A few days have passed, and the break that they gave themselves helped a lot. Iceland feels more rested than usual, though sleep was still fairly difficult to come by. He hopes that they might find some melatonin to help him fall asleep in the next market that they went to.

They've not yet exhausted their food supply, but they're completely out of water. They've been that way for a half a day, and everyone's starting to get a bit dehydrated.

It's early morning. The sun hasn't yet come up, and the sky is painted a pretty array of pastel colors. The clouds are a soft, pale grey, and Iceland likes to imagine that he can hear the chirps of birds. All this is, of course, tinged with that ever-present sickly green.

Norway's still asleep, curled up beside a table on top of his jacket. The rest of them are standing up. Iceland, Denmark, and Sweden have volunteered to go find more water. Iceland isn't sure what prompted him to make that choice, but he had made it, and here he was. Maybe it was because Norway hadn't wanted him to, and there was still that part of him there that wanted to rebel.

Finland and Norway were going to stay back to watch the camp. Iceland had no idea how Norway is going to let him go with Denmark and Sweden. Sure, there'd been a bit of a disagreement at first, Norway had declared that no, he was not going to let his little brother go off to find the water, and that he could go instead of him.

Iceland had protested at that, and had said that he was old enough to make his own decisions. The rest of the Nordics backed him up at that. 'It's the end of the world,' Finland had said, 'Iceland's fully capable of doing this and being safe, Nor. The ones I'd be worried about are Denmark and Sweden.' Norway had finally relented with a forced exhale, and threw his hands up in defeat.

Still, Iceland is sure that if Norway was awake he'd take that back, and demand that Iceland stay back at the base. That's why they're leaving this early.

Finland smiles at them, and says, "I'll see you guys soon!"

He doesn't know that, Iceland thinks. He's only saying what he wants to hear.

Of course, Iceland wants that too. He doesn't want to die, oh God, he really does not want to die. There's still so many things that he would like to do, though with the Earth in the state that it is, he's not sure that he'll ever get the chance to do them. Still, he can dream.

"Of course," Denmark responds brightly. "We'll be back before you know it!"

With that, the trio descends the ladder. Halfway down, one of the rungs breaks off under Sweden's feet. He curses. He's okay, his arms are strong enough to hold him up, but that startles them all. They descend more carefully, Iceland testing the strength of the rungs before putting his full weight on them.

Finally, he steps off the ladder and onto the cracked concrete of the ground. He looks up at Finland, who gives him a little wave from the top of the building. Iceland waves back, then turns toward Denmark and Sweden.

"Which way do we go?" he asks. "Right or left?"

Denmark looks both ways, and thinks for a moment before saying, "Right. Let's go right."

They start to walk in that direction. Each of them has their guns armed and ready to fire at a moment's notice, though Iceland realizes that none of them are the best shot. Still, they're each decent enough to survive.

Many of the windows on the first floors of buildings are shattered, probably results of the gangs. There are stains coating the pavement in some places, most of them a dark brown color that looks an awful lot like dried blood. Iceland walks past those, keeping his head turned away.

Don't look don't look don't look don't look, he thinks, gritting his teeth. Don't think about what'll happen if the gang finds you.

It isn't as if he hasn't imagined it before. He couldn't help himself, and insomnia certainly did not help. He's sure that they'd torture him for their fun, enjoying his screams of pain. He thinks that they might laugh maniacally as he cries. It gets worse from there. Iceland blocks those thoughts out of his mind.

Focus, he reminds himself. You get distracted too easily.

They've been walking for a little while now, maybe twenty minutes. Iceland isn't sure, his watch ran out of batteries the second month. Denmark and Sweden are the only ones that have watches now, Finland's ran out of batteries and Norway gave his to Denmark.

Iceland hasn't seen any place that looks like it might contain water, and the ones that he does see have all been noticeably raided. It was a stroke of luck to find that market when they did, but Iceland isn't sure that they could find it again. They took a bit of a roundabout course to get away from the woman's corpse before it turned.

As he's thinking, Denmark and Sweden are talking behind him. Their murmurs are starting to grow heated, and Iceland realizes that they're beginning to get into an argument.

Shit, he thinks. We can't afford to be arguing at a time like this…

His thoughts have a sort of desperate ring to them, as if he already knows that something bad is going to happen. His heart rate starts to pick up, and Iceland can feel his breaths begin to get shorter and faster. Both Denmark's and Sweden's voices have started to grow louder, and the volume isn't stopping. They haven't argued for a while, and it might've been a bit obvious that one was due to break out at any time.

"Well, maybe if you hadn't made us go to the conference, we'd be back in Scandinavia!" Denmark says angrily, shoving Sweden a little bit. "I didn't want to go, remember? I said we could just ditch this one!"

"Stop blaming everything on me," Sweden demands, shoving Denmark back. "Do you really think that Scandinavia is better off than here?"

"Maybe not, but at least we'd be home! I have no fucking idea where anything is in this God-forsaken country!" Denmark spits out. He's shouting now.

"You knew as well as I did that we had t' go to the conference, we've been missing too many due t' illnesses!" Sweden shouts back. "It's not my goddamn fault!"

Iceland whirls around. "Guys," he hisses. "Please shut up."

They ignore him, and things continue to get more heated. Iceland is looking around wildly now. He's positive that they're drawing attention to themselves; unwanted attention.

"Go fuck yourself, you Swedish asshole!" Denmark yells.

"Likewise, Denmark," Sweden responds, yelling. He's intimidating almost all the time, but when yelling he becomes something that Iceland is truly afraid of.

"Guys," Iceland pleads, "please stop arguing. Someone's going to find us!"

He grasps Denmark's arm as an attempt to stop the Dane from swinging a punch at Sweden. He doesn't succeed, and Denmark hits Sweden in the face.

Sweden retaliates by kicking Denmark, and soon they're all-out physically fighting. Iceland wants to try to intervene again, but he's sure that if he gets to close he's going to get a first to the stomach or a kick to the ribs.

So he stands, his palms sweaty as he clasps his gun all the tighter. Both Denmark and Sweden have dropped theirs on the asphalt, and Iceland realizes that he's the only one out of the three of them that's armed currently.

And he's the worst shot.

Denmark and Sweden's fight is so loud that at first he doesn't hear it, and when he does, it sends shivers down his spine and sets his hair on end.

The pounding of feet and the rasping shouts that signify that not one zombie, not two zombies, but an entire horde of zombies is coming.

Oh shit.

"Denmark! Sweden! We have to run!" Iceland screams.

Sweden looks up from where he has Denmark in a chokehold, and Iceland can see both of their faces visibly pale. He lets the Dane go, and picks up his gun. Denmark does the same, and the trio takes off sprinting in the opposite direction of the horde.

Luckily, the direction that they're running is the direction back to the base. If they can just make it there, up the ladder and onto the roof, then they should be safe. Iceland doesn't think that the zombies can climb, or at least, he's never seen one that can.

But the undead are a shit ton faster than everyone expected, and as Iceland looks into his shoulder, he can see the horde running after them. The zombies are terrifying, looking like rotting green humans with disjointed limbs. They run with a weird lope, crookedly, yet with a predatory grace that terrifies Iceland. He turns his head back, and focuses on not tripping and dying.

They continue sprinting, and Iceland starts to get winded. His breath is coming in ragged gasps, and each inhale seems to scrape painfully against the sides of his throat.

It becomes apparent that they are not going to make it back to Norway and Finland before the horde catches them, so Denmark takes a sharp right turn into an alley.

"We have to get onto the rooftops!" he yells, panting. "They can't get us on the rooftops!"

Iceland searches for a ladder or a fire escape, something that they can use to climb away from the horde. He can't see one. But at the end of the alley, there's a brick wall that's about ten feet high.

Fuck, Iceland thinks. We're trapped.

Denmark and Sweden notice the wall as well, but still keep on running forward. From the sounds coming from behind him, the horde just entered the alleyway behind them.

When they reach the wall, Denmark wastes no time in picking Iceland up and helping him pull himself up onto it. Sweden does the same for Denmark. Now all that's left to do is for Denmark and Iceland to pull up Sweden.

The horde sprints toward them, and Iceland imagines that he can see maniacal grins on their dislocated jaws, evil smiles and coarse laughter. That's stupid. The zombies can't feel any emotion.

Denmark reaches down, and interlocks his hands with Sweden's. He starts to pull him up. The zombies reach them, but Sweden kicks them away from him. One of their heads flies off, landing a little ways back in the alley. It's a truly gruesome sight.

Sweden begins to pull himself up as well, still kicking at the zombies that try to bite through the leather of his boot. He succeeds, barely, and they take a moment to catch their breath while standing on the wall. Sweden wasn't bitten, which was a very good thing.

The zombies had started to foam at the mouths, and were practically ripping each other apart in an attempt to get closer to their near-victims.

"I think we can try to climb onto the roof from here," Denmark says, his voice raspy.

The wall that they're standing on is wide enough for them to easily balance, but Iceland is still terrified that he's going to trip and fall down to the mercy of the horde.

They approach the side of the building beside them, and use the notches in the stone to pull themselves up. It appears that the original owners of the building were going for a basic, rocky look, and Iceland is glad that they did. It makes it easier to climb.

They reach the roof, which isn't that high off of the ground. The building is only two stories. Iceland sits down on the rooftop, trying to catch his breath and to calm his racing heartbeat.

"You guys," he wheezes at Denmark and Sweden, "are idiots."

They look a bit ashamed. They also look a bit beat up. Denmark is sporting a black eye, and a few bruises are starting to form. Sweden has a cut on his cheek and a bruise on his collar bone peaking through his shirt. Of course, that's only what Iceland can see. He's sure that there's a great many more bruises and cuts elsewhere on their bodies, as their fight had seemed particularly vicious.

"I guess we deserve that," Denmark says. He turns to Sweden. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Sweden says. "Though you are an idiot." He turns away before Denmark can retort, and faces Iceland. "Sorry, Ice."

Iceland nods to accept the apology, and goes back to staring at the rooftop. His heart's still racing, and he can't seem to calm his breathing. Panic still overwhelms him, and it's not helping that he can still hear the sounds of the horde in the alley beneath him.

"We should get going," Iceland says. "Let's get back to Norway and Finland."

They won't get the water, but at this point, it doesn't seem like any of them care. They just want to make it back to the camp. They can get water later.

It took them around twenty minutes to get to the place where Denmark and Sweden started arguing. It takes them around two and a half hours to get back to the camp. They walk on the rooftops. City roofs are easy to walk across due to the fact that the buildings are close together, but when they reach the edge of the block they are forced to get back down to street level. Once they reach the next one, they climb back up.

It's an exhausting process, and when they finally make it to the rooftop where Norway and Finland are waiting anxiously, Iceland is completely drained. He's staggering, and his legs are going numb.

They don't have to climb up the ladder, thank God, they just need to leap from the edge of one building to another. Norway's looking slightly pissed, Iceland assumes that it's at the fact that they left before he woke up. But relief is also evident in both Finland's and his expressions.

The gap between the buildings isn't particularly large, only about five feet across. Sweden jumps across first, crossing the distance easily. He's the tallest out of them, so of course it would be simple for him.

"Go ahead, Ice," Denmark says. "I'll spot ya."

Iceland isn't entirely sure why Denmark says that, it's obvious that if he falls he's going to fall hard. Onto the concrete, the cracked and stained concrete of the broken down city.

Let's not think about that, okay?

Iceland nods, and takes a deep breath. He backs up a little from the edge so that he can get a running start, and then sprints forward. He feels the rooftop vanish beneath him, replaced by the empty space of an alley, and then lands on the other roof. It isn't a particularly graceful graceful landing, like Sweden's; Iceland falls on his side and gets the wind knocked out of him.

As he's recovering his breath, Denmark bounds across effortlessly, landing in a kneeling position beside Iceland. He extends a hand, and pulls Iceland up to his feet.

"What the hell happened?" Finland asks, noticing Sweden and Denmark's wounds. "Did you run into the gangs?"

"Well y'see–,"

Iceland interrupts Sweden and says, "They ran into each other, that's what happened. They can't keep their punches to themselves."

"What?" Finland asks, whirling around to face Sweden. "Is that true, Sve?"

Sweden looks ashamed.

"This is the end of the world as we know it," Norway says, one hand on his hips. He's regained some of his old sass, Iceland notices. "And here you two are, fighting. It's a wonder a horde didn't get you."

"It did," Iceland said, "but we escaped."

Norway closes his eyes, and exhales exasperatedly. "Denmark," he says. "Sweden. You better not let anything ever happen to Iceland."

"Don't worry Nor, he's fine," Denmark says, putting his hands up to show that he didn't want to argue. "We're all okay."

That's debatable, Iceland thought. I haven't felt that afraid for a very long time.

"Did you end up getting any water?" Finland asks hopefully.

Sweden shakes his head. "T' was all that we could do t' get out of there."

"Oh. Okay," Finland says. "Just… take it easy for a while. We can try again tomorrow, when we're all rested up."

"And this time, actually try to be careful," Norway says.

"Aww, would you miss me?" Denmark asks, grinning crookedly at him. "Don't worry Nor, nothing's gonna happen to us as long as I'm around!"

Norway bites back whatever response he has stored up ready to go, and instead simply lets out another long, drawn out sigh. "Just… be careful, you idiot…" he says.

"We will," Sweden says. "Sorry."

"You're all okay for right now, and that's what really matters." Finland hurries over to his backpack and gets out the small first aid kit that he's crammed in there. He's become the self-appointed medic of the Nordics. "You guys really did a number on each other."

Denmark waves off Finland's attempt to help him, fixing him with a smile and saying, "Don't worry Finny, they're just flesh wounds."

"They're wounds. In your flesh. Cooperate," Finland replies, and fishes a tube of ointment out of the first aid kit. "I'm going to put some arnica on your bruises, but I can't treat your black eye."

"S'okay," Denmark says. "It makes me look cool."

After Finland finishes with Denmark and Sweden, he places his kit back in his bag and grabs three cans of soup. He hands one to Iceland, then to Denmark and Sweden.

"You guys need to eat. Just take a break. It'd be nice if we had water, but that can wait, for a little while at least," Finland says.

Iceland uses the can opener that Denmark hands to him to open his soup. He tilts the can, and drains it all with just a few gulps. It's enough to sate his thirst and hunger for at least a little while, and he sets the can down gratefully.

His hair is messy from running, and as he runs a hand through it, he notices how oily it is. Showers haven't really been an option for a while, though sometimes Iceland can scrounge up a packet of moist towelettes. It's not much, but it's certainly the best option that they have. Everyone has gone pretty much immune to the smell, which was certainly a bonus.

But still, he dislikes the feeling of it. Iceland's hair is longer than it used to be, and it curls against the nape of his neck in a slightly wild silvery mess. Its color is a lot more muted than it used to be, and it looks more like a dark grey than like its usual pale silver.

Iceland doesn't want to leave the shelter of the roof ever again. He wants to sit up here, on the plastic chairs under the dark maroon umbrellas, with his family while the world as they know it crumbles around him.

He wants to keep them all safe. He doesn't want to die. He wants them all to make it through this, coming out of the other side wherever that other side may be.

Iceland's heart has begun to hurt. He can't bear to think of what would happen if he lost just one member of his family. But his thoughts are getting harder and harder to block, and his imagination is fueled by his despair.

He wants to cry.

But he doesn't.