GILD
CHAPTER FIVE
The group made their way quickly enough through the empty halls of the RILC building and down to the lobby; nobody even passed them as they descended the many flights of stairs. In his pocket, America felt the walky-talky buzz in alarm. He pulled it out and held it to his ear, switching to channel one.
"You got some chaps on the right of the bank, looks like they're making rounds for assigned guard duty. Should be easy enough to slip past them though." England's voice came through the metallic speaker. America screwed up his face as the thing got all staticy; he could only just make out Poland shouting something in thew background.
"Uh..." Al muttered uneasily, "Could you translate that, please?"
On the other end, England gave a sigh of exasperation and replied: "There are some very bad men walking in circles around the bank. Make sure they don't see you."
"Alright!" America laughed in response, "Over and out, captain caterpillar brows!"
"Don't call me that."
America returned the communication device to his back pocket and put on his serious face. He, in turn, filled the empty spot in his hands with his trusty pistol. Deftly, Alfred leaned up against the wall and peered out at the devastated lobby area; it looked to be all clear.
"Is it safe?" Canada's quiet voice said from the line beside America, all staying flat against the wall.
"Yeah. Let's go ahead." America frowned and ran out from cover, readying his trigger finger. But nothing came his way. Slowly, the other countries in his party filed into the lobby.
The place used to be glittering and silver, painted in flat and chrome colors, beautifully coordinated by some unknown artist. As Alfred looked around the circular space, nearly running into the wrap-around counter that used to check guests in, he couldn't help but feel a pang of loss. It had been completely sacked, destroyed, ruined. Its glory was so far off, not even the original designer could've seen it now. The lack-luster, brown rubbish and fallen rust had covered it all. Somewhere outside the door, an ambulance's siren went off. The noise didn't travel anywhere; it got no farther off, nor any closer. But, it did cut off with an abrupt crash.
"Wow." Russia, who had seemingly appeared from nowhere, said aloud, "This place looks worse than my house."
"That's saying something." Belarus snarled.
"..." America didn't say anything. Instead, he shook his head and joined his brother Canada by the front doors; they were made of glass—or at least, there used to be glass in them—so one could see right out. Beyond their barriers, the world was decrepit and red-tinged. The sky was now filled with the smoke from fire-bombs. There was no wind to carry it out of the city anymore.
"It sure is scary out there, eh?" Canada stammered over his words nervously, surprised at the fact that Alfred had even bothered to give him company at all.
"Yeah, I guess it is." Al replied absentmindedly. He was trying to imagine what it had looked like before this moment; before the hideousness it donned now.
They were plunged into an awkward silence, heavier than most, until Spain broke in and threw his arms around both of them.
"Man, oh man, this looks like the back-streets of Brazil!" He commented happily, "Reminds me of home..."
"That's in Mexico..." Canada softly, uncomfortably, mentioned.
"Oh, who cares, it's still technically my territory." Spain waved off, "We won it in the fourth invasion of the gulf, remember?"
Actually, America found with confusion that he hadn't remembered entirely. Maybe it was because he had been so focused on his own well-being of late. But, now that Spain mentioned it, he recalled that five years ago Spain had gone on some imperialistic tangent.
"Who are you?" interrupted another voice. This time, it was Kuma, still grappling onto Iceland's head and shoulders, making walking quite difficult for the already ill country. Stumbling, Ice made his way over to the rest of the group by the exit, or entrance of the building. For their purposes, it would be an exit.
"Are we going to be getting out of this place soon?" He asked, "It's stuffy as Hekla."
"I don't know what that is." Alfred shrugged, giving the room around him one last glance, "But, yeah, I suppose it's time to go. Hold on, let me talk to England to see where the guard is."
"Hekla is a volcano." Iceland explained. But his words were lost in a buzz of static as America switched on the Walky.
"Yo, English dude." He announced his presence; it lacked the usual verve and wide grin or a familiar America.
"America." England replied through the speakers. The whole room could hear him. The sounds in the desolate place bounced shakily off the broken-down walls. "What is it?"
"Can you tell me where those guards are? We're going in."
"Oh, okay." A minute later, England's voice re-appeared in the air, "They're not anywhere I can see them at the moment. I think you're good to go. Anything else?"
"Nope."
"Alright. Call in if you need anything."
"Got it."
With that, he flipped the off-switch on the little, hand-held radio and slid it back in his pocket. Alfred returned to the group with a certain vengeance in his blue eyes.
"Come on, let's get out of here." He told the other countries, striding calmly past them and the rubble, fitting out the broken doors with their jagged glass, taking the leader's position. "There's nothing to see here anyway."