The scorched earth under Matthew's feet was heavy with the stench of decaying flesh and singed hair. The sky pulsed, clouds of blacks and greys rolling and churning above him, warning of the impending storm. The first drops of rain were falling, blessing the sole survivor of the bombing with the cool gift of water on hot, dry skin. The rain mixed with the tears in his eyes, pooling behind his cracked glasses as he gazed upon the ruins of what was once his capital, Ottawa. The Canadian flag, proudly erected before the capital building, whipped and snapped in struggle, fire eating away the red maple leaf with angry hunger. By the time the rain had become a downpour, it was but a scrap of black cloth, hanging limply in the storm. Matthew himself would not die- not this easily- but his beloved capital city had seen its final hour at the hands of the Russian menace.
The damage was difficult to survey through the blinding rain. Matthew's boots slipped and stuck in the mud and a sickly squelching sound followed him as he walked. The rain would soon turn to snow, coating the land with the fierce white of the Russian blizzard. Autumn was quickly crumbling from beneath him, a weak bridge between the extremities of a hot summer and a freezing winter. The Russians brought their cold with them to the already frosty land, sweeping life from the earth in vengeful bombings, fires, guns and disease. It was unclear as to which Ally betrayed the others; Russia's power alone wasn't great enough to conquer the world in one fell hit. No, there was an accomplice that wanted the other nations destroyed. At least, thought Canada as he kicked open the cabin door, freeing the quickly-freezing hinges, they hadn't counted on the strength of the Canucks- not to mention their hidden firepower. Still, the siege had hit hard, and there was no power, little food and no way of knowing what had become of the other nations since Doomsday.
Kumajirou scampered when the door was kicked open and ran for refuge under the meager coffee table. The place was cheap, a safehouse that Matthew normally used for storage, but was livable when needed.
"Relax, Kumakiku," Matthew said softly as he eased onto the tattered couch, minding the broken boards under the plush cushion. "It's just me." He inspected the damage to his glasses, slipping them off and turning them over in his hands. He didn't have any more lenses, so he'd suffer through the double vision forced upon his right eye.
"Who?" the bear's voice implored as he stuck his head out, looking up at Matthew in question. A sigh fled the Canadian's lips and filled the cool air with a hot puff of white.
"It's getting cold fast," he murmured, choosing to start a fire rather than answer the bear. There was a woodstove in the corner of the cabin for easy heating and he checked the wood supply. Fittingly, it was dangerously low, but enough to tie him over until morning. He made quick work of starting a fire, and it quickly filled the room with heat. He always was better than Alfred when it came to survival tactics.
Alfred. His eyes strayed to his phone. It was powered down to conserve energy, on the off chance that the towers would be up and running again. He hadn't heard from his brother in weeks now, not to mention his father or any of his friends. Once upon a time, even Ivan had been a favored number in his contacts. The two shared polite talks of hockey games and other Arctic antics more times than he remembered. All conversations drifted to a swift close when the topic inevitably turned to becoming one with the larger nation. Again, his mind turned in an endless circle. Just who had fallen to the Russian's lures? The thought that it may have been one of his beloved family worried him greatly, and he willed himself not to cry. When the tears began, they would never stop.
"Food," said Kumajirou, and it brought him from his self-pity. Rations of dried fish were stored in the cupboards and he peeled them from their packaging, loading up the bear's bowl. Their taste couldn't overpower their rank odor, but the animal's stomach quelled his complaints.
"I'm sorry, Kumariki," said Matthew softly as he tried a piece of his own, cringing at the strong sour taste. He would have killed for a tall stack of pancakes and a boatload of maple syrup. Even a pad of butter would go down easier on his tongue. Cheese rolled in wax and jars of olives, peppers, and pickled vegetables lined the other shelves, but nothing seemed to satisfy his true hunger. If he wanted to be strong enough to fight, he needed meat, or something more sustaining than old dried fish that smelled as bad as he did after weeks with no shower but the rain. He sat in silence, listening to the patter of the rain on the tin roof and the quiet sound of Kumajirou smacking his jaws.
"Maybe it's time to surrender," said Matthew softly. He pondered the shotgun propped up against the wall. "I'm all on my own now. I'll never survive the winter, even if I do have the ammunition…" What he truly craved was the support of a country with a more evolved military; that would be an effective tool to better combat the Russians. But without phones or internet lines, he was trapped, forgotten by the other nations as the world unanimously declared, "Every man for itself."
Matthew thought until the sun was burned out (not that it had ever shown itself to begin with) and the moon was a bright sickle overhead, the sign of the Communists resurrected for a new-age war. He laid down, sandwiched in a poorly-insulated sleeping bag, and was grateful when his bear climbed next to him and snuggled close in his nest of blankets.
"You know, Kumadango," Matthew said softly, the world dark around him as he held the bear close, "I'm not sure if there even is a Canada anymore. I'm just Matthew now."
He closed his eyes tightly, knowing the bear's response before it was conceived, the question lingering in the silence of the night.
"Who?"