"Well dammit." America cursed under his breath. He had tried yet again to call England's cell phone, but like the countless attempts over the past year, failed. He hadn't heard from him since before the breakout, which was a little over a year ago. Alfred (he'd gotten into the routine of using his human name whenever he came into contact with any survivors to save time) was currently standing in the empty (of life, at least) parking lot of a super market that he just had looted. He felt anxious to leave; all the empty and overturned cars around him could be hiding bandits, or even worse, the flesh eating undead that had caused this world wide epidemic in the first place. The thought of trying to call England one more time crossed his mind, but he dismissed it, telling himself that he needed to get moving fast. He finally was able to come unglued from his stance and began walking in the direction he had been traveling for so long. He wasn't quite sure where he was or where he was going; he just had a gut feeling that it was the way he needed to go. As the super market grew farther and farther away, the sun began to set behind him. As the sun sank, and as the rays grew dimmer as they sank along with its source, he stopped and felt a sinking feeling himself: he might never see England again. He shook his head angrily and wiped his eyes, realizing tears had started to drip down his cheeks. He was upset with himself for thinking that. He was determined to find England, dead or alive.