A gunshot wakes Iceland, and he shoots up from the rooftop, one hand on his pistol. It didn't come from too near to them, so he's not incredibly worried. But still. In this world, you've got to be careful or you'll wind up undead.
Everyone else is already up. Finland's bitten his lip at the sound of the gunshot, and Iceland notices his hand straying toward the assault rifle swinging from his hip. He doesn't pick it up, though, he merely lets his fingers graze across the polished black surface. It seems to bring a little comfort to him, and he turns to meet Sweden's gaze.
I must have gotten at least a little sleep, Iceland thinks, and rubs his eyes.
"Mornin', Ice," Denmark says. He tilts his head toward wherever the gunshot came from. "The gangs are getting closer."
Aah. So that's what it was. Iceland could've guessed as much. Ever since the attacks started, there were some people that seemed to revel in other's terror. They created gangs, and started to murder and torture others for fun. This created a whole new threat, and it meant that everyone had to get a whole lot more careful.
Iceland would've thought that in the event of an apocalypse humanity would've dropped its qualms and worked together to try and find a solution, but he guesses that he just wasn't right.
"We've got to leave this camp and find a new one," Norway says. "Plus, we need more water. We're alright food-wise, for now at least, but we'll need more soon."
Norway had become the planner in the group. He'd calculate risks, and plan raids on markets and stores. He'd observe the hordes and gangs, and record useful information. He was perfectly suited to the job, really.
"Let's go, then. No sense in waiting around to be killed," Finland says, slinging his slightly tattered blue backpack over his back.
Iceland nods.
Everything seems so brisk compared to what it used to be. Thinking about the conversations that they'd had before about stupid and trivial things makes Iceland want to stuff the heels of his palms in his eyes to push back tears. He's angry at himself for not properly enjoying and appreciating the time that they had been given. Now, it's too late.
They make their way down the fire escape of the building that they were staying on the roof of, carefully climbing down the rusty corroded metal.
At street level, they try to stay close to the buildings, each nation clutching their gun closely.
Denmark goes first, followed by Norway, then Iceland, then Finland, and Sweden brings up the rear, constantly turning around and sweeping his gaze across the street to make sure that they're not being followed.
Iceland can't remember a time since after the attacks started that he wasn't filled with fear. He can't remember a time that he didn't want to have his family wrap their arms around him and tell him everything was going to be okay, even though he knows that it probably won't.
A few more gunshots ring out as they walk, each one of them causing Iceland to start in fear, leaving him trembling slightly as they walked. He hated feeling like this. He hated feeling weak and like prey. He was a nation, for God's sake, and here he was, heart beating as fast as that of an animal backed up into a corner with nowhere to run.
"Look, a market!" Denmark says, gesturing to a building that at one point was probably white, but had now faded to a dusty beige. It doesn't look too disturbed, and Iceland hopes that there might be water and food still there.
Cautiously, they make their way toward it, padding softly on the cracked cement. Once they reach the shade of the awning over the front door, Denmark checks again that his assault rifle is fully loaded and steps inside the market. They follow him, and it takes Iceland's eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness.
Once they do, he's able to use the dusty light filtering through the grimy windows to see rows upon rows of shelves. The market is bigger than he thought. That only makes him grip the handle on his M16 tighter, and wish he was better at shooting.
A few items are left on the shelves, and the Nordics all rush forward to gather what they can. Iceland crams some more beef jerky, some crackers, some dried fruit, a few granola bars, and six tins of canned tuna into his backpack. He looks up, making sure that he can still see the others. Norway's found where they kept the water, and is shoving as many bottles as he can into his backpack.
Iceland is starting to feel uneasy.
The market shouldn't have had that many food items and that much water, it was right in the middle of a city that had turned into a battleground of resources and life. Something seemed off, and the more Iceland thought about it, the more sure he was.
"Guys? I think that maybe we should go…" Iceland says, looking around uncertainly. "We've got food and drink, now let's find shelter."
Iceland could see Norway and Sweden nodding. He's sure that they have picked up on the slightly scared note in his voice, it isn't hard to miss. Denmark and Finland cast another wistful glance around the store, but satisfy themselves by what they have already in their backpacks.
When they reach the door, Iceland finds himself glad to be back out in the sunlight rather than in the dusky light of the marketplace. He takes in a breath of air, and exhales slowly. Maybe he was just being silly. His nerves were on edge, and they had a good reason to be. But seriously, he needed to chill a little.
Just then, a hoarse shout draws his attention.
The voice is hard to make out, but Iceland is positive that whoever it came from was calling out for help. He's not sure whether to run toward or away from it. Denmark and Finland make this decision for him by immediately sprinting towards it.
They've got big hearts, but this is life or death, Iceland thought, biting his lip as he ran after them. And I'd rather not die."
He knows that those thoughts are selfish, but he can't help it. Ever since he was little, a new nation, lost in the snow, he had been afraid of death and dying. Nations were immortal until their country got dissolved or destroyed, and even them some of them lived on, like Prussia. That's what Norway told him when Iceland was afraid.
When he was young, it was so easy. He could just go to his big brother for help, or when he wanted comfort, and he was sure to receive it. Norway could be extremely curt with others, but he was never that way with Iceland. When Iceland grew older, however, things changed. He wanted to be seen as an equal with his family, not as someone who was weak and constantly needed protection.
God, Iceland misses those times. He'd trade anything he could (apart from his family) to be able to go back and hide in the past, afraid of the future.
But Iceland isn't an idiot. He knows that's impossible. So he grits his teeth and runs on, trying to block those unhelpful thoughts from his mind.
They reach the source of the voice, and Denmark stops immediately, Finland running into him with an oomph.
It's a woman. And from the look of her, she's just been Infected.
Her skin is starting to blister and crack, veins starting to turn green all over. There are some pustules popping up, some of them already bursting. Her entire body has now become a faint shade of green, emitting a strange, weird glow, visible even in the bright mid-morning sun.
The woman's voice is a dry croak, an aching rasp of what it used to sound like. She looks at them, and her eyes widen slightly. They're the one thing that stays the same when you're Infected. Your body changes, growing stronger and faster, but your eyes? They remain the exact same. Except for the fact that they appear hauntingly empty, devoid of a human soul.
"H-help me," she wheezes, struggling to speak every word. "Please."
Iceland isn't sure what she means. Surely she can't think that they can fix her from her current state? She's got forty-five minutes left to live, from the look of her, and Iceland is positive that they won't be pleasant ones.
He understands when Denmark pulls out a pistol and levels it at her head.
He's going to put her out of her misery.
It's an act of kindness, really, Iceland has heard the screams of the Infected people as they die. Screams of agony and pain, echoing through the empty streets and ricocheting from building to building.
Still, Iceland looks away when Denmark pulls the trigger.
She'll still turn into a zombie, the disease is too far inside of her now. But this way, she won't have to suffer through the entire process.
Denmark slides the pistol back into its holster on his hip. He doesn't say anything. None of them say anything. They keep walking, though pick up the pace so that they're gone by the time that the woman has turned into a full-on zombie.
The concrete that their walking on is cracked. In some of the cracks, small shoots of grass are starting to spring up, and various other plant life has started to take over the city. There are saplings growing through some of the bigger cracks in the street, though Iceland isn't entirely sure how. The water is just as polluted as the disease, and plants need water to grow.
But Iceland finds it slightly ironic, as if nature was claiming back its land from humanity, one blade of grass at a time.
"Look," Norway says, startling Iceland out of his reverie. He's pointing to a tall brick building. On top of the roof, Iceland can just make out a few tables and umbrellas, the kind that someone would have on a restaurant's patio.
"Let's try t' find a way up it," Sweden says. "It looks like it'll do fine."
They walk around the building, and find a ladder bolted into the side in the alley. It's just as rusty as the fire escape of their last hiding place, so Iceland has to be careful as he climbs up it. He's half-worried that one of the rungs will just give out beneath him and he'll fall. He tries not to think about that.
When he reaches the top, he clambers over the little wall built at the edge of the building and onto the rooftop. There's three tables, each with an umbrella. Iceland is a little surprised to find that the umbrellas haven't blown away, but upon closer inspection he notices that they're bolted down to the roof.
There's a door, presumably leading down to the rest of the restaurant. Iceland doesn't care to find out. It's not very safe to go into a building that you don't know. Sure, sometimes they have to do it to find food, water, and other supplies, but when it's not absolutely necessary it's not a good idea.
He drops his backpack off in one of the chairs, slinging it off of his shoulder. The rest of the Nordics each do the same. Denmark plops himself down in his chair, running a hand through his spiky hair.
He may not act like it, but Iceland is fairly sure that Denmark was affected by shooting the woman more than he would care to admit. Even though he used to be a viking, the Dane hadn't killed anyone for a long, long time.
Iceland takes out a granola bar, and unwraps it. He didn't have breakfast, and he can hear his stomach growling.
Norway is eating a can of tuna, Denmark is eating some more pasta, Sweden is eating a pack of jerky, and Finland is eating a bag of dried fruit.
High quality lunches.
And they are, really, compared to the sorts of things that other people had taken to eating, like rats, garbage, and grass.
Iceland sits back in his chair, leaning against the hard plastic and chewing his granola bar slowly, savoring every last bite. There's hardly enough food to ever be completely full, so each morsel is treasured and valued.
"These food provisions should last us for about a week, maybe a little more," Norway says, checking how many bottles of water he was able to cram into his bag. "I've got eight bottles, plus the seven that we had before. That'll be okay for now, but we'll have to refresh our supply in a few days."
"Ahh, that's fine, but let's just give ourselves a bit of a break," Denmark says. "We've earned it."
"I s'pose we have," Sweden says, sealing what's left of the contents of the jerky bag. "But only for a few days."
Denmark grins and pulls out a pack of playing cards.
"Have you been keeping those with you all this time?" Iceland asks incredulously.
It seems like a bit of a waste of space, but it also seems like just the thing that Denmark would do.
"Yup," Denmark responds, shuffling them and dealing them out. "Anyone up for a round or two of gin?"
They all agree that yes, they are indeed up for a round or two of gin, and Denmark smiles and deals out the cards.
Norway's the best at most card games, and normally he's the undisputed victor, but Finland seems to be the lucky one for today.
It feels nice to play a game, even one as simple as gin. Iceland finds himself glad that Denmark brought the playing cards, even though it's a bit impractical. He finishes the granola bar, and places the wrapper in his backpack. Even though it's the end of the world and all, he hates to litter, so he does that as little as possible.
Even if it is just a card game, soon Finland has a small smirk on his face, Sweden's not looking quite so grim, Norway's less-emotional-than usual facade has started to slip away, and Denmark's full on laughing, his boisterous gales of laughter sweeping through the air. It's loud, and Iceland wishes that he would be more careful. But he does have to admit, it is rather nice to have the other Nordics in a pleasant mood again.
He just doesn't know how long it will last.