Note: I hope that you would forgive me the lingual errors. I don't live in a country where English belongs to official languages (for being strict: I live in Poland :]) and I had to spend about an hour with a dictionary in hand...but I'm still learning :3
This fanfic despite of the tragical content is based on one of thousand Internet jokes. It's initially planned as one-shot, but maybe if I had an idea for continuation... Enjoy the death! (xP)

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia!

A big sleigh were getting through the endless Siberian taiga. The dusk was coming. Dogs, a little tired of long tour, were falling in the thick layer of the snow. Four almost deadly frozen figures were sitting inside.
A loud howl had been heard by them all.
'Wolves' – Ivan uttered weirdly calmly.
'T-That's not good' - Ludwig could hardly speak with his frost-bounded lips. Alfred, who was sitting nearer Braginski, merely cried. Feliks felt a bit frightened, he was unlikely silent, though.
A herd of the most probably starved animals has caught up easily with a transport. The Russian suddenly lifted up Beilschmidt.
'Was machst du, Russien?!' - the German shouted out in panic. - 'You wouldn't...'
He'd never ended. The sleigh left, going out of agonizing screams of the blue-eyed.
'I-I hope t-t-that they've g-gone aw-way...' - America was shivering of fear and
coldness.
'They have gone' - the Pole said after short while, - 'towards us.'

Wolves seemed to not be contented with one bloody victim. The choice has been put on Jones.
'Set me free!' a terrified nation yelled. 'You Russian numbskull!'
'But I'm already releasing you' - the tallest of the countries answered with pretended surprise. After some seconds US dealt the tragical dole with Germany.
Several full of terror minutes had passed. The predators weren't thinking about giving up.
Neither did Braginski. When one of the cadaverous animals called with an inarticulate sound, the platinum-haired took out a huge old-fashioned rifle. Poland was looking with half-opened mouth at how his the only alive companion of the trip was laying down all of them, one by one.
When the leader of the flock had died and the sleigh had driven away for a safe distance, Feliks stated: 'You've got this gun with yourself from start for sure.'
'Da' - the Russian was already taking a bottle of vodka out of his long coat.
'So... why hadn't you, like, shot them in that time?!' - the green eyes were looking with reproof on the purple ones. That wasn't like he really felt sorry of Ludwig and Alfred. He simply hated the senseless deaths, and those two were counted to them.
'Oh, are you crazy? A half of liter for four of us?'
'Booze your bloody vodka yourself' – the flaxen-haired mumbled, wrapping his coat tighter around his body and decided not to say anything until the end of travel to... where to?
No, the tactic like that is kinda childish. How could he ask him where they are going to?
He didn't even have to. Ivan muttered quite loudly:
'So where are we going? Maybe home...'
'H-home?'

'Home... to me...'
It looked like the drunken Russia was falling asleep. Feliks felt torn. He didn't want to die on this cursed wasteland, but on the other hand there was anxiety of... what? Surely not of purple-eyed, he's been never afraid of him. Something like a foreboding was lurking in the nooks of Poland's soul, however.
That's nothing. He have to carry on the journey.