The air inside the quarantine zone was thick with the twin stenches of coal smoke and rotting garbage, but out here, in the suffocating damp of the Boston Back Bay ruins, the world smelled only of moss, stagnant water, and the dead.

Joel crouched low behind the shattered concrete barrier of what used to be a high-end clothing boutique, his thumb resting lightly on the hammer of his revolver. His breath puffed out in ragged, white plumes against the freezing autumn air.

Beside him, you fumbled with the slide of your 9mm, your fingers stiff and trembling against the cold steel. You were twenty-five, young enough to barely remember the world before the fungus took root, old enough to carry the jagged scars of how it died. A dull click echoed in the silence.

Joel’s hand shot out like a vice, catching your wrist and freezing your movement. He didn't look at you. His eyes remained locked on the flooded ground floor of the department store thirty yards ahead, where a half-dozen Clickers clicked and hissed, their blind heads twitching to the rhythm of your careless mistake.

"Safety's on, kid" Joel muttered, his voice a low, gravel-scraping rasp that barely carried over the ambient drip of rain. "I-I know, it just—my hands are frozen—" you whispered back, panic sharpening your tone.

Joel finally turned his head, his hard, weathered eyes narrowing as they swept over you. He took in the dampness soaking through your jacket, the frantic rise and fall of your chest, and the way you were gripping the pistol like it might bite you. There was a flicker of something in his gaze exhaustion, maybe, or a bitter, buried memory. He’d lost a daughter around this age, twenty years ago. Sometimes, looking at you, the ghost of that loss gnawed at him, making him harsher than he intended to be, or softer in ways that could get them both killed.

"Breathe" Joel instructed, his voice dropping an octave, steady and unyielding. He reached out with his calloused hand, pushed the safety down with a sharp clack, and gently lowered your weapon. "You panic, you make noise. You make noise, we die. Simple as that."

"I'm not panicking" you lied, swallowing hard.

"Coulda fooled me" Joel grunted, shifting his weight back onto his heels, his rifle resting easily across his lap. He checked the makeshift bandage around his left forearm, wincing slightly before masking it behind his usual stoic armor. "Listen to me. We clear this floor, we find that battery, and we get back before dark. No heroics. You stick to my shoulder. Understand?"

You nodded, the lump in your throat too big to swallow past. Joel turned back to the ruins, raising his chin slightly as he listened to the wet, echolocating screeches bouncing off the concrete walls. The FEDRA patrols were bad, but the infected down here in the dark were worse.

"Alright" Joel whispered, cocking his head toward the shadowy entrance. "Stay close. Let's go."