly to feed its young, nor the bee which will sacrifice itself for the safety of it's queen. No. The real parasite is us, the humankind, the race which just kept on winning. It grew weary of our abuse, the turmoil, the bloodshed upon its crust. And one day, the last line of defense grew tall, blighting stalks of wheat and grain, resistance to conditions of milling and transport, everlasting in the darkness of boxes upon our shelves. Waiting, an opportunistic spore to find it's new home, to take over, to survive. And even the purge that unfolded, was unsuccessful.

***

2003

The tv buzzed in the background, something about product being withdrawn from major stores, blah blah, you weren't really listening, eyes staring at the results of your application; med school, a streamlined program, BS/MD.

Accepted.

Accepted.

You couldn't believe it, you'd practically ran home from work to find out. Happy 18th Birthday to me, right? Eyes looked around the kitchen, you don't know why you expected anyone to be home, it was the dragging end of an autumns day, both parents were working. Who to call, who to tell?

Feet ran to the landline, skin patting the ground as you moved. You'd used up all your minutes last week, when you had been on the phone for an ungodly amount of time to your best friend stressing about the interview.

The phone beeped as you pressed each number, then it rang.

And it rang... and rang.

Odd. She always picked up. You shrugged it off, hanging the call up, returning the phone to the handset. Maybe she was in the bathroom, or showering off sunscreen after basking her pale skin under the sunshine in the yard.

You trudged back to the kitchen, looking out. It was getting dark now.

Another siren sounded in the distance. What was that, the fifth one today? You accepted that you lived in the outskirts of a major city but it was unusual even for here. Gaze shifted to the clock, 6.17pm. It wouldn't be long until your mom was home. A smile tugged at the corners of your lips at the thought of being able to tell her your news. Accepted.

Stomach grumbled in complaint, so you reached up into the cabinets for something, fingers trailing over cans and jars and packets of food. No... no... no... you closed the door again with a sigh. You could hold off until she got home.

That was your first mistake. Oh how you wished you had just eaten a snack that day.

Another siren. You glanced at the clock again. 6.19pm. Surely not? The tv continued to buzz from the other room.

Emergency services... contain... products recalled are as foll... be advised, close all windo...

A chap at the door. It made you jump out of your skin, head twisting round so fast it made your muscle burn for a moment. It was just your neighbour, Mrs. Faulkner. You opened the door.

"Hey kiddo! Is your mom in?"

You shook your head, distracted from words by the way her arm was twitching. She smiled, it was big, full of teeth, unnatural.

"Alright, well, you tell her I need that recipe book back, okay? My mother, she's gone all picky since getting those new dentures, you know?"

This time you nodded. Of course you didn't know, but it was only polite. Her fingers were twisting.

"Okay, I'll swing by later!"

Something in the way she walked made you close the door behind her and lock it, brows knitting themselves together in confusion; something in your gut told you it was fear.

Another siren. The tv was still buzzing.

This time, you listened, watching Mrs. Faulkner continue to walk away. Her arm had stopped twitching, she was in her yard.

"Soon, we will close this broadcast in exchange for an emergency message from Washington. Please be advised, stay inside your homes..."

Eyelids pushed closer together as you registered what the presenter was saying. Mrs. Faulkner was staring at something, waving, shouting. Another siren. You followed her line of sight and noticed your other neighbour was packing stuff into their car. A lot of stuff. And they weren't exactly leisurely about it.

"...lock your windows and your doors, and shelter within the inner most part of your home, if you have a basement, please take shelter the-"

It sounded like a tornado warning. You didn't live anywhere near where tornados would be possible. It was replaced with a long drawn tone, then a robotic voice.

"We interrupt this program to deliver an emergency alert broadcast..."

The sounds of the world began to drown out. It was just you, your breathing and the tv.

"Please be advised, civil authorities have issued a contagious disease warning."

Mrs. Faulkner fell to the ground. A police car sped up the street, blocking your vision.

Please be advised, civil authorities have issued a contagious disease warning.

Before any thoughts could enter your mind, the police car passed, and you watched her rise back up. But something was different.

You didn't even wait to analyse the situation, frantically running up the stairs, grabbing anything you needed, socks, shoes, your rucksack, your mobile, running back down the stairs.

And she was there. At your front door. She was screaming at the top of her lungs. Clawing. You were paralysed with fear. Someone yelled from the other side of the glass she pounded against.

"GET DOWN!"

Not even a second passed before a gunshot split her head in two right before your eyes, her blood decorating the door, the pane cracked. By the time you flinched, you looked away, it was too late. The same voice yelled again.

"OPEN THE DOOR!"

You didn't move, head still turned from the door, eyelids performing a series of half blinks as tears welled in your vision.

"I CAN SEE YOU, OPEN THE DOOR!"

A voice which was recognisable, something unable to place without looking. Your own voice was barely a whisper in return.

"I can't."

"Yes you CAN, you can, COME ON!"

Eyes raised to meet his. He was shaking the door handle, a gun still in the tight grasp of his other hand, held across his body. He looked about ready to kick the door off its hinges.

"There you go, come on, COME ON!"