Iceland's feet ache from walking, and the heat is becoming unbearable, though he hasn't left his army jacket behind yet. It may yet come in handy. He turns to look at Canada, who looks just as tired as him.
"How far?" he wheezes, trying to catch his breath.
"We're only on Key Largo, so we've still got a while left to go…" Canada responds.
Iceland is highly impressed that Canada has this good a knowledge of US geography, though he realizes that he probably knows so much out of a love for his brother, and that thought makes him more dismal than he already is.
There's been no sign of the undead or of any gangs, though Iceland's practically expecting them to be around every corner.
He doesn't have that much ammo for his rifle, as he gave what little he had to Denmark. Still, it's enough to blow off some heads if it comes to that.
A sound draws Iceland's attention, and his head shoots up to the source. It's the sound of gunfire, and soon it's met with more shots.
"Let's check it out," Denmark says.
Iceland doesn't think that's a good idea, but Denmark wouldn't listen even if he voiced his thoughts. He's far too broken to care.
Canada sighs, and Iceland knows that his thoughts are similar to his own. They follow Denmark, and creep carefully toward the sound. It's coming from behind a short, squat building, and they peer around the corner.
Two gangs, each made of about fifteen members, are having an all-out battle. Corpses are already littering the ground, and the coppery stench of blood has started to permeate the humid air.
They would've gone, gotten the hell out of there, and continued on their way. They might've all made it to Key West, even. All three of them.
But that doesn't happen.
Instead, Canada trips. He lands on his knees on the cracked cement, and lets out an accidental yell of pain. The gangs cease their fire at each other rapidly, and before Canada can get another word out there's a bullet hole in his forehead.
It gives him the appearance of having a gruesome red third eye that stares at them, alive when Canada is not.
"Holy shit," Iceland says, and whips his M16 out to point at the gang. He fully expects Denmark to stay there and return fire, maybe slaughter them all, and isn't surprised.
Denmark steps out from behind the corner of the building and lets all of hell loose on both of the gangs. He doesn't even flinch when a bullet tears through the cloth of his pants and gets embedded in his thigh. Instead, he grits his teeth through the pain and keeps on firing away.
Iceland can see tears dripping their way down Denmark's face. Iceland can feel tears on his own cheeks.
Everywhere we go, death isn't far behind us, he thinks. I'm like a bad-luck magnet. Canada would've been better leaving us alone…
He bites his lip, and holds back a sob. Iceland lifts his gun to his shoulder, and joins Denmark in the firing. He shoots until he has nothing left. Denmark shoots until there is nothing left.
A massacre scene lies in front of them, but the one body that both Iceland and Denmark care about is Canada's.
They drop to their feet beside him, and Iceland tries not to look at the gory mess on his forehead. Denmark bites his lip, and murmurs something that Iceland doesn't catch. The next second, Denmark is standing with his hand outstretched toward Iceland.
"Let's go," he says.
His voice is numb. He's trying to block out the pain, the pain of the knowledge that he can't protect anyone anymore. Iceland is the last thing that he has left.
Iceland nods, and takes his hand, pulling himself to his feet. He leaves his empty gun there, beside Canada, as if leaving him some sort of gift.
He can feel trembling coming from his backpack, and realizes Hanatamago is shaking. Dogs' hearing is remarkable, and the shots must've frightened her.
As Denmark and him walk, he takes Hanatamago out of his backpack and carries her for a while, hugging her close to him as though she's the thing that will protect him from death and pain.
I can't save anyone. But we're so close, according to Canada… Denmark has to make it. If he doesn't, I don't think that I can go on, Iceland thinks. He looks at Denmark, who's limping. That's right, he got shot in the leg.
Wounded, like Norway was. But Denmark has to have a different fate. He has to. Iceland hopes all this fervently. He can't be alone, or the demons and memories that hide in his mind are going to kill him.
And Iceland is afraid of death and the pain that it causes.