Chapitre 2: Solving the problem
The day was fading, the sun sinking into the horizon like a dying man after a prolonged battle. The air grew colder, a clear warning that winter was lurking. With every step they took, the group felt the weight of exhaustion and accumulated tension, but at least they had made it to the town.
The main entrance was blocked. A rusty truck lay sprawled across the street, surrounded by abandoned vehicles, some barely recognizable beneath layers of moss and rust. Among them stood the skeletal remains of old FEDRA vehicles, dismantled long ago.
"Well, nothing seems out of the ordinary," Owen commented, his voice attempting to sound calm as he surveyed the scene with his assault rifle. Despite his serious expression, Elliot couldn't help but smirk mockingly. The only one in the group with a long-range weapon and a scope, yet he missed more shots than he landed.
"We're going to have to find a detour," Owen added, stepping forward with his weapon raised. "But first, let's see if we can find a decent house to spend the night in."
"In this place, every house is decent," Nora replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she adjusted her own weapon. "What we should be worrying about are those damn infected."
Abby, who had remained silent until then, sighed in frustration. "Just shut up and move," she ordered firmly. She didn't wait for a response; she simply started walking toward the blocked street, forcing Owen to hurry after her. Her abrupt movement caused the rifle to bump against her hip, a detail Elliot didn't miss.
"It's always the same with those two," Elliot commented, his voice heavy with sarcasm as he adjusted the strap of his backpack. He didn't expect anyone to respond.
"Yeah, it's always the same," murmured Mel, walking near him. She held her pistol with both hands, her knuckles tense, but Elliot couldn't help noticing the slight tremor in her fingers.
Elliot watched Mel as she walked a few steps ahead of him, the sway of her body catching his attention in a way he hadn't felt since arriving in this shattered world. He remembered how he had seen her in The Last of Us Part II: a worn-out figure, gaunt from stress and pregnancy, a shell of what she must have once been. In the game, Mel wasn't anything special. But here, in flesh and blood, in this version of reality, it was a different story.
Mel was beautiful, with a subdued kind of beauty that carried an overwhelming magnetism. Her hair, tied back in a messy ponytail, revealed a delicate neck that Elliot couldn't help but imagine under his hands. She wasn't tall, barely reaching his chest, but that height gave her a deceptive air of vulnerability that made one want to protect her—possess her.
What really drove him crazy was her body. Mel had hips that seemed sculpted to be admired, wide and curvy, moving with an effortless grace every time she took a step. Her rear was rounded and firm, so captivating that Elliot had to bite his tongue to keep from sighing every time he saw it bounce beneath those tight pants. She didn't have much of a chest, but she more than made up for it. There was something about her slender figure, the way she moved, that made him want to stop and simply watch her, as if she were the last beautiful thing in a broken world.
Sometimes, as they walked, Elliot found himself fantasizing. He couldn't help it. In his mind, the image of Mel grew bolder, more erotic. He imagined her panting beneath him, those toned legs wrapped around his waist, her hips moving desperately, seeking more. He fantasized about those small, soft hands clutching him, gripping his skin, while her lips, now so serious, moaned his name with a fervor only he could awaken.
It was torture. Every time he saw her adjusting the pistol on her belt, bending just enough for her rear to be perfectly framed, Elliot had to look away before he lost his composure. The thought of running his hands over those hips, of feeling her skin against his, drove him insane. If the world hadn't gone to hell, if they weren't constantly surrounded by danger, he wouldn't have hesitated to make a move. In another context, in another life, he would have made her his without a second thought.
But here he was, biting his lip and suppressing those thoughts as they continued moving into the unknown.
The group advanced in silence, moving like shadows among the dilapidated houses and the rubble of what had once been a quiet neighborhood. Some structures leaned precariously, as if time and neglect were on the verge of toppling them. Other homes were partially consumed by forgotten fires or covered in a tangle of invasive vegetation. The infected roamed among the ruins, dragging deformed feet and emitting the guttural growls that made everyone's skin crawl.
Elliot tried not to look at them too much. Every time he did, he felt a sharp wave of nausea, as if his body wanted to expel the disgust they caused him. Those things weren't just monsters; they were the embodiment of human ruin and failure. Deformed faces, lifeless white eyes, bodies twisted by the cursed fungus—they were walking nightmares, and every time one of them shuffled close, Elliot had to fight the urge to look away and run.
After a few minutes of weaving through ruins and avoiding the infected, Elliot pointed out a house at the end of a narrow street. It was larger than the others, a three-story building that, despite its worn appearance, seemed solid. Big enough for them to take refuge without being too exposed.
"That one looks good," he said, gesturing toward the structure.
Owen nodded, raising his assault rifle to inspect the house through the scope. "Looks safe," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. Then he glanced at Abby, seeking her approval, like a dog waiting for its owner's signal.
Abby barely spared him a glance before responding with a disinterested, "Whatever."
Without further discussion, the group began moving toward the house. Their steps were calculated, their breaths held. As they approached, the tension rose. There were more infected than they'd anticipated. From their initial position, they could count at least seven staggering through the street, but what really unsettled Elliot was the silence. The infected had exceptional hearing, and any poorly calculated noise could unleash chaos they wouldn't survive.
The group stopped behind a row of abandoned cars, crouching as they assessed the terrain. The house was about 200 meters away, but the path to it wouldn't be easy. Elliot swallowed hard as his eyes scanned the area, searching for any signs of additional movement. Every shadow and corner seemed to conceal a threat.
"There's more than seven," Nora whispered, her voice barely a murmur as she crouched behind a rusted sedan.
"And what about the ones we can't see?" added Manny, his tone low but laced with worry.
A shiver ran down Elliot's spine. In this world, the infected weren't just obstacles; they were killing machines, and any mistake would be their last. He adjusted the bolt-action rifle on his shoulder, noticing how his hands trembled slightly.
"What do we do?" Jordan asked, his eyes darting between Abby and Owen, who didn't seem as confident as they tried to appear.
"We wait," Abby finally said in a determined whisper. "Let them spread out. It's not worth the risk if we don't have to."
At least two excruciating minutes passed in which nothing happened. The group remained crouched behind the cars, holding their breath, waiting for some change in the infected's behavior. But there was no sign of movement. They just stood there, swaying from side to side, growling under the fading light of the evening.
Elliot felt as though time was stretching unbearably. His patience, never his strong suit, was starting to crumble. Every second they spent still increased the chance that the infected would notice their presence—or that something worse would emerge from the shadows. His muscles were tense, and cold sweat trickled down his back. Wait? For what? This wasn't some damn video game where you could crouch indefinitely until danger magically faded.
His frustration drove him to act before thinking twice. Without consulting anyone, not even Abby—who would probably kill him if they survived this—he started picking up rocks from the ground, selecting the largest and heaviest ones he could find. The others looked at him with expressions of confusion and alarm.
"Elliot, what the hell are you doing?" Nora whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"Solving the problem," he muttered, ignoring the furious looks they were giving him.
Before anyone could stop him, Elliot hurled the first rock with force. It flew through the air in a wide arc before landing with a dull thud in the distance, among some debris. The sound echoed eerily in the empty street. Some of the closer infected froze in their tracks, their heads twisting toward the source of the noise, and began to shuffle slowly in that direction.
Elliot didn't stop there. With precision and an almost suicidal determination, he threw another rock, this time aiming for the window of a ruined house on the other side of the street. The glass shattered with a sharp crash, an explosion of sound that cut through the air like a gunshot. Immediately, the infected turned toward the house, their bodies tense and alert, and started moving. At first, they moved slowly, as if calibrating the sound. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, a collective roar filled the air. Dozens of them began running toward the source of the noise, stumbling over one another, tearing off chunks of flesh and clothing as they charged in the opposite direction of the group.
That's when they saw it. A horde. It wasn't just the seven infected they had initially counted. It was at least forty, maybe more, emerging from corners and nearby buildings, all enraged, all charging madly toward the broken window. The ground shook beneath their feet as they sped away, their growls and shrieks filling the air. The chaos Elliot had unleashed was immense, and at least for the moment, all the noise and fury were concentrated far from them.
"Damn it, Elliot!" Abby hissed through gritted teeth, rising slightly to get a better look at the horde now moving away. Her face was a mixture of anger and surprise.
"What was that about waiting being better?" Elliot said with a sardonic grin as he stood up from his position behind the car. He adjusted his rifle on his shoulder with an exaggerated motion, as if he were in a gun commercial, and started walking toward the house. "Because I think my plan worked just fine."
"You're insane," Mel muttered as she stood up too, still glancing nervously at the fleeing infected. Her voice carried a mix of fear and something Elliot wanted to interpret as admiration.
"Yeah, insane," Owen chimed in, following him with hurried steps. "But I'll admit—it was effective. Now move before they change their minds."
The rest of the group got up, still eyeing him as if deciding whether to scold him or thank him. Abby seemed to lean toward the former, but even she understood that arguing now was pointless. The horde was far away, and the path to the house was clear. It was an opportunity they couldn't waste.
As they crossed the street, Elliot felt a strange mixture of pride and nervousness. Yes, he had done something stupid, but he had also done something that worked.
The group moved quickly, their steps echoing on the cracked asphalt as they crossed the last few meters to the house. The structure, old but sturdy, loomed under the dim evening light, its broken windows like empty eyes watching the group with a kind of silent challenge.
Manny, the group's most robust member, took the lead. With a quick gesture, he slung his rifle over his back and positioned himself in front of the main door, which was blocked by a thick wooden plank. With a grunt, Manny planted his feet firmly, grabbed the plank tightly, and pulled with all his weight. The wood creaked and splintered before giving way with a dry snap that echoed in the air. "Let's go, quickly," he said in a low voice, pushing the door open with a shove.
One by one, the group slipped inside the house, their weapons and flashlights raised, ready for whatever might await them. Owen was the first to enter, followed by Abby, who moved with a rigid posture, her gaze scanning every dark corner. Elliot was third, his nerves taut as a bowstring, followed closely by Mel, Nora, and the others.
The air inside the house was cold and stale, heavy with the smell of mold and rotting wood. Dust coated every surface, and the dimness made the corners seem darker and deeper than they really were.
"Lights up," Abby whispered, her tone low but authoritative. "Pair off and check every corner. I don't want any surprises."
Manny nodded, pairing off with Jordan. Owen stayed with Mel, while Abby and Nora formed another pair. As usual, Elliot ended up alone.
"Great," he muttered to himself as he moved down the main hallway. The wood beneath his boots creaked, a sound that made him grit his teeth. Every noise seemed amplified in the silence, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something was lurking in the shadows.
The ground floor was in terrible shape. Broken furniture was scattered everywhere—a sofa with torn cushions, a table split in half, and what looked like an old lamp toppled on the floor. Manny and Jordan searched the main room methodically, lifting fallen furniture and ensuring no infected were hiding.
"All clear here," Manny said quietly, his flashlight sweeping the darker corners. But even as he spoke, his tone betrayed his distrust of the place's apparent calm.
Owen and Mel moved into what looked like a kitchen. The cabinets hung from their hinges, and the refrigerator lay on its side, its interior coated in a black, sticky substance. Mel inspected carefully, shifting what was left of kitchen utensils with the tip of her pistol.
"Check the back doors," Owen instructed, moving toward a broken window to look out at the backyard. "I don't want any surprises."
Meanwhile, Abby and Nora made their way to the second floor, advancing with firm but quiet steps. The bedrooms were in chaos: clothes strewn about, mattresses destroyed, and dark stains on the walls that neither of them wanted to inspect too closely.
"If something's here, it's hiding really well," Nora murmured, sweeping a room with her flashlight.
"That doesn't mean we can relax," Abby replied, her eyes locked on a closed door at the end of the hallway. She advanced cautiously, slowly turning the knob before pushing it open with the barrel of her weapon. On the other side, she found only a ruined bathroom, but the relief didn't erase the tension on her face.
Elliot, meanwhile, had ended up in the basement. The air down there was heavier, and the darkness seemed almost tangible. His flashlight illuminated old boxes and rusted tools as he moved forward, his bolt-action rifle raised. There was something unsettling about the basement, as if time had stopped there.
An old shelf wobbled when Elliot touched it, knocking over a can that rolled across the floor with a metallic clatter, making him hold his breath. He stood still, his heart pounding, until he was sure the sound hadn't attracted anything.
"All clear down here," he murmured into his radio, though his tone betrayed his unease.
After what felt like hours—but was only a few minutes—they all regrouped in the main room. The flashlights clicked off one by one, and the darkness was replaced by a tense silence.
"It's clear," Manny reported, letting his rifle rest against his chest with a sigh. "For now."
"Good," Abby said, crossing her arms. "We'll stay here for the night, but don't let your guard down. Manny and Owen, secure the entrances. Elliot, head upstairs and keep watch from the third-floor windows. The rest of you, look for anything useful."
End of Chapter 2.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone