The Last of Us: Survival

Chapter 162: The Pickpocket

Weaving through the crowd, Bryan scanned the surrounding stalls until he stopped before a clothing vendor.

He addressed the woman behind the counter—a dark-skinned woman surrounded by racks of assorted clothes, pants, and shoes. "I need some clothes for a four or five-year-old."

"Clothes for a little kid?"

The woman gave him a curious look but didn't press the matter. Business was business.

She crouched behind the counter and rummaged through a bin, then produced a medium-sized bag and set it in front of him. "Everything's in here. One supply card."

Bryan unzipped it and glanced inside—shirts, pants, shoes, all there. He nodded, fished a supply card from his pocket, and handed it over. Then he picked up the bag and moved on.

What he didn't notice, as he'd pulled the supply card from his pocket, was that he'd picked up a small shadow trailing behind him.

A short distance further, Bryan remembered his promise to Sarah from the day before and stopped at a food stall. This section of the market was Norsen's territory, so the selection was relatively well-stocked.

Behind him, hidden among the press of bodies, a boy of seven or eight—face caked with dirt and dust, dressed in threadbare clothes—fixed his gaze on the man at the counter. His body leaned forward, coiled tight, waiting for the perfect moment.

The instant the man reached into his pocket for another supply card, the boy's eyes lit up. Now. Without a second thought, he darted forward.

Just as the man finished his purchase and turned around, the boy collided with him full-on and tumbled hard to the ground.

In the split second before he hit the floor, his nimble fingers had already slipped something into his own pocket.

Feeling the thickness of what he'd snagged, a thrill ran through him. Not bad at all. Enough to keep his mother and sister fed and watered for the next few days.

"Sorry! I'm sorry!"

Before the man could react, the boy scrambled to his feet, bowing frantically in apology. Then he spun and dove into the crowd, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

Bryan watched him disappear, a half-amused expression on his face.

...

Inside the QZ, there existed a significant population of illegal residents who had smuggled themselves in from the outside. Some were Fireflies, embedded throughout the various districts, quietly serving their "noble" cause.

Others were simply survivors. Without legal status, they'd split into two distinct groups. The first lived inside the black market itself—in the filthiest, darkest, dampest corners—working for the market bosses in exchange for scraps of food. Their children, barred from schools without legitimate documentation, spent their days pickpocketing and stealing to help make ends meet.

The second group refused to live like animals. They chose to eke out an existence within the QZ proper, scrounging daily for food while dodging soldiers—but at least they felt they were living with some scrap of dignity compared to the black market dwellers.

It wasn't that these people didn't want legal status. The QZ accepted survivors, but it was selective. Anyone without a useful skill was just another mouth to feed—and the QZ had more than enough unskilled labor already.

Children, though, were a different story. The QZ was more than happy to take them in—fresh blood meant future manpower. Some parents, for their children's sake, endured the agony of separation and handed them over. Others couldn't bear to let go and smuggled their entire families inside together.

Eller came from the latter kind of family.

...

In the black market's notorious refugee quarter.

Outside a ramshackle shanty.

Eller leaned against the wall, darted a cautious look around, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the stolen supply cards.

As he counted them, his hands began to tremble. His expression grew more and more excited.

"Jackpot!" he whispered. "Jackpot!"

"That's what's got you so worked up? A handful of supply cards?" A man's voice sounded right beside him.

The shock hit like a bolt of lightning. The cards slipped from his fingers and scattered across the ground.

"Ahh—!"

Eller whipped around—and his pupils shrank to pinpoints. The man standing there was the same one he'd just robbed. Terror seized him. He stumbled backward, his body already turning to run.

But the instant he tried to bolt, a powerful hand clamped down on both his shoulders, locking him in place. The man's voice came again:

"Where do you think you're going? I'm not going to hurt you."

Eller didn't believe a word of it. Just days ago, he'd watched a boy he'd known for years—a friend—beaten to death for getting caught lifting supply cards. They'd tossed the body outside the walls like garbage.

That image had been seared into his young mind, planting a seed of terror around the act of stealing. But fear alone wasn't enough to stop him. He had no other skills, nothing else he could do. Looking at his mother—sick—and his sister—thin and starving—he'd gritted his teeth and kept at it.

Now, imagining what awaited a caught thief, panic overwhelmed him. He thrashed and twisted, desperately trying to break free.

Bryan shook his head at the squirming boy, tightened his grip, and pressed him against the wall. He looked into those terrified eyes.

"Stop moving. Otherwise, I can't promise what I'll do. I'm guessing you've got family here, don't you?"

Eller's body went rigid. His mother and sister were in the shanty right next door. He stopped struggling—but his legs still shook.

Creak.

"Big brother, what's wrong?"

Whether it was the commotion or Eller's cry, the rusty door of the neighboring shanty swung open. A small girl poked her head out.

When she saw Bryan gripping her brother, fear flickered across her face. Her tiny hands clutched the doorframe, knuckles white—but she summoned her courage and asked in a small voice.

"Nothing, kiddo. Just having a chat with your brother here." Bryan slung an arm casually around Eller's shoulders, his tone light and easy.

Eller blinked at the reaction—surprised. The man didn't seem intent on hurting them. He felt the tension drain from his body. He looked at his sister. "I'm fine. Go back inside."

The little girl relaxed slightly, gave Bryan one last wary glance, and then retreated into the shanty.

"I'm sorry I stole from you..."

The moment she was gone, Eller dropped to his knees with a thud and bowed his head. He glanced toward the shanty and bit down hard on his lip. "Whatever you're going to do, do it to me. Please... don't hurt the people inside."

"Get up."

Bryan grabbed the kneeling boy and hauled him to his feet. "Relax. I'm no saint, but I'm not about to take it out on a kid."

He tilted his head toward the shanty and listened. A faint, persistent cough drifted through the thin walls. "Sounds like there's someone else in there besides your sister. Sick, from the sound of it?"

Eller had tensed when Bryan looked toward the shanty, but hearing those words, his expression gradually crumbled into something raw and sad.

He knew that if this man truly wanted to hurt them, his scrawny body couldn't stop it. So he told the truth.

"That's my mother. She's been coughing nonstop for over a month. I want to take her to a doctor, but... we don't have legal status. We can't go to the hospital. And the doctors here in the market charge more than we can..." He trailed off, his voice sinking.

Bryan watched the boy's shoulders droop lower and lower. Something flickered behind his eyes. The corner of his mouth curved upward.

"I happen to have a job that needs doing. Pull it off—give me what I need—and I'll get a doctor to treat your mother. What do you say?"

...

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