Day after crappy day.

Warning: Angst, violence, weapons, dangerous situation.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

Paying the Toll

They had procured enough gas from Chicago to get them to Pittsburgh. They were approaching Cleveland now, and as much as they disliked to think it, they would eventually have to stop and search for more fuel.

Francis was too grief-stricken to drive, so Arthur took the wheel instead. Matthew sat in the back seat of the truck, stroking Francis's hand, occasionally murmuring comforting words, trying anything to produce a reaction in the man. Francis was all but silent.

Alfred had crammed himself into the vehicle to avoid traveling with Ivan, who had taken one of the vans. It had kind of been a split-second decision. There he was on his way to the van and along came Ivan, giving him that surprised look as if Alfred would deign to squeeze himself into a small space with him ever again. Alfred had sharply turned on his heel and before he realized it, he was headed to the the crowded truck. He forced himself inside and stayed there, watching as Ivan coolly took to the van's driver's seat. Alfred would have liked to have more room for himself, but he didn't dare get out. It would have been embarrassing.

And so, there he was, cramped as ever, having to deal with a half-dead Francis and the weight of Gilbert's death hanging heavy in the air.

"Here we go," Arthur said wearily—the first three words spoken in the past hour.

Alfred huffed. "Tch, can't believe these were still kept in service."

"There was no one at the last one," Arthur told him blithely. "And the barriers were smashed through."

"Yeah," Alfred muttered, looking out the window with his arms crossed. "But I could have done something about it. No one should have to pay to escape violence."

"We all could have done something about everything," Arthur replied, his voice dark and monotone. His old voice was lost to him now.

Arthur drove the truck up to the toll booths, choosing one at random and pulling in. They had been on the Ohio Turnpike for most of the time since they'd left Chicago, but Arthur hadn't gotten a good look at the first booth. Francis, in his angst to escape the house, had blown through it. Now they were arriving at the end and the second and last booth. Alfred had voiced multiple times how much he hated the damned turnpikes and how he wished they would just disappear. Arthur thought it ironic that the toll booths should 'disappear' along with the rest of known society. Perhaps Alfred had wished too much?

Arthur was going seventy and was loath to slow even while going through the small passage between the booths, but something caught his eye in a place where nothing should rightfully be. The whole train stopped with him.

In the booth, beside which the truck was sitting idle, was a dead man. He was pale, half his face eaten off by what Arthur expected must have been flies and maggots when the weather was still warm. The eyes were melted from the previous sizzling heat, and even from the road Arthur could smell the overpowering stench of decay. Blood caked the man's clothing, and there were scratches and other such marks on the booth glass suggesting that many an animal had tried their luck at getting to his remains.

Arthur knew he should have been appalled at what he saw, but to Arthur it was just another meeting with a fate he knew they risked facing. The man inside that booth was as dead as Arthur felt. To say he was mildly tempted to climb into a booth and face death now rather than later was a gross understatement. At least then he would be able to control how he went, unlike Sadiq, drowned and swept away in an icy torrent or Gilbert with half his head blown to pieces.

"Cher?"

Arthur flinched and found that he had put the truck in park. When had that happened? He blinked and shook his head, peering into the rearview mirror to see that Francis had awakened. He was staring at him, brow furrowed. "Why have we stopped here?" There was obvious anxiety in his voice. He sensed Arthur's mood.

Arthur huffed and relaxed his tense muscles, gripping the wheel with less force than before. What the hell am I thinking? I'm the former bloody British Empire. Fuck if I just give up. "Nothing. I just… it's nothing. We're leaving." He shifted gears. Fuck if I leave them.

Arthur was ready to peel out of there, to get away from such dark desires, foot poised and ready over the gas, when he heard a sharp honk. Everyone in the vehicle jumped and Arthur nearly gave himself whiplash from snapping his head around to see what was going on behind them. They were so shocked that they couldn't say anything before another honk was sounded, and the last van in the train punched the gas to another lane.

"What the hell is he doing?" Alfred stared at Ludwig, who slowed just enough to roll down his window and shout.

"What?" Arthur yelled, as Ivan began laying on his horn as well and swerved suddenly to the side.

"Drive!" Ludwig repeated, not having enough time to say anything else as he peeled off down another lane and through the booths.

"What's going on?" Matthew's heart was pounding now. If something could scare Ludwig that much then it must be bad.

"In the mirrors!" Francis shouted to Arthur. "Regardez!"

Arthur did look. And what he saw made his stomach drop down to his feet. "Shit—!" He stomped the gas and he was tailing Ludwig. Ivan was in a lane adjacent and not far behind.

Ludwig knew they were in trouble, not just because five other vehicles were pursuing them in an aggressive manner, but because they had yet to fill the tanks with fuel since leaving Chicago. They had fed the last of the saved gasoline to their vehicles before departing camp. As much as Ludwig wanted to go as fast as the van would let him, he also knew that if he did he would burn away what little fuel they had. And slow with promises of traveling a greater distance was much better than fast with promises of traveling a shorter distance, especially when being hunted.

His ankle was cramped over the gas in response to adrenaline. It took many precious seconds for Ludwig to pry his foot off the pedal in favor of a slower speed.

"He's fucking crazy!" Alfred exclaimed when he saw the van in front of them lose speed until Arthur was practically tailgating him. "What the fuck is wrong with him?"

"Nothing," Arthur snapped back. "Ludwig knows the limits of cars better than any of us. It would be wise to follow him." And he let up his foot.

Alfred nearly launched himself into the front seat. "What are you doing?!"

"Never you mind!" Arthur barked. "Now sit down and strap yourself in proper. And for Christ's sake, keep your bloody mouth shut!" Alfred appeared as if he would protest further, but he thought better and sat back, retrieving a seat belt and yanking it over himself. Good. Arthur couldn't afford to be distracted in any way. Not when he had three lives other than his own he was now solely responsible for.

"How many?" Ivan asked.

Yao swiveled around in his seat to peer out of the back window. "Four… no, five." He turned back around, eyes wide. "They're going faster."

Ivan cursed under his breath. "Can you see the people inside?"

"Two, but I don't know…" Yao began to say before he ducked down, grabbing Kiku along with him. "They have guns!"

"Big fucking surprise," Ivan growled. Not a second later followed the sound of gunfire. Ivan could tell when the pursuers were getting really close when the harsh tink of bullets embedding in the malleable fiberglass of the van reached his ears. He jerked the wheel, zig-zagging down the road to avoid the barrage.

Ludwig saw a flicker in the rear view mirror, the sharp glint of metal against the setting sun, and he shouted, "Get down!"

Instincts took over, and Lovino grabbed Feliciano, breaking out of his stupor and not bothering being concerned with the man's comfort, pushing him down and falling on top of him. Feliciano let out a gasp, his chest aching with Lovino's weight, but he was so paralyzed with fear he remained stock still, the seats reverberating with the crescendo of gunfire. The sounds went through him, cut him as shockingly as bullets.

"Holy fuck," Alfred exclaimed, peering through the back window. "They're shooting at us!"

"What, Alfred?" Arthur asked through gritted teeth, knuckles white on the wheel. "I thought you were used to these tacky Hollywood scenarios?"

"Yeah, but those guys had stunt doubles," Alfred flashed back, forced to grab onto the handle on the roof of the truck as the vehicle listed sideways. He grunted as Matthew and Francis slid into him and continued rather breathlessly, "I mean, I have Mattie, but I doubt he'd last very long."

Matthew glared daggers at him. "Fuck you, Al!"

The truck jerked again, a bullet tinking off the door closest to Francis. "Their aim is getting better!"

"Shut it, all of you!" Arthur yelled at the top of his lungs, and everyone went quiet. He settled back into his seat. "Now get the fuck down and hang on."

Ivan could now hear the rev of the black van coming up on his left side. He wished he could go faster, but he had to remain slow for the sake of retaining fuel. Still, his foot twitched over the gas, longing to press it to the floor. He willed himself to be level-headed, and his stiffness wore off in time to see that the van had pulled up right next to him on the driver's side. He glanced over for just a moment, his main focus being the road. He found himself staring down the barrel of a loaded sawed-off shotgun.

"Ебать!" Ivan swore and swerved, tossing Yao against the opposite door, bruising his back. Kiku came flying with him, though he managed to stop himself short and roll onto the floor. Yao recovered, his breaths ragged and wheezy, gathering himself into a crouch. "Why the fuck they only have shotgun? Not very effective in car chase."

"Nyet," Ivan told him, the van pursuing them across the lanes. There was a shot that was significantly louder than the others, and the whole vehicle lurched, the sound of screeching fiberglass and crunching metal making them all cringe. "They have—"

"Slugs!" Alfred balked, watching the van Ivan was in surge across an entire lane from the blast. "Where the hell are they getting these guys, the fucking boonies?"

"I said get down, git!" Arthur snapped, and Alfred ducked just in time to have glass shatter over his head.

Arthur jumped in his seat, foot on the gas nearly going level to the floor. He looked over and saw a sizable hole in the passenger's headrest, the cotton and upholstery vomited onto the seat below. The glove box was still smoking with the slug that had lodged in it. "Holy hell…"

Matthew found himself clinging to Alfred as they crouched low in the seat. Alfred's nails had dug into the upholstery so hard it had split, the shards of glass still settled on his head. He was completely still and staring. "Al? Are you okay?"

Alfred swallowed before looking at him and saying rather tremulously, "Y-yeah, I'm fine. Uh…" His mind was struggling to keep up with what was happening. The van that was the source of the slugs was speeding up next to them, and the gears in his head were working themselves haggard to try and confront the situation as best he could.

A dead weight was thrown against him then that sent him tumbling between the seats. Matthew was next to follow, landing haphazardly on Alfred's stomach, his knee making brute contact with Alfred's shin. "Sorry," Matthew said and tried to right himself. But a firm hand on his back forced him back down.

"Stay down," Francis ordered from his place lying flat, stretched out across the back seats. "Don't move."

"They're going to shoot Arthur," Ludwig observed, in a sort of trance, still emerging from his grief. This was too much. He couldn't handle it.

Lovino held Feliciano to him and shouted, "Then do something about it, bastard!"

And Ludwig did do something. Lovino's voice sliced through his paralysis, and he was shooting across the lanes, slowing down enough to get to the rear of the car tailing Arthur's. Ludwig was aware he was being followed by at least two vans. Where the other was, he did not know nor did he care. The man with the shotgun was reloading with a slug, leaning out of the window and poised to shoot directly into the driver's side of the truck the van was keeping speed with.

"All right, you Scheißkerl," Ludwig growled, punching the gas and bringing the front bumper of the van to touch the back of the pitch black van. Ludwig vaguely heard Lovino shout in protest and that made him hesitate. But when he saw that the license plate of the van before him read 'NEWORDR', he forgot everything and gunned it. Lovino's frantic voice and Feliciano's cries were muffled to Ludwig's ears; his blood was pulsing through him, quickened with rage.

"What the hell are you doing, Ludwig?" Arthur muttered darkly to himself as his attention switched from the road to his mirrors to the man loading his shotgun in the van beside him.

"Arthur," Francis's voice was anxious as he observed the man adjusting his aim. "He's going to—!"

"No, he's not!" Arthur assured when he realized what Ludwig was doing. As soon as he saw Ludwig's front bumper collide with the Organization van's rear, the Briton jerked the wheel away. Francis was so startled by the motion that he tumbled onto Matthew. Alfred, who was at the base of the pile, grunted, all the breath leaving him.

"Get off me!" he shouted in frustration. Here he was in the middle of the action, and he wasn't able to do anything but sprawl on his back. "Let me up!"

"Stay down," Arthur ordered, straightening out the vehicle. "or I'll kick your arse."

"Like that's a threa—holy shit, what was that?"

Arthur couldn't keep a relieved smile from his face as he observed the black van swerve, jostled by the push from Ludwig's vehicle. It was soon fishtailing, and the man with the shotgun became so unbalanced that he gave up and retreated back into the passenger's side. As much as the driver tried, however, he could not manage to right the car. Instead he over corrected rather harshly and the tires squealed as it turned to its side and kept turning as Ludwig raced past it. It was almost turned completely about when the black van bringing up the rear approached at full speed, unable to stop. What Alfred heard was their violent collision, the fishtailing van rolling a few times, metal crunching, and the other mangled all the way up to the front cabin.

"Two down," Ivan observed. But still one for each of us. He could see them now, pulling back to gather information before setting off to hunt down their respective victims. Splitting up, hm?

Big mistake.

Ivan was not ignorant to tactics. He knew what it took to win. He had centuries of experimentation behind him. Splitting up was one of the last things he would consider if on the offense. Splitting meant less power, and since his group had escaped Organization clutches more than once, it could be gleaned that they were definitely not incapable of defense. Certainly it would be more logical to divide and conquer?

There's something wrong here. Yao knew Ivan was thinking the same thing by his features. The Organization didn't take over the world for lack of wits. "Careful," he warned.

"Don't worry about me and keep your head low." Ivan watched the black van race up behind him and decided that he'd had about enough of these Organization members playing God and trying to fuck them over. Ivan had already been controlled once, and he had made a promise to himself that he would never let that happen again. No one tried to kick him down and got away with it.

With that in mind, he steadied the wheel with his knee and searched his coat for his rifle. He found it and pulled it onto his lap. When Yao heard the click of a magazine being locked, his shocked eyes met Ivan's in the rearview mirror. He swallowed, but held Kiku closer and said, "Do what you have to."

Ivan nodded. His face was blank as he replied, "If something happens, get us the hell out of here."

Yao knew what it meant. They both did, as dark as it was. He was scared, but the feel of Kiku's form in his arms reminded him that he couldn't afford to be. He nodded back and Ivan cocked his weapon, a white-knuckled hand returning to the wheel.

Fuck, Lovino thought. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck!

"Lovi," Feliciano whined. "You're hurting my arm!"

Lovino's attention snapped from the black van coming up behind them at full speed to his brother who was sniffling beside him. He was digging bruising fingers into his arm, but he didn't let up. Instead he shoved Feliciano down between the seats, his brother crying and whimpering all the while. "Shut up and get down, dammit!"

"They're coming," Ludwig observed, jaw set.

"Then fucking do something about it!" Lovino shouted. "Do you want Feli to be hurt? Fucking do something!"

Ludwig didn't know where it came from, but he suddenly had an idea. It came on so fast that his head pulsed with discomfort and his hands began to shake. We need to kill the driver. Ludwig had an idea how, but it was crazy. Straight up insane.

He was expressionless, pushing all worry from his mind for the sake of Feliciano's safety. The fact that Feliciano was crammed between the seats, curled up and sobbing, made Ludwig want to kill every single one of them himself. He knew there were easier ways, safer ways. But if it meant attention being drawn away from the inside of the vehicle, then Ludwig would do it.

"Take the wheel," he said.

Lovino frowned. "What?"

"I said take the wheel for me. I'm going out."

"Out?" Lovino muttered in confusion. Then realization hit him and his jaw dropped. "Out?" he yelled. "You're fucking crazy!"

"I hope," Ludwig said. "Or this won't work. Now climb up here and hold it."

Lovino lunged forward as one of Ludwig's hands left the wheel to grip the window frame. When his foot lifted off the gas, Lovino's darted down to take its place, awkwardly stretched halfway in the seat. "You're fucking determined to get shot, aren't you?"

"Ludwig?" Feliciano sat up and his eyes widened with the sight of the German hoisting himself out of the window.

Ludwig threw him a glance and told him firmly, "Stay down, Feli."

"Don't go!" Feliciano screamed, wriggling out of the space he was wedged in to bend over the back of the driver's seat. He reached out and grabbed onto one of Ludwig's belt loops. "Please, what if you're hurt? What if you fall?" Tears streamed down his face. Lovino watched him beg, but he didn't try to stop him. Ludwig's safety was Feliciano's business more than his, so he let Ludwig decide for himself if Feliciano was persuasive enough to stop him.

"I'm sorry, Feli," Ludwig said after a time, wrenching Feliciano's hand from his pants. "Now you stay down." And he had his feet balanced on the window before scrabbling for purchase on top of the van and disappearing entirely onto the roof.

"Ludwig!" Feliciano appeared ready to climb out the window himself, but Lovino yanked him down by the collar of his shirt, making him choke.

"You dumbass!" he shouted. "Don't you dare risk your ass for a fucking cocky-ass potato head!"

Feliciano gave him a look that Lovino never knew he possessed. It was fiery and it seemed to pierce through him. He jerked out of Lovino's grasp and said in a tone so unlike his usual cheery one, "I love him, Lovino. Didn't you love someone once?"

Lovino was left speechless, the tightness in his chest became so overwhelming Lovino thought he would cry. It was truth, but it only served to bring up memories of what Feliciano had that he didn't. Always Feliciano. The better brother. He deserved it, he deserved—

Feliciano suddenly rapped him hard on the shoulder. "Lovi, don't slow down!"

Lovino snapped out of it and instinct took over where his conscious mind could not. He steadied the vehicle and returned to the speed Ludwig had previously set, listening to Ludwig's feet as they clopped across the top of the van.

Feliciano, meanwhile, was torn. He wanted Ludwig to be safe, but he knew that risking his own life in order to convince him to come down would only escalate the situation, possibly to a deadly point. So he remained frozen in his seat, upright, too afraid to duck down and miss hearing Ludwig's every precarious footstep above his head.

Alfred threw Matthew off of him when he saw something move on a van out of the corner of his eye. He sat up and stared, gaping. "What the fucking fuck is he doing?"

Everyone's eyes went to Ludwig, who was currently balancing on the top of the van. He was on his hands and knees, sliding every now and then, but overall managing to stabalize himself rather decently.

Matthew shook his head in disbelief. "He's suicidal!"

Francis leaned forward to jostle Arthur's shoulder. "Arthur, we need to—"

"No," Arthur snapped, surprising them all. He kept his eyes forward even as he saw a black Organization pull up alongside Ludwig's. "Let him do what he needs to." Let's hope his sense is still intact…

Besides, they had more things to worry about than Ludwig falling. Arthur was ashamed to admit it, but he would rather keep everyone in his vehicle safe than risk all their lives trying to save Ludwig. He cared about everyone, but no one could expect him to choose between them. He loved Francis, Alfred, and Matthew enough to be willing to take the blame for not doing anything to prevent Ludwig's death.

His eyes traveled to his mirrors and saw with a spark of rage a black van approaching from behind at breakneck speed. His knuckles went white around the steering wheel. I'll do anything, Arthur thought with apprehension. Then he gathered a plan and swallowed, saying, "Get down, all of you. Now."

Arthur's voice was stiff enough for Francis to realize that he was scared. It was one of the many masks the Briton wore in rough situations. Francis forced Matthew down between the seats again (who protested loudly but went without much of a stuggle nonetheless), but Alfred stubbornly remained sitting upright.

Arthur whipped his head around and shouted, "If you don't get down—"

"No," Alfred told him. "I'm not getting down. I'm tired of hiding from these fuckers." And he tucked his feet beneath him, turning down the window.

Matthew managed to turn himself over and unwedge an arm. Trembling fingers hooked into Alfred's jacket, pulling. "What the hell are you doing, Al?"

Alfred shook him off and gripped the outside of the window, hoisting himself up and out. "The guns are in the back. We gotta get 'em."

They all tumbled to one side as Arthur jerked the wheel. Alfred gave a yelp, scrabbling, just barely managing to hang on. "Don't you dare!" Arthur yelled. "You will not risk your neck again. Alfred, you deaf sod, get back in here now!" But Alfred was already out of the window, Francis pulling himself over to it and reaching out.

"Grab my hand!" he shouted. "You can't do this. It's suicide!"

But Alfred only continued making his way down the side of the truck, lifting his leg into the open bed, his other balanced precariously on the sidestep. "No, I'm not gonna take anymore of their shit. I don't give a fuck if it's suicide or not. And Ludwig doesn't either."

Francis watched in disbelief as Alfred slipped into the back of the truck and he gave up, reentering the vehicle. By then Matthew was up on the seats, pulling open a small back window. "Alfred! Keep down!"

"Like hell I will!" Alfred shouted back, rummaging around in the bed for their bags and going through them for their weapons and ammo. It was difficult to search, as Arthur was driving rather erratically and the cold wind was stinging his face and eyes as it whipped past. "They'll see my face and know who killed them! And tell Artie to drive smoother, I don't wanna fall off before I make them eat lead."

"Ah shit," Matthew groaned, hopeless. "He's into it."

"Alfred said to slow down, cher," Francis told Arthur.

"How can I bloody slow down?" Arthur ground out. "He's in a moving no man's land, the great twit!" But Arthur eased up on the wheel and the gas, though his anxiety was through the roof. Alfred was in the back of the truck and the black van was gunning it toward them. And the git still hadn't managed to find any weapons.

Then Matthew's mouth dropped open. "Oh my God."

"C'est impossible…"

"What is it now?" Arthur asked, eyes darting to his mirrors. He saw Alfred's bobbing head as he hunched over the bags, rifling through them with haste. And then he lifted his gaze and he nearly put the gas to the floor.

A man was standing through the sunroof in the black van. He was loading a belt of ammo into a mounted M2 machine gun.

Translations:

Regardez-Look

Ебать-Fuck

Scheißkerl-motherfucker

A Word From the Writer: Okay, so, I know this is a bit confusing since I'm not using line breaks to separate the vehicles, but England is driving the truck with America, France, and Canada in the back, Germany is driving one of the vans with Italy and Romano, and Russia is driving the other van with China and Japan inside. And... how the fuck was an M2 mounted onto a van? I haven't the foggiest, but the Organization has got it going on. And I like America's logic here. First he's like, "Holy shit, Ludwig's on the roof of his van, WTF, the crazy bastard," and then he's like, "See ya, guys, Imma climb out of a moving truck and get the guns in the back." Yeah, sounds like a GREAT idea right there.

So another cliffhanger. Had a hard time breaking this up cause of all the dialogue connecting one car to another so... long-ass chapter. You're welcome. Also, Happy New Year! Can't believe it's been a year since I've posted... aha, yeah, bad pun, sorry. I'll just *ahem* leave now, ta!