Blood spreads out around Norway's neck in some sort of gruesome halo. Iceland is rooted to the ladder in horror. Everything is numb, and it feels like he's looking at the world through a sheet of dirty glass, or perhaps watching the events play out on a television screen.
Because there is no way that Norway, his older brother, is dead.
Iceland stays there, glued to the ladder.
Denmark, however, lets out an impossibly loud and feral scream that's filled with agony. He leaps off of the ladder, and in the time that it takes him to land on the ground he's already brought the M16 to his hands and begun firing.
He's yelling as he massacres the gang members. They don't stand a chance. Iceland has never seen Denmark so angry.
There's practically a red aura coming off of his skin as he shoots and swings and kicks. By the time he's finished, there's a circle of bodies lying all around him. He's killed them all. There isn't a single man left standing.
That's when Denmark breaks down. He crashes to the ground beside Norway, and grabs his hand. His shoulders are heaving with sobs, and he yells again.
Iceland climbs down the ladder. He reaches Norway's body and Denmark, and sits beside them. He's numb, he's completely numb, oh god let him be numb.
Because this is the true feeling of pain. This is what it means to be broken, isn't it?
He places his hand on top of Norway's forehead, brushing the pale blonde hair off of it. Norway's face is peaceful, and he looks like he's sleeping. Peaceful. Unaware of the grief and agony that's permeating the air. Unaware of the coppery scent of blood that's slowly slipping into Iceland's nostrils. Unaware that Iceland's heart is a fraction away from being shattered, broken completely.
Denmark screams.
Iceland sobs.
Norway's silent.
They stay like that for a few hours, until Denmark suddenly turns and envelops Iceland in a tight hug. He whispers fiercely in Iceland's ear, "Don't worry Ice, don't worry, You're going to make it out of this okay, okay? You're going to be okay."
Iceland hugs Denmark back, crying softly into his chest. He looks up.
"Norway…" he says, and swallows. "Norway's gone."
Iceland says it like he can't believe it. He says it like he wants Denmark to assure him that no, it's a dream, he'll wake up in a few minutes. He wants Denmark to assure him that all of this has been a dream, that Sweden isn't dead. That Finland isn't dead. That Norway isn't dead.
But Denmark doesn't. Instead, he nods and doesn't say anything.
That's how they pass the night, Denmark hugging Iceland and Iceland hugging Denmark while Norway's blood seeps out onto the cold, cracked cement.
They must've fallen asleep at some point, because they both startle a little when a soft voice speaks.
Denmark shoots up and pushes the newcomer to the ground so fast that Iceland can hardly see anything other than a blur.
"Hey!" the newcomer says in a softly panicked voice. "Denmark, it's me!"
"Canada?" Denmark asks gruffly, his voice still hoarse from crying. "How did you find us?"
He helps Canada up, who promptly runs a hand through his shaggy sandy blonde hair.
"I heard you last night… Denmark, Iceland, I'm really sorry…" Canada says, pausing for a moment. "But I thought that I should tell you about something. Apparently there's a place in Key West, Florida, where we can be safe. They've set up barricades against the zombies and keep a sharp watch on the gangs."
"Florida?" Iceland says, his voice scratchy. "Florida's too far away… We'll never make it."
Canada shakes his head. "Not on foot, you won't," he says softly. "But I've got a truck. Please, come with me."
Iceland nods. It's the most sensible course of action, and right now he feels to painfully numb to not comply with whatever is being said. Plus, he trusts Canada.
Denmark looks down at Norway's body, and Iceland can see his shoulders begin to tremble. He kneels beside his dead lover, and places a hand on his head, ruffling his blonde hair one last time.
"I don't want to just leave him here," he whispers sorrowfully. "I can't do that."
"That's not Norway anymore," Canada says. "That's just his body. I'll bet you that his soul is watching over you two right now."
Iceland nods numbly, and follows Canada out of the alley. They wait patiently for Denmark, who takes a little time to wrap Norway's body in a last, final hug.
He then stands up, and walks toward them. Denmark's doing everything that he can to get his normal expression back on his face, but Iceland can see the pain reflecting in his cerulean blue eyes. Here's someone else who's really, truly broken.
There's a big red pickup truck parked at the entrance to the alley, it's bed loaded with tubs of gasoline. Canada climbs in the driver's seat through the window, which is rolled all the way down. Denmark sits up front in shotgun, and Iceland gets the backseat to himself and Hanatamago, who he places on his lap. The white dog licks his chin, and scrabbles at his chest until he picks her up and hugs her close to his chest.
Canada turns the keys in the ignition, and the truck rumbles to life. Iceland hasn't felt anything like this for months, and it reminds him of happier times.
If there's safety in Florida, Iceland thinks, I can make a memorial for Norway and Sweden and Finland. I can honor their memories… All that's left is to survive long enough to get there.