Red sunset, red summer. Everything is red in the color of the burgundy rage oozing from the torn skin. Revenge, despair—it all mixes into the mud that stains the wound; the rain has only watered the ground in the morning, but in the evening it has turned to heat, scorching the skin like wildfire.

The end justifies the means, but the means later return triply boomerang. To fear the infected is foolish; at least they are honest and direct in their intentions, not waiting like rats in a corner. Humans are different. Try to protect your life at the cost of other lives, and you're bound to be back for payback.

Ellie's covered in blood herself, but most of it isn't hers. Elbow-deep in violence, she can feel her adrenaline, pulsing arteries throbbing. Man, woman—who now recognizes the mutilated faces? It was a massacre comparable to the brutality of war. With consequences directly awaiting you after it was over.

"Take your hand away, come on," she pleads, denuding the skin of your stomach to stare blankly at the mess of human cruelty and vindictiveness.

It's a couple of hours to Jackson, no less. Through thick grass, a road swollen in mud, and the cooling sun, it doesn't take long to go from burning to freezing. But Ellie doesn't even allow for the thought that these landscapes are the last thing you'll ever capture. No way, right? Step by step—you cling to each other, stumbling and walking in the ringing silence, punctuated by your painful wheezes.

"We'll get there, and then I'll find everyone who's left," she promises quietly, stopping to wipe away the blood covering your half-lidded eyes. "Every last of them."

A promise written in blood. But instead of relief, there's pain—unexplainable rejection of the idea on your face. Ellie isn't going to argue—she's going back down this road and further inland to take every life anyway. Once you get back to Jackson, yes.

"You want a joke?" she mutters, struggling to maintain the weight of both of you. Maybe the sun will stop being so cruel.