Kill All Sons Of Bitches
Title: Kill All Sons Of Bitches
Originally posted: Here, for one of the homeless hetaliasunshine prompts (which I've only just now looked at ^_^;). Originally requested by hakuku.
Length: 3000 words.
Characters/Pairings: America/England, Prussia/Hungary.
Premise: Hetalia/Left 4 Dead crossover! (Okay, technically a Left 4 Dead 2 crossover.) For non-gamers: that means there's zombies.
Time period: THE ALL-TOO-NEAR FUTURE.
Smuttiness: 0/10
Funnyness: 4/10
Wrist slashiness: 5/10
Warm-and-fuzziness: 2/10
Lolhistoryness: 0/10
Violence: 7/10
Would I like it?: If you've played Left 4 Dead or Left 4 Dead 2, you'll pick up a lot of references, but otherwise you can just read it as a typical zombie apocalypse fic (minus the omake at the end). Bonus points to the first person who knows what campaign they're in!
Yeah, I don't know.
---
"This is bullshit," America proposed.
"I'll tell you what's bullshit." Prussia tore at the wire wrapped around the silencer of his MAC-10. "This fucking piece of shit sheet metal machine pistol is bullshit. This suppressor is dead fucking weight and I've seen little girls playing handball with more accuracy...what the fuck, is this shit welded on--"
"I think it's bullshit that England left our good guns on the boat," Hungary muttered. She shoved her hair out of her face and tied it back with a strip off her sleeve. Her dress already hung in tatters.
"And pray tell who died and made me the gun monitor?" England protested. He held his hunting rifle slung across his lap, a fresh magazine in his hand. He slammed it in.
America hauled himself off the grass, his shotgun slung over his shoulder, and answered, "Pretty much everybody."
The ruins of Louisiana suburbs spread out all around them. A dead neon sign towered over a sullen little diner. There was a fetid stink where the septic tank had cracked and was leaking onto the grass.
For the moment, the street looked empty, other than a few sad heaps of clothes and meat which had once been people. The nations had trained their eyes to skim past them.
"Now what I need," Prussia went on, "Is a G3, a solid fuckin' G3, something with stopping power. Not this piece of shit--"
"Why would I have a German assault rifle lying around in some crapsack burger joint?" America pushed through the back door. Glass crunched underfoot, and the bell overhead went ding ding. "We'll use what we've got."
"I'm curious why you have any heaps of guns lying around at all," England mused. He stepped over a corpse's outflung arm. "Or piles of ammunition. I know I have in the past tended to joke about your need for gun control laws, but--"
"Oh, come on, you want to give it a rest? If we'd been stuck at your house when this happened, we'd have to fight them off with police batons and cricket bats--"
Hungary came out from the diner's kitchen, new black blood spattered across her face. "I found a frying pan."
"Well, at least one of us is gonna make it out of here alive," Prussia grumbled.
They took a few minutes to sort out their guns, clips, and medical supplies, all in silence.
America peered out the shattered front window up at the yellowing sky. "Sun's going down. …Clouds're coming in, too."
"Right." England straightened his coat. "Let's get to the petrol station, get the fucking petrol, and get back on the bloody boat. Why wasn't I left on the boat?"
"You always get to stay on the boat," Hungary said.
"You always get to stay on the boat," America confirmed. "And it's a gas station."
"I'm the only one who knows how to sail," England pointed out.
"France and Spain aren't sailing." Hungary hiked an extra ammo belt up her shoulder. "They're sitting in the middle of the river with the anchor down. I'm landlocked and I think I could manage that."
England grumbled.
"Come on," America slapped him across the back and swung open the front door. Ding ding, ding ding. "Killing zombies is fun! It's festive. It's lively outdoors work. You get some fresh air, it's good for the constitution--"
Hungary slid out ahead of America, looked left, and took out the first zombie with a straightarmed cast iron blow across the teeth. It thumped to the ground.
"--Helps you develop upper body strength--" America went on.
The group moved onto the street.
They fell into a natural formation: England and Prussia stood in the back, picking off the zombies at range, and the crack of the hunting rifle or the baddabadda of the SMG was accompanied by the groan and tumble and thud as the undead were thrown off suburban rooftops, cars, and in through doorways. America and Hungary scouted ahead, cleared the alleyways and under the cars, and stood shoulder to shoulder when six or ten or twenty zombies charged in all at once, and the ranged team couldn't keep them at bay. America sometimes used the butt of his shotgun as a weapon: to conserve ammunition. His blue jeans, and the front of Hungary's dress, were caked in gore.
It was a long hike through suburbia to reach a gas station that hadn't been raided down to its ceiling timbers. There wasn't much conversation. Nobody wanted to talk about how long they had been out there, how long it had been since communications went down, or how far it still was to New Orleans and its barnacle of civilization. At one point after shooting a jockey off her back, Prussia hauled Hungary back to her feet and said--
"What's that?"
And then,
"What're you doing with Spain's wallet?"
Hungary shrugged. "I took it from France. It's a game we're playing."
"A g--" Prussia staggered forward as a zombie plowed into his back, spun around, and shot off its arms. "A game," he finished. "How come?"
"You might not want to open that--"
Prussia was silent for a few seconds as he thumbed through Spain's wallet. Then, "Oh, fuck--holy shit--"
"I told you," Hungary sighed.
England buffed his Webley on his sleeve, sighted down it, and emptied a clip at three zombies as they charged out of a pastel blue bungalow. He clubbed the last one back as it staggered into him and caved in its skull with the stock of his rifle. A sickening crunch, and the thing dropped. He looked over Prussia's shoulder. "Good God," he remarked. "I didn't think Catholics did that sort of thing."
"What's this, now?" America ambled over, his shotgun swinging in his hand.
"I can't believe you and France have time for this shit," Prussia shook his head. "Does Spain even know you guys've got this?"
"France and I are the only ones who aren't waking up from bad dreams screaming every night," Hungary countered. Clang, and another zombie collapsed in a heap of broken headbones. "I'm not going to apologize for being able to get my mind off of--"
"Hey, woah, I do not--" America started.
"Scream in my sleep," Prussia finished.
They glanced at each other.
Hungary ignored them. "And no, Spain thinks he lost it in Atlanta. We'll give it back to him when he needs some cheering up!"
America nudged England aside. "Oh, what the fuck, is that Romano?"
A dark blur low to the ground--hunter--and America was thrown teeth-first into the pavement, the thing screaming and tearing at his coat, digging its talons against his ribs, his heart, it wanted his heart and "Get this fucking thing off me--!"
Hungary smashed it off, shattered every bone in its face, and Prussia fired point blank into its chest as soon as it hit the sidewalk. It sprayed open into a mess of black grease.
England hoisted America back to his feet.
"Thanks," he muttered, made a nod that included all of them, and then: "Fuck."
The back of his bomber jacket was chewed into strips. The 50 was barely legible.
"You're bleeding," England said. He reached for his med kit.
"Forget about it." America jerked his jacket tighter around his shoulders. "Save it."
---
By the time they reached the gas station, it was night, and pouring. They slogged through rainwater up to their ankles and made a wave when they dragged open the door. They found the roof inside leaking, the gas canisters floating into one another in the back room. The walls were covered in notes:
"Michael we are SAFE - taking the kids to New Orleans -LJ"
"Stay away from the sugar mill, it's full of witches"
"The end is seriously fucking nigh"
"This gas is here for ALL of us, take only what you need"
"Fuck the rest of you, I'm taking everything I can carry"
--Prussia scrounged up a Sharpie and added below that last one: "If I see anybody carrying more than one gallon of gas, I'll shoot them, no questions asked."
They rested for an hour, patched each other up. Hungary tore the bottom half of her skirt into rags to make back straps for the gas canisters. Prussia leered.
"Gotta say one thing for the zombie apocalypse. Hemlines are going up."
Hungary glanced up at him. "Prussia, why don't you just carry your gas. And mine. I'll take your SMG."
Prussia clutched the MAC-10 to his chest. "You still look real ladylike," he assured her.
"We need to go out through the roof." America squinted through the dark window.
"Why is--" England looked around him. "Oh."
The storm had turned into a flood. The water in the street rushed a foot deep. They climbed up to the roof and looked out across suburbia's thousands of identical, low-sloping shingled roofs, the rain pounding slick and sparkling and splashing over the edges into the torrent below.
"Rooftop to rooftop?" Hungary suggested.
"I'm sure as shit not wading around down there waiting for something to pull me under." Prussia blew water out of the loading gate of his pistol. They all had to shout over the storm.
"Shark zombies," America murmured.
England looked at him. America looked back. "Shark zombies," he explained. "We've seen regular zombies, and hunter zombies, and crazy weepy bitch-zombies, and tank zombies, so that's probably what's next. Shark zombies."
"You're no longer allowed to speak," England informed him.
"Big teeth," America added to himself.
Hungary set her jaw, hugged her frying pan to her chest, ran, and jumped. She skidded on the sloping shingles of the next roof, threw an arm out, and dug in her heel six inches before she would have slipped off the edge.
"Fuck," Prussia exhaled.
One at a time, they followed her, clinging to their guns, their gas, the rough rooftops and each other. The rain came in sheets. Sometimes when the wind whipped the air into a dark froth, dark shapes would drag themselves up from porch awnings and window ledges and stagger towards them. The nations huddled close together and shot them off.
And then America slipped.
He was beating back two of the infected near the edge of one of the rooftops, and then a sharp gust of wind slashed across it and he dropped out of sight. England's rifle fell out of his hands as he scrambled after him. His fingers clenched in the soggy corner of America's sleeve as America swung from the storm drain, kicking for purchase against the side of the house.
They stared at each other through the rain for a full second, then two, then three, all the muscles in their bodies straining for purchase.
The storm drain broke.
America splashed into the racing floodwater and disappeared.
"Don't go after--" Prussia shouted.
England went after him; he swung his legs down first and dropped hard. He plunged his arms into the water, churned up wakes in the current, found the back of America's collar and hauled his face above the surface. America heaved, coughed, clung to the front of England's jacket. His shotgun had disappeared. England hitched an arm around the porch banister, and the four of them waited for the storm to quiet.
When the rain had slackened, spent, to a patter, Prussia's head appeared far above them.
"You alive down there?" he shouted.
"We're all right!" England called back.
America muttered something into his shoulder and sagged on one leg. England caught him by his elbow and looked him over. "What's the matter?"
America licked his lips twice. He was too pale. "Ankle," he managed.
England's jaw tightened. "Twisted?"
America gave him a grim ghost of a smile which said: broken.
Hungary's head appeared beside Prussia's, her long hair tangled and coiled up over one shoulder. "Can you climb up the porch awning to get back to us?"
England found his voice. "Definitely not."
"It's gonna be slow going down there," Prussia warned.
"I've got your rifle--" Hungary waved it over the edge; "We can cover you."
"This zombie shit m-must be pretty bad…" America's voice held an awful, teeth-chattering laugh. "If I'm…breaking bones and shit over…a little th-thing like…t-tumbling off a roof…"
"America and I will meet you back at the diner, then." England hoisted America's arm over his shoulder and hauled them both upright. America sucked a breath between his teeth.
"You two be careful--" Prussia's voice was already withdrawing.
England drew America in tight. America's hand was white on England's sleeve. "It's only another half a kilometer or so," England murmured. They waded down towards the street. "Let's see some of that bloody-minded stubbornness of yours that I remember so well."
America didn't wisecrack or complain; he didn't say anything at all. England felt it when he started to shiver. Every few seconds they heard gunfire through the rain.
It wasn't until they were cutting through a plastic and aluminum municipal playground that America lurched to a halt.
England lay his hand in the small of America's back, tried to urge him forward. "Come, now. We're nearly there."
"I-I don't want to." America's voice was thick. He caught himself on a swing chain.
"Steady--what did you say?"
"I don't want to get back to the boat." America turned wide, young eyes onto England. "I don't want to get to New Orleans."
England opened his mouth, closed it.
America shivered in hard, uneven jerks. "I d-don't want to find out how bad everything really is," he begged England, and England hitched closer, held him up higher. "I don't want everybody to go h-home--"
"America," England hushed him.
"A-and I know you have to!" America's shaking progressed. He slumped down into the seat of the swing. "I know you're all, you're all--worried s-sick about what's going on back at your house, and, and if--but if you go, I'll n-never see you again, and I--!"
"America." England grabbed his shoulders. The water sloshed around his calves. "I need you to get ahold of yourself."
"I-I'm sorry, it's just--this is my house, this has happened to my house and I d-don't know what's going on any more than anybody, and, and, seeing what's happened--to my people--and h-having you here is the only thing that's--England--"
"We are nearly back to the boat. And once we reach New Orleans, yes, those of us who were trapped here after the world conference will go home. But--listen to me--" England grabbed America's chin and fixed their eyes together. "No matter what I find waiting for me back home, you and I are in this together, do you understand?"
There was a desperate thinning in America's eyes, and his pulse jumped in his throat.
"I am not going to simply abandon you," England soothed him. "No one is going to leave you to die."
"Prussia would."
"Prussia would," England allowed. "I would not."
The silence which unfolded between them was softened by the rain.
At last, America said, "I think I can keep walking."
"I'm glad to hear it." England helped him back up. The swing creaked.
America stared down into the surface of the water for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and summoned up a crooked smile. His voice trembled, and he forced steel into it. "You know, weather like this…and all the hostile, pale, unhealthy-looking types wandering around…you must feel right at home."
The corner of England's mouth twitched. "Well, I can see you're already feeling more yourself."
"Yeah…"
A silence.
"England?"
"Hmm?"
A tentative hesitation. "Thanks…um, for--"
Two zombies tumbled out of a second story window and splashed towards them. America wrenched out his Desert Eagle and didn't stop firing until the clip was empty. Bullets kicked up plumes in the water.
"…For?" England prompted.
America glanced at him. "Huh?"
"…Nothing."
"There you are!" Hungary waved the rifle over her head and swerved towards them from up the street. "We waited for you at the diner for ten minutes, but when you didn't show up--"
"Were you ladies planning on joining us?" Prussia demanded. "we figure we can light up the sign to the burger joint to signal France and Spain to bring the boat back to shore."
"The horde's gonna love that," America grinned, his face white, but his back straight. "When we light up this whole neighborhood like a Christmas tree."
England nudged America half a step in, and Hungary caught on and supported his other side. "The stupid git broke his leg in the fall."
"Hey--" America protested, but dug his hand in against Hungary's shoulder anyway.
"You can still fire a gun, can't you?" Prussia's gaze swept over him.
"Of course I can fire a fucking gun."
"Good." Prussia slammed a fresh magazine into his SMG. "Then let's kill some sons of bitches."
---
Omake: an hour later, back on the boat.
"First aid kids used:
America 2
Prussia 1
Hungary 0
England 0
"Pills taken:
England 2
America 2
Prussia 1
Hungary 0
"Melee kills:
Hungary 218
America 28
England 3
Prussia 0--"
"Que? What is Prussia talking about?"
"They're our stats for the evening," Hungary explained.
"Infected kills:
Prussia 408
America 375
Hungary 349
England 312--"
"Oh, bullshit," America cut in. "He so did not have time to count them all."
"I think it's a Teutonic thing," Hungary sighed. "Austria keeps statistics for everything, too."
"Oh my God, does he?"
"Mmm…"
"Like this?"
"Mm-hmm…"
"I am so sorry."
"Damage taken:
America 216
Hungary 88--"
"What unit of measurement is 'damage?'" England wondered.
"Prussia 52
England 18--"
"Don't interrupt him," Hungary advised. "He won't be satisfied until he finishes."
"Is Prussia keeping statistics again?" France came back from below deck with a splint for America's ankle.
"Does he always do this?" America glanced up at him.
"Ouai, every time…"
"Friendly fire:
America 52%--Jesus fucking Christ, America--"
"Oh, fuck off…"
"--Prussia 28%
Hungary 10%..."
The boat sailed on around the coast.
1,445 zombies were harmed in the writing of this story.
Originally posted: Here, for one of the homeless hetaliasunshine prompts (which I've only just now looked at ^_^;). Originally requested by hakuku.
Length: 3000 words.
Characters/Pairings: America/England, Prussia/Hungary.
Premise: Hetalia/Left 4 Dead crossover! (Okay, technically a Left 4 Dead 2 crossover.) For non-gamers: that means there's zombies.
Time period: THE ALL-TOO-NEAR FUTURE.
Smuttiness: 0/10
Funnyness: 4/10
Wrist slashiness: 5/10
Warm-and-fuzziness: 2/10
Lolhistoryness: 0/10
Violence: 7/10
Would I like it?: If you've played Left 4 Dead or Left 4 Dead 2, you'll pick up a lot of references, but otherwise you can just read it as a typical zombie apocalypse fic (minus the omake at the end). Bonus points to the first person who knows what campaign they're in!
Yeah, I don't know.
---
"This is bullshit," America proposed.
"I'll tell you what's bullshit." Prussia tore at the wire wrapped around the silencer of his MAC-10. "This fucking piece of shit sheet metal machine pistol is bullshit. This suppressor is dead fucking weight and I've seen little girls playing handball with more accuracy...what the fuck, is this shit welded on--"
"I think it's bullshit that England left our good guns on the boat," Hungary muttered. She shoved her hair out of her face and tied it back with a strip off her sleeve. Her dress already hung in tatters.
"And pray tell who died and made me the gun monitor?" England protested. He held his hunting rifle slung across his lap, a fresh magazine in his hand. He slammed it in.
America hauled himself off the grass, his shotgun slung over his shoulder, and answered, "Pretty much everybody."
The ruins of Louisiana suburbs spread out all around them. A dead neon sign towered over a sullen little diner. There was a fetid stink where the septic tank had cracked and was leaking onto the grass.
For the moment, the street looked empty, other than a few sad heaps of clothes and meat which had once been people. The nations had trained their eyes to skim past them.
"Now what I need," Prussia went on, "Is a G3, a solid fuckin' G3, something with stopping power. Not this piece of shit--"
"Why would I have a German assault rifle lying around in some crapsack burger joint?" America pushed through the back door. Glass crunched underfoot, and the bell overhead went ding ding. "We'll use what we've got."
"I'm curious why you have any heaps of guns lying around at all," England mused. He stepped over a corpse's outflung arm. "Or piles of ammunition. I know I have in the past tended to joke about your need for gun control laws, but--"
"Oh, come on, you want to give it a rest? If we'd been stuck at your house when this happened, we'd have to fight them off with police batons and cricket bats--"
Hungary came out from the diner's kitchen, new black blood spattered across her face. "I found a frying pan."
"Well, at least one of us is gonna make it out of here alive," Prussia grumbled.
They took a few minutes to sort out their guns, clips, and medical supplies, all in silence.
America peered out the shattered front window up at the yellowing sky. "Sun's going down. …Clouds're coming in, too."
"Right." England straightened his coat. "Let's get to the petrol station, get the fucking petrol, and get back on the bloody boat. Why wasn't I left on the boat?"
"You always get to stay on the boat," Hungary said.
"You always get to stay on the boat," America confirmed. "And it's a gas station."
"I'm the only one who knows how to sail," England pointed out.
"France and Spain aren't sailing." Hungary hiked an extra ammo belt up her shoulder. "They're sitting in the middle of the river with the anchor down. I'm landlocked and I think I could manage that."
England grumbled.
"Come on," America slapped him across the back and swung open the front door. Ding ding, ding ding. "Killing zombies is fun! It's festive. It's lively outdoors work. You get some fresh air, it's good for the constitution--"
Hungary slid out ahead of America, looked left, and took out the first zombie with a straightarmed cast iron blow across the teeth. It thumped to the ground.
"--Helps you develop upper body strength--" America went on.
The group moved onto the street.
They fell into a natural formation: England and Prussia stood in the back, picking off the zombies at range, and the crack of the hunting rifle or the baddabadda of the SMG was accompanied by the groan and tumble and thud as the undead were thrown off suburban rooftops, cars, and in through doorways. America and Hungary scouted ahead, cleared the alleyways and under the cars, and stood shoulder to shoulder when six or ten or twenty zombies charged in all at once, and the ranged team couldn't keep them at bay. America sometimes used the butt of his shotgun as a weapon: to conserve ammunition. His blue jeans, and the front of Hungary's dress, were caked in gore.
It was a long hike through suburbia to reach a gas station that hadn't been raided down to its ceiling timbers. There wasn't much conversation. Nobody wanted to talk about how long they had been out there, how long it had been since communications went down, or how far it still was to New Orleans and its barnacle of civilization. At one point after shooting a jockey off her back, Prussia hauled Hungary back to her feet and said--
"What's that?"
And then,
"What're you doing with Spain's wallet?"
Hungary shrugged. "I took it from France. It's a game we're playing."
"A g--" Prussia staggered forward as a zombie plowed into his back, spun around, and shot off its arms. "A game," he finished. "How come?"
"You might not want to open that--"
Prussia was silent for a few seconds as he thumbed through Spain's wallet. Then, "Oh, fuck--holy shit--"
"I told you," Hungary sighed.
England buffed his Webley on his sleeve, sighted down it, and emptied a clip at three zombies as they charged out of a pastel blue bungalow. He clubbed the last one back as it staggered into him and caved in its skull with the stock of his rifle. A sickening crunch, and the thing dropped. He looked over Prussia's shoulder. "Good God," he remarked. "I didn't think Catholics did that sort of thing."
"What's this, now?" America ambled over, his shotgun swinging in his hand.
"I can't believe you and France have time for this shit," Prussia shook his head. "Does Spain even know you guys've got this?"
"France and I are the only ones who aren't waking up from bad dreams screaming every night," Hungary countered. Clang, and another zombie collapsed in a heap of broken headbones. "I'm not going to apologize for being able to get my mind off of--"
"Hey, woah, I do not--" America started.
"Scream in my sleep," Prussia finished.
They glanced at each other.
Hungary ignored them. "And no, Spain thinks he lost it in Atlanta. We'll give it back to him when he needs some cheering up!"
America nudged England aside. "Oh, what the fuck, is that Romano?"
A dark blur low to the ground--hunter--and America was thrown teeth-first into the pavement, the thing screaming and tearing at his coat, digging its talons against his ribs, his heart, it wanted his heart and "Get this fucking thing off me--!"
Hungary smashed it off, shattered every bone in its face, and Prussia fired point blank into its chest as soon as it hit the sidewalk. It sprayed open into a mess of black grease.
England hoisted America back to his feet.
"Thanks," he muttered, made a nod that included all of them, and then: "Fuck."
The back of his bomber jacket was chewed into strips. The 50 was barely legible.
"You're bleeding," England said. He reached for his med kit.
"Forget about it." America jerked his jacket tighter around his shoulders. "Save it."
---
By the time they reached the gas station, it was night, and pouring. They slogged through rainwater up to their ankles and made a wave when they dragged open the door. They found the roof inside leaking, the gas canisters floating into one another in the back room. The walls were covered in notes:
"Michael we are SAFE - taking the kids to New Orleans -LJ"
"Stay away from the sugar mill, it's full of witches"
"The end is seriously fucking nigh"
"This gas is here for ALL of us, take only what you need"
"Fuck the rest of you, I'm taking everything I can carry"
--Prussia scrounged up a Sharpie and added below that last one: "If I see anybody carrying more than one gallon of gas, I'll shoot them, no questions asked."
They rested for an hour, patched each other up. Hungary tore the bottom half of her skirt into rags to make back straps for the gas canisters. Prussia leered.
"Gotta say one thing for the zombie apocalypse. Hemlines are going up."
Hungary glanced up at him. "Prussia, why don't you just carry your gas. And mine. I'll take your SMG."
Prussia clutched the MAC-10 to his chest. "You still look real ladylike," he assured her.
"We need to go out through the roof." America squinted through the dark window.
"Why is--" England looked around him. "Oh."
The storm had turned into a flood. The water in the street rushed a foot deep. They climbed up to the roof and looked out across suburbia's thousands of identical, low-sloping shingled roofs, the rain pounding slick and sparkling and splashing over the edges into the torrent below.
"Rooftop to rooftop?" Hungary suggested.
"I'm sure as shit not wading around down there waiting for something to pull me under." Prussia blew water out of the loading gate of his pistol. They all had to shout over the storm.
"Shark zombies," America murmured.
England looked at him. America looked back. "Shark zombies," he explained. "We've seen regular zombies, and hunter zombies, and crazy weepy bitch-zombies, and tank zombies, so that's probably what's next. Shark zombies."
"You're no longer allowed to speak," England informed him.
"Big teeth," America added to himself.
Hungary set her jaw, hugged her frying pan to her chest, ran, and jumped. She skidded on the sloping shingles of the next roof, threw an arm out, and dug in her heel six inches before she would have slipped off the edge.
"Fuck," Prussia exhaled.
One at a time, they followed her, clinging to their guns, their gas, the rough rooftops and each other. The rain came in sheets. Sometimes when the wind whipped the air into a dark froth, dark shapes would drag themselves up from porch awnings and window ledges and stagger towards them. The nations huddled close together and shot them off.
And then America slipped.
He was beating back two of the infected near the edge of one of the rooftops, and then a sharp gust of wind slashed across it and he dropped out of sight. England's rifle fell out of his hands as he scrambled after him. His fingers clenched in the soggy corner of America's sleeve as America swung from the storm drain, kicking for purchase against the side of the house.
They stared at each other through the rain for a full second, then two, then three, all the muscles in their bodies straining for purchase.
The storm drain broke.
America splashed into the racing floodwater and disappeared.
"Don't go after--" Prussia shouted.
England went after him; he swung his legs down first and dropped hard. He plunged his arms into the water, churned up wakes in the current, found the back of America's collar and hauled his face above the surface. America heaved, coughed, clung to the front of England's jacket. His shotgun had disappeared. England hitched an arm around the porch banister, and the four of them waited for the storm to quiet.
When the rain had slackened, spent, to a patter, Prussia's head appeared far above them.
"You alive down there?" he shouted.
"We're all right!" England called back.
America muttered something into his shoulder and sagged on one leg. England caught him by his elbow and looked him over. "What's the matter?"
America licked his lips twice. He was too pale. "Ankle," he managed.
England's jaw tightened. "Twisted?"
America gave him a grim ghost of a smile which said: broken.
Hungary's head appeared beside Prussia's, her long hair tangled and coiled up over one shoulder. "Can you climb up the porch awning to get back to us?"
England found his voice. "Definitely not."
"It's gonna be slow going down there," Prussia warned.
"I've got your rifle--" Hungary waved it over the edge; "We can cover you."
"This zombie shit m-must be pretty bad…" America's voice held an awful, teeth-chattering laugh. "If I'm…breaking bones and shit over…a little th-thing like…t-tumbling off a roof…"
"America and I will meet you back at the diner, then." England hoisted America's arm over his shoulder and hauled them both upright. America sucked a breath between his teeth.
"You two be careful--" Prussia's voice was already withdrawing.
England drew America in tight. America's hand was white on England's sleeve. "It's only another half a kilometer or so," England murmured. They waded down towards the street. "Let's see some of that bloody-minded stubbornness of yours that I remember so well."
America didn't wisecrack or complain; he didn't say anything at all. England felt it when he started to shiver. Every few seconds they heard gunfire through the rain.
It wasn't until they were cutting through a plastic and aluminum municipal playground that America lurched to a halt.
England lay his hand in the small of America's back, tried to urge him forward. "Come, now. We're nearly there."
"I-I don't want to." America's voice was thick. He caught himself on a swing chain.
"Steady--what did you say?"
"I don't want to get back to the boat." America turned wide, young eyes onto England. "I don't want to get to New Orleans."
England opened his mouth, closed it.
America shivered in hard, uneven jerks. "I d-don't want to find out how bad everything really is," he begged England, and England hitched closer, held him up higher. "I don't want everybody to go h-home--"
"America," England hushed him.
"A-and I know you have to!" America's shaking progressed. He slumped down into the seat of the swing. "I know you're all, you're all--worried s-sick about what's going on back at your house, and, and if--but if you go, I'll n-never see you again, and I--!"
"America." England grabbed his shoulders. The water sloshed around his calves. "I need you to get ahold of yourself."
"I-I'm sorry, it's just--this is my house, this has happened to my house and I d-don't know what's going on any more than anybody, and, and, seeing what's happened--to my people--and h-having you here is the only thing that's--England--"
"We are nearly back to the boat. And once we reach New Orleans, yes, those of us who were trapped here after the world conference will go home. But--listen to me--" England grabbed America's chin and fixed their eyes together. "No matter what I find waiting for me back home, you and I are in this together, do you understand?"
There was a desperate thinning in America's eyes, and his pulse jumped in his throat.
"I am not going to simply abandon you," England soothed him. "No one is going to leave you to die."
"Prussia would."
"Prussia would," England allowed. "I would not."
The silence which unfolded between them was softened by the rain.
At last, America said, "I think I can keep walking."
"I'm glad to hear it." England helped him back up. The swing creaked.
America stared down into the surface of the water for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and summoned up a crooked smile. His voice trembled, and he forced steel into it. "You know, weather like this…and all the hostile, pale, unhealthy-looking types wandering around…you must feel right at home."
The corner of England's mouth twitched. "Well, I can see you're already feeling more yourself."
"Yeah…"
A silence.
"England?"
"Hmm?"
A tentative hesitation. "Thanks…um, for--"
Two zombies tumbled out of a second story window and splashed towards them. America wrenched out his Desert Eagle and didn't stop firing until the clip was empty. Bullets kicked up plumes in the water.
"…For?" England prompted.
America glanced at him. "Huh?"
"…Nothing."
"There you are!" Hungary waved the rifle over her head and swerved towards them from up the street. "We waited for you at the diner for ten minutes, but when you didn't show up--"
"Were you ladies planning on joining us?" Prussia demanded. "we figure we can light up the sign to the burger joint to signal France and Spain to bring the boat back to shore."
"The horde's gonna love that," America grinned, his face white, but his back straight. "When we light up this whole neighborhood like a Christmas tree."
England nudged America half a step in, and Hungary caught on and supported his other side. "The stupid git broke his leg in the fall."
"Hey--" America protested, but dug his hand in against Hungary's shoulder anyway.
"You can still fire a gun, can't you?" Prussia's gaze swept over him.
"Of course I can fire a fucking gun."
"Good." Prussia slammed a fresh magazine into his SMG. "Then let's kill some sons of bitches."
---
Omake: an hour later, back on the boat.
"First aid kids used:
America 2
Prussia 1
Hungary 0
England 0
"Pills taken:
England 2
America 2
Prussia 1
Hungary 0
"Melee kills:
Hungary 218
America 28
England 3
Prussia 0--"
"Que? What is Prussia talking about?"
"They're our stats for the evening," Hungary explained.
"Infected kills:
Prussia 408
America 375
Hungary 349
England 312--"
"Oh, bullshit," America cut in. "He so did not have time to count them all."
"I think it's a Teutonic thing," Hungary sighed. "Austria keeps statistics for everything, too."
"Oh my God, does he?"
"Mmm…"
"Like this?"
"Mm-hmm…"
"I am so sorry."
"Damage taken:
America 216
Hungary 88--"
"What unit of measurement is 'damage?'" England wondered.
"Prussia 52
England 18--"
"Don't interrupt him," Hungary advised. "He won't be satisfied until he finishes."
"Is Prussia keeping statistics again?" France came back from below deck with a splint for America's ankle.
"Does he always do this?" America glanced up at him.
"Ouai, every time…"
"Friendly fire:
America 52%--Jesus fucking Christ, America--"
"Oh, fuck off…"
"--Prussia 28%
Hungary 10%..."
The boat sailed on around the coast.
1,445 zombies were harmed in the writing of this story.