People had said that when the footsteps of mankind ceased to be, forests would grow and nothing would have to be oppressed by a nation's hand. People had said that when civilization ceased to be, deserts would recede and the Earth could return and flourish until nothing else remained but an endless palette of colours without the blemish of war. It was all a theory. A hope that most people had hidden away in their hearts while others were busy with their noses in green piles of currency that was a symbol of all of the greed that held their hearts close and caressed their minds with individual tendrils of green. Green was a good colour. Not much remained now that the world had turned to more and more war and bombs upon bombs were thrown onto the soils of Nations to add another scar to an already battered, failing body.
Nations would fall. Their people would cry. Society would fight.
It was not always that the government had to fear its people. When everything had been said and done and anthems ceased to be the people had receded into their shells and hoarded what they needed and what they wanted. Not much could be taken. Whatever slowed down their escape made the walkers gain in closer and gain an advantage. The shadows nearly killed the light, and all that has become dead or gone has either risen or become silenced with the blow of impact to the head. There were no hierarchy's left to follow. No structure to reside in and no social ladder to climb. A man stood on the top floor of a rusting building captured by sand and waste, and there were no cars to stop and no people to stare. The only heads that turned were the ones with empty eyes and hungry mouths, held away from his pert flesh by a pane of glass that was already cracked and its frame already splintered. Heads would roll. Only a curious onlooker would notice if the head belonged to the living or the dead.
Somewhere else away from that city without moving cars and without a breath of life that was free, there was a field. It wasn't special. In another time, it would have been the same colour as that princess in the story who had the long hair in the tower. Something caught between golden, something caught between beige. Now burned stalks clung to a slightly lighter expanse of soil and the sun drew heat waves that made a group of walkers flesh crawl. All was safe. They were down closer to a long dried stream and when an arrow pierced the ground next to them, all was good. All was quiet. They were completely indifferent to each other, only stopping when their cracked shoulders bumped into another while they stumbled into the one direction of where the arrow hit.
It was a waste. A waste that Lukas wished he didn't make.
He hardly used the bow. It felt heavy on his back, but it was much better than a gun. He was chasing a rabbit. There was a trick to this – to act indifferent, to keep an eye on it but never turn his head when he noticed it beneath the branch of a dried tree or a crumbling branch. The rabbit was catching on, or maybe it was skittish from going without food for so long. He couldn't see it well enough to pick out any details, but there was simply a feeling about it that it wasn't as plump as it should be. It led him towards the road, nestled beside a bridge that had long been reduced to shambles and a stream run dry. Amongst the two arrows that Lukas fired off, one hit its mark.
The other hit the middle of a dozen walkers.
Careful of the shafts moving in his quiver, Norway crouched low. His gloved hand closed over the rabbit, and between his fingers, he pulled out the arrow all but indifferent to the moans of the undead. These months had been repetitious – but oh so much better than staying in Oslo. Nestled in the mountains, he wished he didn't have to go so far down the summit. Near the bottom of the mountains, the forests had mostly died off; his body was dry, and his breath was short. Infectious heat crept across his mouth and his cracked lips, and when he licked the dip of where the outer edge met the inside of his mouth, another stale breath of air was drawn into his starved lungs.
The entire world was out of whack.
His body no longer felt cold but cold and dry. So much ash had fallen from a nation Norway could call his little bror, and since the sky had finally cleared a year ago, he felt as though something had tilted. Something had changed. The ice melted and melted and areas at the summits of his mountains became dry and cracked, but always with a crisp bite that hurt whenever he drew in a breath of air. An age of nothing had settled on his shoulders and while he walked back into the forest of stubs and charred branches that resembled outstretched stubs of hands, his eyes were downcast. It wasn't long until the snow line started again. Soon, he'd be back up the path deeper into the summit and when he reached the cabin that Iceland and he had both stumbled on, they would eat the rabbits that were a little too light for their proper weight. He had eaten rabbits in the past. They were never this light unless if a winter was especially tedious and long. Somewhere deeper into the mountains was a village. He could feel it, a pocket of dead space in the lower ridge of his back, there but simply… not.
He never bothered to go back for the arrow. It wasn't worth the fight.
Norway's breath made small puffs of grey whenever he exhaled. When he breathed in, a shiver rose somewhere down his chest. The temperature was dropping. He could feel it every time he took a step, and every time a wisp of crisp air would blow some of his hair underneath his hat onto his face. Come morning light, and they would be safe and sound, in the cabin of a family that had long since disappeared. How many others were gone? The marrow of his bones felt weak. He hated the feeling. It wasn't right. By the time he had gotten past the path and towards a bend in the road he had found himself, the rabbits felt a tad heavier than before.
He loved retreating to the mountains. Lukas had learned more about the walkers in the past months than he had in the time he spent in that city. They could not see – they followed where they heard the nearest sound, the closest sensation. A winds breath that could either feather the curve of their rotted cheeks or cut through their tattered clothes with the intent of a blade. Most of all, they followed each dip of the earth, and went lower and lower, wherever the earth resisted the least. As long as he and Iceland went higher, they encountered less and less of the walkers, unless if a crowd had been infected near the top. The higher they went, they safe they were. They could be safe and sound if they could just find enough food and enough heat to stay warm.
"Nor,"
Lukas glanced up, his mind and his gaze torn from the ground. Iceland was not supposed to be outside. He shouldn't be up and on his legs at all until he rested enough. "Mm?" Lukas raised a brow at Emil and continued his steady pace, the sweat at the back of his neck already dried and now cold. Maybe he should lie down as well. He should be getting stronger when all his body was doing was getting weaker and weaker.
Emil regarded him with a steady gaze. "Nothing. Come inside. I got the fire started."
"The smoke…" Emil cut Lukas off.
"I took care of that,"
Well, might as well take his word for it. Lukas walked in after him, setting the rabbits down and tugging off his goggles. The room was so much brighter without the darker tint of goggles to mar his view.
"You didn't run into anything, bror?" Iceland had settled in by the fire, his knees up to his chest. Now that Lukas regarded him in a closer view, he could see that Iceland hadn't slept. His hair was tousled and his skin was sweaty, but other than that, there was nothing to show that he had fallen asleep. The bags beneath his eyes had grown. Emil hardly every slept when Lukas left.
"Nei," Lukas settled in next to him and undid his jacket, still tasting frigid air on his dry tongue. "A small group, but I drew them away."
The silence between them was comfortable. Sometimes Norway would check on Iceland and his condition, and sometimes Iceland would complain that he was being too watchful. Sometimes they would sleep. More so, Iceland slept after they cooked and ate the rabbit, though they extinguished the fire soon after and covered the meat. If any of the walkers smelled it, they would be attracted to it. The scent, the presence of life. They always came. They never gave warning. When Iceland fell asleep, there wasn't any warning to that, either. Lukas nodded off with his head resting on the top of Emil's dirtied, white locks, and they drifted to a sleep that was no longer disturbed by anything other than worries and false light.