Zombies are overtaking the world. When enough citizens become the flesh-hungry undead, so too does their nation. The remaining nations have taken protecting their land from the zombies into their own hands.

Pff. Why do I keep writing random first chapters when I have other stuff I'm working on?

I've been toying with the idea of writing a zombie story for a while (I've loved zombies since my uncle first inflicted Return of the Living Dead on me when I was 10. XD He was a good influence, eh?). A bloody fantastic zombie comic by the uber-talented USUK fancomic artist Otoshigo helped the desire grow, though this story isn't related to hers.

So. USUK's the main pairing. That's all I know for sure at the moment. Maybe Russia/Canada? Maybe maybe other pairing variations between those four? Don't know yet. We'll see.

Title is from Dawn of the Dead's tagling. "When there's no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth." Despite the fact that, y'know, this story is about virus-zombies instead of randomly-risen-from-the-grave-zombies. But whatever. I like that quote!

Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine.


England grimaced and reached for the roll of bandages. "Bloody hell, you've got another one."

"Huh?" America looked up from stuffing food into his mouth—canned beans were a far cry from burgers, but they had to make do in this day and age—to give England a perplexed look. "Another what?"

England pointed to the small patch of rotten skin on America's bicep. "What does that make it, three?"

"Oh..." America pursed his lips as he gazed down at his arm. "Yeah."

America had a vast population. England shuddered to think of how many people had to be overcome by this horrid plague to cause symptoms in the nation. The poor small nations had turned quickly...

England dabbed a bit of antibiotic onto the new wound, as if that would do any good, then wrapped some bandages around it. There was a similar spot on his calf. And part of his cheek had rotted clean away, revealing the gleaming teeth and jaw beneath. England had yet to develop such horrid wounds, himself. The island nations had reacted quickly after the outbreak and thankfully remained mostly untouched. As had the northern nations, for the creatures had revealed a preference for warmer weather. Even Russia was mostly okay, despite being the epicenter of the plague. Canada hadn't been so lucky: the zombies didn't seem to want to stick around in his country, but his population was small enough that it hadn't taken much death for one of his eyes to rot out of its socket. They had had to sedate him (with liquor, and plenty of it) to sever the dangling eye from the nerves still connecting it.

"First aid doesn't do anything," America murmured. "It won't get better." It wouldn't get worse, either. Only the continued zombiefication of their people worsened their wounds. Infection and the like didn't.

"I know." But England continued to treat him, anyway. It made him feel better.

America just shrugged. "They should be back by now."

"It hasn't been that long." Russia and Canada could take care of themselves.

It had taken a while just to convince America to let them help him in his cross-country zombie hunt. Even after agreeing, he continued to suggest they return home to care for their own countries. But of the four of them, only the US seemed to be in any current danger from the ever-growing hordes of creatures, so they ignored his worries.

At least the human and animal zombies could be somewhat easily killed. Damage the brain, and they stopped moving for good. But a nation who had died and reawakened as a walking corpse hungry for flesh was truly immortal. Much harder to deal with. Most of them—the majority of countries in Africa, Asia, and Europe that were south enough—were still wandering mindlessly around in their own lands. Only a few had been dealt with sufficiently. Greece had been burned to ash, the Italies had been chopped into tiny bits (which had continued to twitch and move around), and Vietnam had been sunk into the Pacific.

"I hope they didn't get bitten," America said as England set the first aid kit aside.

"Me, too." The nations had yet to actually contract the virus. They had only become zombies when the majority of their population had succumbed. If the virus itself had an affect on them remained a mystery. But now that they were getting out there, in the middle of things, killing zombies... it was only a matter of time before they found out.

"We're back," a nearby voice called. "Oh, I smell food."

"There you are." America smiled wearily. "I was getting worried."

Russia tossed aside his variety of weapons with a smile of his own. None of his wounds were visible, hidden beneath his usual bulky clothes. And none of them were bad, just a few coin-sized bits of rotten flesh. "We're fine. No problems."

Canada set aside his own guns and knives. "Right. Piece of cake." When America had started neglecting hair cuts, the twins had become even harder to tell apart. Now that Canada sported a patch beneath his glasses, nobody would make that mistake again... probably.

"What happened?" Russia asked, nodding toward the new bandages.

"Ah... another one." America tried to look indifferent, but worry filled his eyes. "It's not very big. England insisted on wrapping it up."

"Not surprising." Russia sat at the table with a sigh. "There seems to be more of them, I'm surprised you aren't worse."

"Well we had better get out there!" America stood, his old enthusiasm returning, and he gave a thumb's up. "You two eat. England and I have work to do!" He beamed, and England couldn't help but smile. Now there was the enthusiastic hunter, who had once used a pair of zombies as weapons against others, laughing all the while.

"Maybe brush your teeth before you go out," Canada said, barely keeping a straight face.

America clapped a hand over the gaping hole in his cheek. "Shut up, three eyes!"

"Boys..." England said, retrieving some of the weapons Russia and Canada had set aside and strapping them on.

"Hey, don't hog the goods." America hurried closer to help himself to his favorite tools of zombie death.

"Have fun," Russia said cheerfully, dishing up a bowl of beans.

"You know it." America strode out the door, England hurrying to catch up. They avoided the traps and alarms they always set up around their temporary homes, and ventured out into the mostly abandoned city.

It wasn't long at all before they heard the distant sound of an inhuman groan.

"I guess they missed one," America said, gripping his gun.

England nodded. "Let's put the poor bastard out of its misery."


So hm. Heck, this could even work as a one-shot, I suppose. lol But I'll probably continue it.

Too bad England's not, like, a religious figure or something, or I would totally find a way for him to quote Dead Alive. "I kick arse for the Lord!" Heh heh heh...