The Last of Us: Survival

Chapter 161 161: The Black Market

Shff, shff, shff!

Hurried footsteps crunched through fallen leaves blanketing the desolate streets of the ruined city.

A sniper in full combat fatigues pumped his arms as he sprinted forward, his eyes locked on the fleeing figure ahead. Like a cheetah running down prey, he clung to the chase and refused to let go.

Over his shoulder radio, the squad leader had already authorized pursuit. Patrol soldiers up ahead had responded too. It was only a matter of time before this unarmed runner was caught.

But as the target rounded the corner of a building, the sniper momentarily lost sight of him. He didn't think much of it—just heightened his guard, wary of an ambush from the blind spot.

When he cleared the corner, the footsteps ahead had gone silent. The target had vanished.

The sniper stopped dead in his tracks. He raised his pistol and scanned his surroundings.

He could feel it—the man was hiding in one of the nearby buildings, waiting for a chance to strike. The runner must have realized he couldn't shake his pursuer through speed alone and had decided to end things here.

This guy's no amateur.

Step by cautious step, the sniper advanced, recalling the target's agile movements—instinctive evasive maneuvers, endurance far beyond any ordinary person. A regular Firefly would've collapsed from terror under gunfire or been run down from exhaustion long ago.

Either Firefly elite, a high-level smuggler, or... maybe even one of our own.

Everyone knew soldiers and smugglers were tightly connected inside the QZ. The smuggler bosses kept the higher-ups fat and happy with a steady stream of resources, so grunts like him kept their mouths shut.

But illegal was illegal. No matter who this runner turned out to be—even if it was someone above his pay grade—catching him red-handed would make it hard for anyone to cover it up.

With that thought, the sniper studied the ground. The displaced leaves all trailed toward a nearby convenience store.

He eyed the dust-caked glass windows, frowned, and rather than entering, pulled the trigger.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Crash!

Gunfire shattered every pane. Glass rained down onto dust and dead leaves.

Through the empty frames, he surveyed the interior. Thick dust coated the empty shelves and counter, swirling in the breeze now drifting in from outside. A single line of footprints ran down the center aisle—and ended at a back door, standing ajar.

"Damn it!"

Heart racing at the thought of his quarry slipping away, the sniper charged inside without a second look.

The instant he crossed the threshold, he heard something heavy dropping from above. His face twisted—but before he could react, the weight slammed him to the floor. A powerful hand seized his hair and smashed his head against the tile. Once. Twice. Three times. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and the world went black.

Bryan let out a long breath and wiped the thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. The immediate danger had passed. He drew his knife without hesitation and opened the sniper's throat.

Blood spilled from the wound instantly, spreading across the floor in a widening pool. The iron stench of it filled the air.

"Sorry, brother."

He rose from the body and looked down at it with genuine regret.

Honestly, if the man hadn't seen his face, Bryan would never have taken his life. But letting him go meant the QZ would have his description, and it wouldn't just be his own neck on the line—Sarah, his girlfriend, would be dragged into it too. He'd had no choice.

"Move! The shots came from up ahead!"

Shff, shff, shff—

The sound of voices and three or four sets of boots reached him from outside the store. Bryan glanced toward the front, then turned and bolted through the open back door. Within moments, he'd slipped past the search party and vanished into the depths of the urban ruins.

Minutes after he left, a soldier followed the scent of blood into the convenience store. He found the sniper on the floor, lying in a lake of crimson, and immediately knelt to check vitals.

No pulse. No breath.

The soldier exhaled quietly, keyed his radio, and began his report.

"This is—reporting in. The sniper has been located. He's dead. Throat was cut. Scene shows signs of..."

...

Having dealt with the sniper and evaded the patrol, Bryan finally reached the passage into District D.

When he entered a central plaza—half overgrown with vegetation, the other half blasted to rubble—he knew he was safe at last.

Beyond this point lay the largest black market in the Atlanta Quarantine Zone, jointly managed by the three biggest smuggling outfits operating inside the walls.

Certain officials in the QZ government knew this place existed, of course. But the smugglers' tribute was too generous to refuse, so the authorities turned a blind eye and kept soldiers away with one excuse or another.

Bryan walked through the plaza at an easy pace. He could feel eyes on him, but he paid them no mind, heading straight for the main building. He pushed through the door of what had once been a food shop and descended the stairs to the basement.

Thud-thud... thud-thud-thud!

He rapped a rhythmic pattern on the iron door at the bottom, then pushed it open.

Inside stretched a long, well-lit corridor. A shirtless, heavyset man sat by the entrance, and when he saw Bryan walk in—covered head-to-toe in dust and grime, looking thoroughly roughed up—he grinned.

"Well, well! Looks like you ran into some real trouble out there, friend."

"Don't get me started." Bryan waved him off, slapping dust from his clothes. He walked over to a row of three storage lockers by the door, opened the one labeled with Norsen's name, and deposited his pistol and gas mask inside.

He checked his backpack—everything intact—zipped it shut, and headed deeper down the corridor.

A few minutes later, he emerged up a staircase at the far end and stepped into organized chaos.

This was the underground level of the plaza's department store. Fluorescent lights blazed overhead, illuminating the entire space. The old retail counters had been stripped clean of merchandise and repurposed into stalls, each manned by a smuggler sitting quietly behind the counter, waiting for customers.

Every stall offered something different. One sold metal components—car parts, electrical fittings, radio innards, and more than you could count. Another dealt in chemical supplies, its counter lined with sealed jars and bottles. Yet another displayed everyday clothing—shirts, pants, scarves, shoes—sorted and neatly arranged.

In one corner, dozens of gaunt, hollow-eyed people crowded around a cluster of food stalls, clutching their supply cards in white-knuckled fists, swallowing hard as they stared at what was on offer.

The stalls themselves looked like pre-outbreak street food carts. But the "cuisine" on the grill was dead rats and small animals. Skinned and splayed on hot plates, they sizzled and popped, filling the air with the maddening aroma of cooking meat—tormenting everyone in line.

Beside the food stalls, cages built from rusted sheet metal held emaciated dogs, their legs thin as sticks. These had been caught outside the QZ and brought in specifically for the amusement of government officials' sons, who had recently developed a taste for dogfighting. Once the animals died, they were shipped back here, butchered into cuts of meat, and sold for supply cards—every last drop of value squeezed out.

All of this was just one corner of the market. Elsewhere, vendors hawked every manner of oddity imaginable. Streams of people flowed between the stalls, forming an oversized bazaar packed wall to wall.

This was the Atlanta Quarantine Zone's largest black market.

...

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