Summary: "I don't care! Let me go!" His cry was shrill and choked with panic, but the hands didn't relent. His brother was in danger. His brother was going to die if he didn't act now! It was all his fault that Canada was down there, and it was his responsibility to help him. "He's my brother! I have to save him!" Why couldn't they just see that?
A/N: A quick one-shot written as a single scene in a zombie apocalypse scenario. Written awhile back as action writing practice, and now to figure out this site. What happened before and comes after is up to you!
America bolted across the square, his feet thundering him towards the hideout door. He could faintly see Switzerland turning from his position on the roof and shout an intangible order, hopefully to take down the barricade and allow the distressed nation access. He could hear the undead horde groan and shriek as they gave chase behind him, their presence hot against America's heels despite the speed at which he ran.
With a long leap, he sprang up the three-step platform in front of the door, his momentum slamming him into the thick metal entrance of the warehouse. America's fists came up to pound against the sheet blocking him from safety as it refused to give into his efforts. Faintly, he could hear the muffled scraping and shuffling of the barricade being temporarily disassembled to permit him quick entry. Through the nearly deafening moans of the creatures, Germany's harsh swearing from beyond the door provided no comfort at his progress.
America momentarily abandoned his pounding; clearly the barricade would not bow to him, he would be forced to wait. Leaning his back against the metal, he assessed the oncoming horde with a sharp intake of breath. They were close, and rapidly coming closer. In a matter of moments, they would be on him. Dead, dragging limbs and rotten bodies did little to slow the monstrosities as they climbed over each other in their fervour to be the first to tear into living flesh.
His hand twitched to the holster at his hip, a painful reminder that he was a sitting duck without ammunition. Germany was still fighting with their intricately constructed barricade, a reassurance that hey, it did its job quite well!
America gulped. His heart pounded deafeningly in his ears and the muscles in his arms twitched against his will as he eyed his oncoming demise in the form of demented, thundering corpses. He felt so powerless, his survival completely hinging on his allies' ability to save him, and time for that was quickly running out. He hoped that Canada had found a safe place to duck down, as far away from here as possible, if fate would allow.
From the roof of the warehouse, he could hear more orders being shouted from Switzerland, most likely an attempt at organizing a defense force against the unforeseen mass of enemies. He only hoped they could get along long enough to help.
CRACK! Suddenly, just as the monsters came within grabbing distance, the echo of a single gunshot cut through the chaos of the approaching horde. The world froze as the earsplitting sound echoed harshly off the walls of the street, reverberating against America's ribs and skull and wobbling windows in their frames. The sound rang across the buildings until it eventually receded, the world holding a bated breath as reaction set in.
A row of creatures were sent crashing to the ground in an explosion of rotten flesh and blood. At once, every member of the horde's heads snapped to the side on emaciated necks, senses locking in on the origin of the sound. America's eyes followed, desperately searching for the source.
On the other side of the open square, a lone, inconspicuous car sat low to the ground, glass from the windshield scattered across the street in front of it. Canada's previously unseen form leaned forward between the front seats within the vehicle, elbows planted on the dash with the barrel of his rifle pointed between the rugged edges where the window had been blown away by the shot.
His arm pulled back sharply on the bolt, the tell-tale cha-chink of a bullet being forced into the chamber the only sound to permeate the settled silence as he prepared another round. A second shot fired across the street, downing another three standing corpses that crossed its murderous path.
The action a catalyst, America stood in horrified shock as the horde of flesh-eaters turned away from him, their previous victim forgotten with the loud distraction as they poured towards his brother's newly-revealed position.
"No!" America couldn't help the distressed scream that erupted from his throat. Canada was supposed to stay hidden! Lay low, utilize his invisibility, and stay out of harm's way as America took the role of decoy! Another shot rang out.
America's arms pushed back against the metal behind him, preparing to launch himself off towards his previous assailants. The few seconds granted by the distraction, however, apparently provided those working on the barricade just enough time to finalize its dismantling. Before his body had so much as left the side of the warehouse, the door behind America gave way and strong hands seized the collar of his shirt, wrenching him inside and blocking his view of Canada's car.
He struggled with all his might against the grip that bound him, fighting desperately even as the heavy door slammed back into its place, multiple nations already working to reinforce the barricade.
"America, stop," Germany's deep voice hissed in his ear. "There's nothing we can do. Too many of them."
America only struggled harder. Every moment he wasted here was a moment less to save his brother. Another rifle shot split the air.
"Let me go!" America growled, throwing Germany off with a twist of his shoulders. The barricade had been reset, blocking the door as an option. America howled his displeasure, snapping around on his heels and thundering to the metal staircase for the roof. He would jump to his twin's aid before sitting back and watching.
Charging up the stairs, he exploded into the open air of the roof with all the rage of a caged beast. Switzerland's group of armed nations seemed to have finally organized themselves; they stood in a line along the half-wall of the open area, unloading a shower of bullets into the crowd below and picking off as many as they could. However, for every monstrosity they plowed down, two more seemed to take up its charge.
Pushing through gathered observers, America hastily forced his way to the edge, leaning over as far as he could to see his brother.
Canada had somehow evacuated the small car, knee planted in a crouch on the vehicle's roof as he smoothly reloaded his rifle's magazine. Sweat beaded his skin and traced shimmering lines down his forehead, collecting dirt and grime and leaving pale, blanched skin in its wake. His shoulders shook slightly and heavy pants raked his form, though the harsh movements didn't seem to impede his skilled handling of the ammunition.
The task done, he clipped the reloaded magazine forcefully back into place and scanned the oncoming horde. His body tensed as violet eyes swept over the endless stretch of living corpses approaching from all sides. He raised his gun toward the nearest front, foregoing his scope to shoot blindly into their ranks. The zoom would prove useless in such close proximity.
America's hands planted themselves on the ledge of the roof, tensing to vault himself over to his brother's rescue. Once again, hands locked themselves on him, some gripping his clothes, others wrapping around his waist, all of them halting his advance.
"You git," England's voice was harsh against his ear. "Going down there is suicide." Germany grunted his agreement from over the struggling nation's other shoulder.
America couldn't bring himself to care. His brother was in danger. His brother was going to die if he didn't act now! It was all his fault that Canada was down there, and it was his responsibility to help him! Why couldn't they see that?
"I don't care! Let me go!" His cry was shrill and choked with panic, but the hands didn't relent. "He's my brother! I have to save him! LET ME GO! I HAVE TO HELP HIM! CANADA!" Struggling and twisting against the constricting hands, he screamed his brother's name with all the force he could muster, as if it alone would be enough to save him.
Through the gunfire hailing from the nations gathered on the roof, through the moans of the creatures, through the no-doubt deafening pounding in his ears, it seemed America's voice had reached its target. Canada's head snapped up from the enemies he faced, his panic-laden eyes softening as he laid them on America's struggling form. The corners of his lips lifted slightly in some form of reassurance, barely enough to be visible given the distance. But the look was enough.
America's struggles grew weaker with defeat as he watched the horde pile around the car, bloodied arms reaching to the last untouched island in the sea of writhing, groaning beasts. The rotting limbs lunged and flailed clumsily until wayward strikes bundled fingers within tan coat, tearing and yanking from all directions. Canada continued to fight, swinging the butt of his rifle into as many gripping limbs as he could.
The nation struggled and fought even as hands pulled at his legs, tearing him from his perch and dragging him bodily down the hood of the car. Canada fought even after his rifle had been forced away, kicking his legs, twisting his body, throwing unaimed punches and clawing with exhausted hands at whatever he could reach. He fought, even as he disappeared from sight beneath the writhing, hungry horde.
The nations on the warehouse could only watch in stunned silence as the fighting stopped.