Iceland's head hurts. It's hurt for a long, long time now. Maybe it's dehydration, he isn't sure. There isn't a lot of water to go around, due to the fact that the lakes and rivers have become so polluted that one drink from them is as good as a shot to the head. What little water there is left is either guarded fiercely by other people, or gathering dust while laying on the shelves in derelict markets.
Yeah, it could be dehydration. Maybe it's just the chemicals in the air. Maybe it's just the sickening greenish glow that colors the sky. Maybe it's just the ever-present knowledge that humanity is slowly dying, slowly turning into something strange and alien.
When the attacks had started, everyone had been in a world meeting in Washington D.C., hosted by America. The news had come on in an emergency broadcast to tell the public what was happening. All of the nations had their eyes glued to the T.V., watching footage of attacks in horror.
When the emergency broadcast was over, pandemonium had broken loose. Iceland could still remember Italy's terrified voice as he asked Germany if everything was going to be okay, and the hitch in Germany's as he assured the Italian that it was.
Germany wasn't a very good liar.
The Nordics had attempted to flee back to Scandinavia, but all of the flights and ships were booked. Everyone wanted to get the hell away from the U.S., the place the attacks had started.
In fact, looking back, Iceland wasn't even sure how the disease and zombification had made it across the seas. Of course, the sickness was alien and had come from space, so it had obviously proved itself to be resilient.
Everything was turning into something sprung fresh from one of those dystopian novels that teenagers seemed to love so much. Except this time, it was real.
Still in D.C. with all the rest of the nations, the Nordics had watched as the news agencies continued to broadcast live action footage of attacks, and statistics as to how long this all would last before the militaries took action.
Iceland recalled America being confident in his army's ability to defeat the undead; the hotheaded nation had boasted continuously again and again that one shot to the heart ought to take them down.
But it didn't.
No one could figure out the zombies' weaknesses, if they had any. Blowing off their heads might get you three minutes, maybe less, before they were coming back at you. Shooting them in the heart? No, that wouldn't do a thing. The heart had stopped a long time ago, and the disease was the only thing keeping them alive.
Things had gotten grimmer and grimmer, until one day America said that he couldn't take it anymore. He loaded himself up with weapons, guns, grenades, pistols, assault weapons, you name it, and went out with the tattered remains of the military.
He went down in a blaze of glory. It was all over the news, how one brave individual had led the U.S.' army in its final, desperate attempt to win. America fought bravely and impressively, face set in a look of grim determination.
But America couldn't be a hero all the time. He fell, and when he did, he fell hard. His death was broadcast across the world, how he tripped over backward and how the undead swarmed to him, biting and ripping and tearing.
The helicopters that they used for filming got everything. Every last gory detail. The news agencies were long done with filtering explicit material.
When the horde pulled away from America, it looked like he'd been mauled by a bear, or something worse. Iceland didn't like to think about that scene, and he didn't like to remember the reaction of his fellow nations.
England, the nation who was usually so reluctant to show any sign of weakness, broke down and sobbed. He cried his heart out in front of the others, his voice wailing in agony. He pulled at his hair, and rocked back and forth on the floor. France had finally had to restrain him from causing himself too much harm.
Canada stared at the T.V., his mouth slightly open in horror. Iceland was sure that he couldn't believe that his brother, Alfred F Jones, the hero, had been defeated by zombies. A tear had trickled down his face, Iceland remembered, one solitary diamond of a tear.
The others were just as horrified, but out of respect for the ones closest to him, they did their best at not showing it.
Everyone just wanted to be at home. Everyone just wanted for this to be a dream. Everyone kept on wondering how on earth this was possible, how were their zombies, how did they kill America, and why was this happening to them?
But the airlines and ship companies had stopped running. News agencies stopped broadcasting. Everyone left their jobs. This wasn't a matter of scraping a living while making the best of the circumstances, this was a matter of surviving.
The nations had started to split up. Canada had gone back to his place, and the rest of the North American and South American countries had all started the long trek back to theirs as well. The other nations started dividing into groups. It wasn't safe to have all of the countries together, they decided.
Iceland and the other Nordics hadn't the slightest clue where to go, or what to do. So far, they'd just been avoiding the hordes of the undead that roamed the streets, and the gangs of men and women who had decided to take advantage of the apocalypse to run wild and murder.
A few weeks ago, Denmark had found a gun store that hadn't been raided. It was a goldmine. They took some pistols, assault rifles, ammo, whatever they could carry. Iceland himself wore an M16 over his shoulder and two AMT Automag III's in a holster that hung around his hips.
Guns and weapons were always a valuable resource, but food was even more beneficial. Stores and marketplaces were starting to run out, and supplies were getting harder and harder to find.
Finland had taken to shooting birds or other animals that he could find, taking advantage of his expertise with guns. He'd shown Iceland a thing or two about the weapon in the past, so Iceland wasn't half-bad himself.
The thing was, guns couldn't do much. There's no real way to kill a zombie, only to halt it for a little while. Still, their weapons had saved their asses more times than Iceland wanted to count.
Currently, Iceland sits on the edge of a rooftop, one knee brought close to his chest and the other leg swinging off the side of the building. The moonlight is bright tonight, and he can see quite well. He looks around at his family, the only thing left for him to protect.
Norway, his older brother, is leaning on Denmark's shoulder. He was the one that found the seventeen cans of canned pasta today, and Iceland knows how tired he is. His head is tilted, and his mouth is open slightly. Iceland is fairly sure that Norway's asleep.
Denmark is sitting gingerly, not wanting to disturb Norway's rest. He's constantly giving him tender looks, and has one hand curled in Norway's pale blonde hair. He's balanced a can of cold spaghetti against his leg, and is using one hand to scoop out handfuls of the stuff. It's not the cleanest way to eat, but it seems to be efficient enough.
Finland is sharpening a knife and leaning against Sweden. The sunshiny aura that always seemed to surround him is gone now, a grim one replacing it. Sealand was not one of the nations attending the world meeting, and Finland has no idea where he is or whether he's okay or not.
Sweden is counting provisions, one of his arms slung over Finland's shoulders. He stacks canned pasta and canned soups on top of one another, and has a small pile of beef jerky and crackers. Their water supply rests beside that, looking pitifully small. There's only enough for a few days, then they'll have to go scavenging for some more.
"Seventeen cans of pasta, eight cans of soup, thirteen packets of beef jerky, and nineteen packets of crackers," Sweden says, looking up. "That'll last us a little while."
"What about our water?" Iceland asks, and Sweden's expression gets a bit grimmer.
"We've got seven water bottles right now," Sweden responds.
Seven. That's barely enough to last them for a day and a half.
Finland musters a smile, and says, "Well, we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it."
Iceland knows that he's doing his best to keep his voice light and cheery, but Finland sounds the most frightened out of all of them. It's not just in the sound of his voice either, Iceland can see it in the hunch of his shoulders, the dart of his eyes when he glimpses any sight of movement, and the way that his breath hitches in his throat whenever someone brushes against him. He's on edge.
Then again, they all are.
"You should get some sleep, Ice," Denmark says, his voice toned down a bit as to not wake Norway up. "You need the rest."
Iceland is sure that he looks like a ghoul, or something of that sort. He hasn't slept for a while now due to the fact that he hadn't been able to. He'd had insomnia previously, and it had come back with a burning passion during the start of the apocalypse. He doesn't know about his outward appearance, but he does know that every step requires more energy than he's willing to spare. He's completely exhausted.
"I guess I'll try," he says, and lays down on the rooftop, spreading his coat out beneath him and curling up on top of it. "Good night."
"G'night," Sweden says, placing their provisions in a backpack.
"Sweet dreams," Finland says, checking his reflection in the blade of the knife.
"Sleep well," Denmark says, trailing another hand through Norway's pale blonde hair.
Iceland closes his eyes.