Hello there fellow Fanfiction readers and writers! Bracken here!
So, here is my very first Fanfiction to have been uploaded on here. I've been writing Fanfiction for Hetalia for months now, but never had the courage to post anything I had before now!
Now, my writing style is unique and hard to read, or at least, I've had people tell me that in the past, so I hope it doesn't affect anything, and I hope whoever reads this enjoys it, and hangs around for the chapters to come!
I'd also like to thank Rinny Queenston [icelandic-frosting on Tumblr] for help with the plot, and for having provided me with ideas. Amazing you are yes. :D
I'd also like to mention Koza B. Bucket [we-deal-in-butter on Tumblr], and traci-from-outer-spacey [Tumblr] for being such amazing friends, and holding inspiration with our daily conversations, and giving me the want to keep writing.
You guys are amazing c:
I hope you enjoy :D!
Silence. It hung in the air like a limp cloth, draped across the landscape that stretched out far in his vision, deafening, unwanted, undesired, the only single sounds that would come blooming from his steps, when his boots pressed against the uneven surface of the earth. No breeze blew, nothing to stir the leaves that hung half-dead on the trees surrounding him, not a single breath of wind to release the stale feeling the air held. The clouds hung low, too low for any kind of comfort, pressing in a way that made them appear to shift closer and closer, only adding onto the damp, stiff feeling the air bore, and the desire to see even just a speck of sunshine was something he found growing.
A single step, a crunch of a leaf, his own breathing, they were the only sounds that had been heard for a lengthy amount of time, not even a word spoken out loud stirring the noises from any other possible sources, a letdown, a depressing fact, unwanted thoughts constantly brewing from the absolute silence that seemed to billow from the surroundings.
He was all alone.
And he had been for an unnamed length of time.
How long he had been out, why he was sleeping or knocked out in the first place, what had happened, they were all things he found himself wondering, and constantly was shown with no answers to nearly anything, no ideas to what was going on being made, not a single hint or clue showing its face.
The tree he had woken up slumped against thoroughly matched the rest surrounding him currently; half-dead, their leaves slowly finding their way from the branches to the ground, the colour gone from any once-living plant, the life having seemed drained from the very surface of the planet. His violet eyes had opened to meet the dreary, nonliving surroundings, and instant unease and slight panic had threatened to take over, those feelings still trapped within him these long moments later, pounding, threatening to overtake him.
The first thing he had done had been to try and locate any friendly faces, whether they were those like him, humans who could provide answers to his questions, or even animals, little companions to keep him from getting lonely while he searched for others. But there had been nothing, nor was there anything in sight in the current moment as he sat upon one of the large, rough rocks that seemed to litter the landscape in random areas. Anything from large creatures, to the tiny ones, not even little bugs, they were impossible to seek out.
After realizing that he was completely alone, he had begun to search the surrounding area for buildings, signs, anything that could help, and it had lead him to his current position, perched upon the stone, confused, lost, and the unwanted emotions only growing as what seemed like hours ticked by.
A soft sigh, breaking the dreadful silence that had taken over, brushed past his lips, the small hunting rifle clasped within his hands held firm, the grip on the weapon only tightening, unrelenting. He trusted his skills with the gun, placing his life within its hands, years of usage with rifles and other artillery hopefully able to keep him from falling, as he felt there would be something, at some point, that would call for the rifle.
There was something wrong. It didn't take a genius to see that something had taken place while he was out, that this was not the same as it had been prior. Even the most clueless, oblivious person would be able to see this, or at least, he thought so.
The first wisp of air breezing by that he had felt in his waking moments brushed past his ear suddenly, bringing a small, soft smile to his expression, not matching the state he was in in the slightest. Clothing torn in places, boots splattered with mud, possibly blood mixed in with the red liquid. Cuts lining his arms and neck, face scratched and bruised, he could almost hear Mathias teasing him, saying that he looked like he had just fought a bear.
For all he knew, he very well could have.
The smile faded at the thought of the others, his fellow Nordics, and those outside of the circle that he could call family. How he longed for company and answers.
The breeze softly trailed by as he shifted on the rock, the dried up moss beneath his large boots crunching unpleasantly, violet gaze searching, scanning the surroundings with intensity, narrowing in focus. The road he was currently following along only a few feet away from his current position, the opposing side lined with tall, deceased trees, their tall branches meeting the dark clouds.
Where was he?
Rifle being held closer to his chest, the Finnish man began to move from the rock, only to be stopped, pausing almost instantly, gaze shooting up from the ground in which it had been focused on before. The single sound that had brought his attention, the sudden snap, was found to be repeated only once after the first outburst, and his weary gaze found its way toward the area in which the noise had come from.
No surprise was felt or shown upon his expression when he was met with nothing but trees and dying bushes, no dark shapes lurking within shooting range, no friendly faces darting out to provide comfort and help. The frown deepened in a bit of disappointment, his unease growing, but he turned away from the location of the long-gone sound, back toward the road, resuming the descent of the boulder, jumping the last of the distance, dead leaves and grass crunching at his arrival.
Body tensing for just a short moment when that action aggravated a leg injury he had been fighting to ignore, pained hiss escaping his clenched teeth, along with a Finnish swear, he quickly took to moving toward the road and away from the rock, pushing the pain away mentally, limping visibly as he stepped upon the broken asphalt surface.
Slinging the rifle across his shoulder, Tino took to continuing along the path he had been travelling earlier before his break, the direction that seemed to move away from heavily forested areas into one of less dense conditions. Whether it was the best idea for him, he wasn't completely sure, but where there was a road, there was bound to be a house along it eventually. Or at least, that's what he figured and hoped.
The surroundings were so boring, so repetitive, he grew to realize as he slowly walked along the road, searching in every direction for anything that could provide aid to him. The trees all looked the same, grass the same shade of yellow-green, it was unnerving and he quite longed for the bright, lush shades of summer, or the soft whites of winter.
Time seemed to stretch on as he wandered, occasionally trailing from the road to examine something of interest, whether it had been just a simple shiny can, to the little lighter he had found abandoned at the side, of which he picked up, storing it inside the pocket of his jacket, where it met his fisted hands that were shoved inside the pockets as well.
What could have been minutes seemed like hours, the only sounds, once again, that reached his ears were that of his own, whether it was the whistling, a nervous tick he had, or the scuffing of his boots on the ground, nothing else made itself known.
The sky seemed to grow darker as he trailed on, weariness beginning to tug at his limbs, threatening to take him down, but Tino refused to give up, give in to any sort of rest, without finding someone, or at least some sort of shelter. The emptiness was too unnerving, and he didn't trust his own safety when his guard was down in a second.
The pathway was clear, silent, as still and lengthy as ever, sky darkening rapidly overhead, slow, quiet rumblings between each could showing that a storm would break out before the night settled in. Unwelcome, but he was aware there was nothing he could to do change the weather, just take it, make the best of it, because that was what he usually did, taking the situation and making it the best it could be, and hoping that it would be okay.
A sudden flash of lightning, and strange clap of thunder sounded in the air, as he halted his travel, glancing up anxiously at the cloud, which seemed to swirl in random directions, the wind that had been gentle beginning to pick up, nag annoyingly at his hair and clothing. He shivered slightly as the breeze pressed against him, chilly, quite harsh, nipping his bare cheeks.
Violet eyes studying the clouds, they widened as another spark of lightning flew through the air, appearing to travel from one cloud to another, a danger to him and the trees around. It was clear the storm was set, and to hit soon, rain probably only minutes away, and it was then that he lowered his gaze from the clouds, set to taking a faster pace and hoping he would find safety.
And that was when he became aware of what was approaching him.
Having been mesmerized from the strange pattern of the clouds, no sight had been placed upon the road before him, no notice of the now approaching shapes, multiple bodies seeming dead set on making it past, or to him. Their strides were slow, hesitant, almost fearful, and they were most likely human in species, something which sent a flutter of joy through him. The humans would provide help, shelter, possible answers to his questions, and they could aid each other in figuring out just what had gone on. And with this many of them, seeming to be all travelling together in some sort of parade or marching band, at least he assumed, there was bound to be a town or city nearby.
A small smile broke out onto his face, hope filling him inside, wiping away the worry, the fear that had been constantly nagging him, and he began to move toward the people, hand ready for his weapon in case they proved to be fearful and attack, or possible threatening, in which he would need a way to defend himself, while telling them what he was doing here.
But as him and the group approached each other, his strides slowed, expression growing from the eager excitement into uncertainty, confusion, as he took in the full look of what was before him, the crowd of gathered shapes only twenty or so feet from where he paused, and his eyes widened, a spark of pure fear shooting him like a bullet through his flesh.
It had not hit him right away how strange the formation had been.
Zombies, more than he could count, different shapes, sizes and colours. From a distance they appeared just like a human, and he understood why the mistake for thinking they were had taken place, but up close, he could see the infected wounds, located in many areas upon each of the moving creatures, the way they appeared half-dead, only taking partial interest in their surroundings, more focused on the ball of flesh that was Tino.
Their skin was pale, some baring darker, yet still pale skin than the rest. Eyes dead, foggy, no trace of human thought or emotions upon their faces just open mouths, low groans, unfocused eyes that seemed to bore right through him, almost as if they were staring into his soul, moving in to take it from his body.
If he hadn't been holding his breath, completely paralyzed in fear, he was sure he'd have screamed.
A step back. Dozens taken toward him. A shaky breath, multiple low, uneven groans.
It was quite terrifying to meet with creatures he thought only existed in the violent first-person-shooters that he played. The games showed the zombies as absolute brain-dead creatures, but these ones, the ones that were so real and before him, they seemed to move in a certain pattern, knowing exactly what they were doing, even though the blank expression could act as a counteract toward that examination.
The idea that they were smarter than appeared was only built on when he noticed weapons within the grasp of at least half of the advancing stream of undead, actually unsure whether the zombies were able to function and aim correctly, but he wasn't about to give it any risk, a chance for one to take aim at him.
Taking a few unsteady steps back, he quickly spun around, set to flee, only to find himself being met with another wall of dozens of the moaning flesh-eaters, slowly encircling him, pressing on like a hoard of ants would attack a spill of honey. Swallowing a lump in his throat, the Fin quickly withdrew the precious rifle of his, holding it firmly in his grasp, keeping his back to the side that was furthest away, aiming the device at one of the few that grew too close, focusing quickly, but sharply, pulling the trigger without a single hesitation.
There was something different about shooting one of the undead in the head, as opposed to firing at humans or those like him, he realized in that moment. Something about how the bullet seemed to pierce the skin with very little resistance, sliding through like a hot knife through butter, and he could only assume it made it clean through, as the zombie let out a strangled sound, almost instantly dropping, withering on the ground as its brethren pressed forward.
The trigger was fired only three more times before the zombies seemed to figure out what was going on, pressing closer, the ones wielding weapons that could be used to strike raising them threateningly, whereas the ones carrying any sort of long-ranged weapon brought them up from facing the ground. Luckily for him, it appeared the striking zombies were closer, for as soon as they got the hint of what was beginning to happen, the bullets went flying, most of them meeting the zombies that had taken up the front.
In a way, they were still zombies, not completely getting the concept of a gun.
The choked screaming that broke out from at least ten of the now fallen zombies was ear-piercing, sending a shiver up his spine as he began to fire his own weapon toward the creatures that pressed upon him, quickly resorting to using the bottom of his rifle to smash the heads of the undead, absolutely uncaring to the brutality he was unleashing, violet eyes narrowed in concentration, flickering back and forth nearly as fast as he stuck.
Strike, dodge, dodge, strike, strike. Repetitive cycle, much like walking in a circle, and he found himself pressing backwards, slowly being completely encircled in the mass of zombies. It seemed that no matter how many he stuck, no matter how many were shot of their own kind, that another was right there to take its place, stepping right over the fallen creature as if it were just a log in the way, hungrily focusing on the only living thing before them.
His arms burned, bleeding with scratches from the attacking hoard, face and clothing quite splattered with the blood from the falling zombies, expression determined, but also laced with fear, as his hopes for getting free from the hoard slowly faded, dwindling until it was just a single strand, wafting in the breeze, ready to be taken out by a single misplaced breath.
Breathing heavily, breaths short and nearly desperate, Tino found himself being pressed back, the previous circle of zombies now just a wall, the mass having reformed when those of them began falling in great numbers, forming a new strategy, which appeared to be that of forcing him against a tree, struggling to keep the forces of the weapons, gaping jaws, and long fingernails from overcoming him.
Sudden pain that exploded in his shoulder broke the concentration that he had formed, the steady attack, as he nearly dropped the rifle, pained scream erupting from his mouth, grip tightening to the point it would be certain that his knuckles would be white. Not daring to look at what had caused the sharp pain, he quickly kicked the zombie that threatened to take him down, pushing it away with his foot, and quickly bringing the rifle down upon its head, and swinging it out in front of him, to the point where he could care less if this would cause permanent damage to the frame of the weapon.
It wasn't landing killing blows, but it managed to push them away from him enough to quickly sling the rifle back upon his shoulder, stiffing another scream of pain that nearly broke from his mouth, biting his lip sharply, tasting blood, as he picked up a metal bat, the same one that had stricken him across the arm earlier, lashing out and striking one of the zombies that neared him square on the top of the head, feeling the vibrations along the weapon, nearly releasing this one in the same way he had almost dropped his rifle.
Attacking zombie after zombie, steadily feeling his energy being drained to the point he was sure he was going to collapse, he finally found hope that he would remove all these undead from around him, only around twenty or so, a guess he took, remaining, a few of them wielding the guns he so much desired not to be stricken by.
Summoning the last of his energy, he took a running start at the nearest to him, landing a blow directly to the side of its head, sending it flying sideways, where it collapsed and did not move again. He sent blows to many more, receiving a few himself that nearly made him give in, narrowly missing being hit by a stray bullet, swiftly taking the sender of that shot.
The last zombie soon met the force of the bat, collapsing with the same ear-piercing shriek that the rest carried, meeting the mass of bodies gathered upon the dead, blood-ridden ground, the weapon used to take the one last kill falling from his hands, landing beside the fallen zombie with a light sound.
Tino couldn't help but laugh, a slightly deranged sounding laugh, which burst from his lips with a wide smile, as he stumbled backwards, back into the tree he had previously been trying so desperately to get away from. Head spinning, body numb with pain, he couldn't do anything more then just laugh, having never expected to have gotten the advantage, to have won.
He leaned against the tree laughing until the laughs turned into gasps for breath, each short breath sending throbbing pain through his shoulder and other areas of injury, and he closed his eyes tightly, forcing his breathing calm, willing the world to stop spinning around him, taking a few moments to steady himself, before slowly opening his unique coloured eyes, taking in the full extent of the damage, seeing all the smashed in skulls, the holes where rounds of ammo had stricken the figures, the blood and grime, and he found himself choking back vomit as he quickly spun on heel and closed his eyes again, taking a deep, calming breath, before opening them once more and pressing forward, doing his best to ignore the bodies at his feet.
At this point he became aware of the pouring rain, having hardly noticed it during the fight, realizing he was completely drenched, the drain washing the blood from his head, causing it to drip down his face and onto his clothes, the pieces of clothing sticking to him like glue and paper. Making sure he had his rifle with him, he began to head back toward the road, and in the direction the zombies had come from. Possibly a bad idea, for it could mean a town crawling with the infected, but a town was a town, and he was in desperate need of some medical supplies and rest.
With a pace much slower than it had been before, he limped heavily along the road, head dipped, the very little energy he had left leeching out of his body with every step, to the point it was growing unbearable, where he had to practically force himself to take a step, tears beginning to trail down his face from the immense pain that came from such motions.
He was no wimp to pain, and he was actually a lot stronger than he looked, but zombie bites and scratches stung more than any other kind he had received before, the rain like acid upon the wounds, wiping away the grime that might have got stuck inside, but bringing forth something that seemed much worse at the moment then infection.
Everything seemed to spin, want to cause him to topple, and it was a struggle to keep placing a foot in front of the other, each step jolting the spinning world around him, as he breathed unsteadily, keeping the focus of his gaze on the road right in front of him, not daring to look up in the fear of finding everything swirling beyond his control.
Only did he look up when a painful collision made a building present before him, the realization that the path had moved toward the right making itself clear with an unsteady observation. Tino pressed against the wall, leaning against it to the point his legs figured it was time for rest, and tried to give out on him, and he then quickly pulled away from the wall, his limbs giving a painful protest, but he knew better than to rest in the middle of the street, where he was very vulnerable.
"Just... a bit further." He whispered to himself, voice cracking at the end, and he internally winced at how weak he sounded. He was always looked at as the weak one, despite his strength and ability to protect himself, and hearing the weakness in his voice was like taking a stake to his pride, shooting him down a notch, and it was something he truly despised.
The town was small, buildings all appearing to be the same light tan in colour, one or two of them sporting some blood splatters, while others were crumbling in the corners. None of them were larger than two storeys, only towering over him a bit, providing to be of little help in getting out of the rain, which now just pounded upon him and the surroundings, sounding like thousands of feet upon the soil.
He moved slowly along the road once again, glancing from side to side as he studied the buildings, looking for a few certain ones that could give him the help he needed, pausing before a rundown looking one, a store sign sitting on the outside, or at least he assumed so; for the language was not of one he knew.
Hesitantly he approached the structure, which looked quite weak, one of the crumpling ones, and found the door blocked with a knocked over shelf, something which sent a sudden twinge of irritation through his body, as he saw food and medical supplies lying within the building. Attempts made at just simply opening the door were a fail, as it just pushed against the fallen shelf, unwilling to open, and he let out an annoyed growl, lightly banging his head against the door, wincing and cursing in Finnish under his breath when that sent pain through his body from the contact with the cold glass.
Cold glass.
It was a glass door.
A smile spread across his face at that realization, and he stiffly withdrew his rifle once again, using the battered, bloody butt of the weapon to smash it against the glass as hard as he could. Letting out a shriek, he fell to his knees when the rifle collided with the glass, having caused the glass to shatter, implant itself within his skin, and the vibration that shuddered up the gun did nothing to help the pain he was trying to desperately to ignore.
Cringing as he forced himself to stand, looking at the pitiful things he called hands, completely bruised, bloody, mattered, and it appeared one of the fingers was dislocated. A strained sigh left his mouth, and he kicked a hole in the rest of the glass so the rest of his body would fit in, entering inside the shop and eagerly taking a look around, taking in the objects lying within.
A simple convenience store, most likely one of the ones that would overprice items to make a better profit, since it appeared to be one of the only ones in the town, but that little fact never reached his mind, as he instantly headed down one of the little aisles to his right, easily able to look over each aisle to the wall, as he quickly limped through it, pulling off some canned goods and a bottle of juice, moving to the next one where he found tons of medical supplies, a huge source of joy to him, and he quickly gathered them into a pile to take, then taking more off of the shelf.
Using the different medical supplies on the shelf he began to clean himself up, using disinfecting wipes on most of the cuts and bruises, ending up running out of all of it before he could use it on all of them, quickly throwing the container to the side, and focusing on dressing the larger wounds, leaving the little ones to heal on their own.
Starting with his legs, and working his way up, he eventually made his way to the shoulder, where he then hesitantly removed the long sleeved shirt he had been wearing, realizing that he must have lost his jacket, or have had it shredded off, blinking when he found an oozing bullet wound, still bleeding, and he took a deep breath, biting his lip anxiously, taking hold of the bandages, and quickly applying them, realizing that there was probably shrapnel inside, but wanting to get moving as soon as he could, beginning to feel he was going to fall asleep on the floor of the store.
Taking the remainder of the supplies and stuffing them inside a backpack he had managed to find, he lined the rest of the inside with the food he could find, searching for a can opener, unable to find one, and giving a sigh at that, before stepping over the objects he had knocked down, and quickly limping out of the store, leaving his destroyed shirt behind, figuring he could do fine without it as long as he didn't sustain anymore chest injuries, as they would penetrate more since he had no pieces of fabric, even weak, protecting him.
Resuming wandering the streets for a good place to rest, he eventually came across a small house, appearing to be a studio styled shack, sporting a bathroom in the back, and the smile that spread across his face wouldn't go away as he took in the room; very simple with a small, single bed sporting a night table at the side, sitting off to the right, with a small fridge and stove off to the left, a table and one chair sitting in the middle, the door to what he guessed was the bathroom off to the back.
Setting the bag down at the end of the bag, he quickly entered the bathroom, determined to wash all the blood out of his hair and off his hands, moving over to the sink, but finding it too hard to accomplish such a thing after a few tries, moving over toward the bathtub after a moment of thought.
Arm reaching out to turn on the tap, he froze, eyes widening as he stared down into the bathtub, being met with cold, dead, lifeless sapphire eyes, stepping back, seeing it was just a young boy, sitting inside the rusty tub, and from the positioning he could tell the young blond boy had died from suffocation, more likely than not having been submerged in the water. The thought of someone doing such a thing brought a sick feeling into his stomach, and he began to turn around, freezing when his gaze rested upon the young boy's face, and he visibly paled.
"Peter..." The name was whispered, voice breaking, and he almost robotically moved forward, brushing the blond hair from his face, feeling tears make their way down his face yet another time, and he then quickly turned, exiting the room, shutting the door tightly behind him, where he stood, staring blankly across the dark room, breathing unsteadily, unsure what to make out of what he just found, never having imagined something like that would be found in such a quaint little shack.
It was then that he moved toward the bed, sitting down heavily upon it, stiffly drawing his legs on it and laying down, staring blankly at the ceiling, tears still making their way down his face as he tried to get sleep to wash over him, the visions of the zombies and Peter in the tub making it nearly impossible, taking over his vision whenever he closed his eyes. But he did eventually drift off into sleep...
... Only to be woken by a voice.