mgowriter's note: This was inspired by the trailer for Naughty Dog's new upcoming game The Last of Us. I wanted to put it out there before canon was established for The Last of Us and everything becomes probably (most likely) untrue.

To find out about the events that lead up to this story, please check out "The Last Light."

Searching for Hope

It was one of those days where the sun never seemed to make it out from behind the clouds.

The two travelers had been walking for days through the city, stopping only for small meals and restless sleep. The older man led the way, dressed in clothes caked with weeks of grime.

A much younger girl, somewhere in her teenage years, followed closely behind. She shivered in the morning chill, wrapping her arms around herself. When they started the four-hundred-mile journey, he had promised the weather in Florida would be warmer; a nice change from the colder nights in Charleston.

Luck had a hard time hanging around them for too long. The cold front snaked in at night, too late to start searching for firewood. They layered on all the clothing they had, and huddled together until morning.

With the cool morning air came the fog, rolling in from the coast. It blanketed everything in sight, growing thicker as they walked. The man pressed on, unaffected, quickening his pace when they should be slowing down. It was almost impossible to see beyond twenty feet in front of them.

The girl was worried. He had been acting strange ever since he announced they were going to Florida. In the beginning she protested, tried to reason, even begged. Everyone was headed north, to Canada. They can't survive in the cold, was the common theory. No one knew for sure, but the people that were still alive needed hope, and heading north gave them that.

The girl adjusted the bag around her shoulders. The rattling of cans reminded her of the little food they had left. They had passed two abandoned supermarkets in the last two days, but the man didn't stop. She wondered if he even noticed them. She could tell he was tired by the way his body sagged underneath the weight of his backpack. She was tired, too. Tired, and worried.

She was about to suggest looking for a place to build a fire and warm up when she felt his hand on her shoulder. It communicated an immediate stop. Over the years they had developed a silent language that was necessary to survive in a world where sounds were exemplified and a whisper could be a death sentence. She looked up at him, following his gaze. It led to a heavy iron gate bordered by two pillars. Two stone lions sat atop the pillars, guarding the entrance. Blending into the fog, they looked almost ready to pounce. The arched stone banner between them read "Palm Bay Cemetery."

. . .

The girl returned her gaze to the older man with an unmistakable question in her eyes. He chose not to answer, instead touching the gun holstered to his right leg. Reflexively, she gripped her fingers around the knife in her pocket. She followed reluctantly as he pushed open the gate and entered into the cemetery.

They approached the small guard house cautiously, stepping softly with their shoes. They were almost to their destination when the first body appeared out of the mist, close enough to touch. The girl breathed in sharply as the man pulled her back by her arm. They both stared. It was more of a skeleton than a body. Time, the humid weather, and animals had all worked at the flesh that was once attached to the bones. The body had likely been there since the beginning of the infection.

They found two or three more dozen bodies lying on the ground, with the same state of decomposition as the first. Some were piled neatly in rows, while others lay spread out, facing every direction. Beyond the bodies were multiple rows of black body bags, stacked three high. The girl looked away. These people had been waiting to be buried for more than a decade.

The man turned to face her and questioned her with his eyes. I'm okay, she responded silently. He nodded, and continued forward. Leading from memory, he made his way to a deeper section of the cemetery, and stopped a few feet short of a simple, rectangular gravestone half-buried underneath growing weeds.

He paused. "Give me a minute," he said.

"Okay," she said, sensing his need for privacy.

She headed toward a nearby tree, observing their surroundings as she walked. This part of the cemetery was surrounded by large, red maple trees instead of palm trees. She recognized the pointed leaves with serrated borders. They formed a perimeter around the plots, blocking out any view of the street. People, or things, could easily see them from cover, but they were out in the open. She stood with her back against the maple tree, her hand still on the knife in her pocket.

. . .

The man let his pack drop to the ground and lowered himself so he was eye to eye with the headstone. He brushed away the tangled vines, revealing the name on the memorial. He touched the letters carefully with his hand, lingering at the last one.

"Sully," he said, barely above a whisper. "It's been a long time, old friend."

The man reached for his pack. He dug deep into the main compartment, and pulled out the remains of a cigar. It had traveled with him through five states, and countless cities. It had been wet and dried many times, through stream and even river crossings, leaving the branding on the paper wrapper indecipherable.

"I know it's not your usual," the man said, as he placed the cigar near the stone tablet. "I'll try to look out for the Corojos next time." As he spoke, he removed the revolver from his holster and placed it next to the cigar.

He stared at the two objects in front of him and an image of Sully, cigar in hand, pacing around his dining room table, came to life. Sully was pointing at a city on a map spread out across the table, and had a big grin on his face. He had found a clue that would lead them to more treasure, and undoubtedly more trouble. The man smiled at the memory. It seemed to take place more than a lifetime ago.

He picked up the revolver, feeling the familiar shape in his hand. It was the only thing he had left of the man that had taken him in at the age of fourteen, and saved his life countless times.

"I wish you could've seen Ellie grow up," the man said, still examining the gun. He motioned at it with his other hand. "I'm teaching her how to use it, to defend herself. She's so much like her mother; a fast learner." The man sighed, remembering a past that he knew could no longer be.

"I remember when she was just a baby she loved being held by you. Sometimes she would cry for days, and it drove Elena and I crazy." He smiled sadly. "We'd drive over and hand her off, and the second she changed hands, it was like a switch was flipped. She loved hearing your voice. You were the only one that could talk her to sleep."

The man closed his eyes and sat in the stillness for a long time. His heart ached for the man he had known for most of his life; the man who had raised him, taught him how to be a decent person despite the line of work they were in, but was above all his friend and partner, someone he had always trusted with his life. When he spoke again, his voice was coarse.

"Sully," he paused, forcing himself to swallow. "I don't know if I can do this anymore." The exhaustion that he felt made its way into his defeated demeanor. He slumped forward, leaning against his legs. He wasn't as young as he used to be. He could feel the toll on his body building with each day.

"I miss her so much," he said, picturing his wife. "Besides you, Elena was the only person I trusted in this messed up world. Ellie was so young when she died; I don't know if I can talk to her about it. She doesn't deserve a life like this, surviving only for the next day." He waited for an answer that he knew would never come.

"Tell me how to get through this. I don't know how to do it anymore."

. . .

Ellie felt uneasiness creep into her with every minute that passed. From the maple tree, she could see how exposed he was. She scanned the perimeter of the cemetery one more time. Come on, what's taking so long?

She thought she heard a rustling sound to her left, next to the overgrown bushes, and turned her head quickly to inspect the area. The fog played tricks on her eyes, forming shadows that weren't there. Just as she was about to turn around, there was another sound, this time definitely real, coming from the same direction. Trusting her instincts, she grabbed her shoulder bag and sprinted toward the man.

"Dad," she said in a hurried whisper. The man turned to look at her.

"They're here. I heard them. We have to go."

He frowned, but was already gathering his backpack.

"You're sure?" he asked.

She gave him a strange look. They didn't question each other about the infected, or the need to evacuate an area quickly; it's why they were still alive.

"Yes. We have to go, now."

He hesitated, looking down at the gravestone once more. She glanced at it quickly, and her eyes widened in surprise. She looked back at him.

He bent down to place a hand on top of the cool granite and whisper a final goodbye. She didn't have the chance to ask the burning question in her mind.

"C'mon, this way."

. . .

They were on the run for a good hour, consciously moving further away from the city, sometimes doubling back to make sure they weren't being followed. Both were breathing heavily when they finally stopped to rest inside an abandoned house.

Ellie took a drink from her canteen and handed it to her father. He took it with gratitude, and drank deeply.

"Who was that back there?" she asked, her curiosity no less subdued after the escape.

"A friend," he replied. "A good friend."

"How did he die?"

A look of sadness crossed his features. The image of Sully lying in his arms, breathing in his last breath, flashed through his mind.

"Too many questions, kid."

"His name…" she started again, undiscouraged. "Is that why you chose the name Joel Sullivan?"

"I knew too many of the wrong types of people in the cities we were going to be going through. The name Nathan Drake would've drawn too much attention, and put the both of us in danger."

"But Sullivan," said Ellie. "You could've chosen any other last name."

Nate smiled at his daughter. "Nothing ever gets past you, huh?"

She smiled back, happy to see the expression reciprocated on his face. "Guess not."

A moment passed, as Ellie absorbed the new information.

"So who was he?" she finally asked, adopting the tone of a serious inquiry.

He smiled again. She reminded him every day of Elena. "You really want to hear the story?"

She nodded, taking a seat on the floor. "It probably isn't safe to travel until the weather clears up. We've got a couple of hours."

Nate settled down beside her. He felt the warmth of her body as she leaned against him. They were lucky to find the house, with good visibility toward the street and steel reinforced doors and windows. The owners must've held on here as long as they could before finally evacuating with the rest of the city. He could feel the tension from earlier start to dissolve. He placed his arm around her and leaned back against the wall.

"Victor Sullivan," he began, "was a man of many things. First and foremost, he was the greatest antiquities acquisition expert that ever lived…"