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Post by Zombies on Mar 15, 2012 19:53:57 GMT -5
Seemingly encouraged by their comrade's success, the zombies moaned in unison and jumped at them even stronger than before. A few hands managed to grapple onto clothing before their owners were shot and fell. Untrimmed, dirty nails constantly scratched at the two Nations, trying to get a grip.
As the undead bodies piled up around them, some zombies began to trip, crawling on the ground as they lacked coordination enough to raise themselves back up. Even the ones with severed spines, or even half their bodies attached to their heads kept coming any way they could. They weren't many to be moving anymore, but were just as dangerous. Their decaying flesh, blackened by rot and time, molded directly into the night as few crept up to their prey, slithering on the ground.
Within minutes, one of the luckier ones, with only the parts above its stomach still attached to its decomposing body, had made it close enough to reach out and grab the smaller prey's ankle. Using it to pull its mangled body closer, the zombie wasted no time in giving out a moan of success and tasting the flesh it coveted for so long.
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Post by England on Mar 15, 2012 20:26:24 GMT -5
"There don't seem to be many left. Let's just take these things out, burn them, and get up on the roof and not move until morning rolls around." England huffed. Counting the number of bullets he shot mentally, he picked a particularly decomposed zombie close to him and smashed its head with the butt of his rifle. His assumption was correct for the skull simply cracked under the heavy blow and brain matter splattered onto England's precious gun, which he deplored as he pulled back. Scanning around for the number of zombies left, he pushed his back against America's again, just to make sure he was still there.
He had just about gotten into his zombie killing again, letting his muscles relax enough to manoeuvre his gun as both a bayonet and a firearm, when he jumped out of his skin and bit his lip to keep the scream at bay.
And as he looked down at the ground, he realized that the mass of zombies remaining had blocked the moonlight from filtering down, and so, anything below his knees was a pool of pitch black.
Something cold and slimy had grabbed him. And he could not see, for the life of him, what it was.
He could guess, though, for not long after, something moaned loud and clear, and a sharp, momentarily blinding pain ran up his leg.
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Post by America on Mar 15, 2012 21:20:14 GMT -5
Once England attacked, so did America, shooting the heads of any zombies he was able to. He really wanted them to just magically disappear, but he knew for a fact that wasn't going to happen. He heard a disgustingly loud smash, and supposed England managed to kill another one (though he really didn't want to know how exactly- that sound was enough for him).
Sure enough, he soon felt England's warm, smaller frame up against his. They were still both intact, fighting together. The thought made him smile, remembering times of war, though he was pretty certain they were never this close.
However, his quick moment of peace was broken when England jumped. This worried America and, managing to slice through another zombie's head that had gotten to close, he held his bloody knife out in front of him, daring another zombie to step forward. "You okay?" he asked, concern heavy in his voice.
He heard a moan from down below, and though he looked, he couldn't exactly tell where it was. Shit. It's somewhere near our legs.
That's when he put two and two together. God...no, please don't tell me- "England, you okay?" he asked once more, now more frantic as he tried to keep his eyes on the ground and his attention ahead of him.
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Post by England on Mar 16, 2012 20:27:59 GMT -5
He wasn't panicking. Of course he wasn't. He was merely... feeling the effects of adrenaline.
Yes, that had to be it. That had to be why his heart had long passed the safe rate it should be beating at, that had to be why cold sweat had broken on his skin, that had to be why he felt nauseous and lightheaded.
"I-I-I'm fine." he stuttered, registering America's words from afar. He felt like he was falling away. The pressure was still on his ankle, and it still hurt, and he still didn't want to know what it was.
But deep inside he knew.
Terror invaded his heart, and without even thinking, he flipped his weapon around and hit it at the ground violently.
There was a horrific snap and a squelching sound, and his ankle was finally let go of. And hell if it didn't burn through his entire body when it got free.
Gasping in pain and terror, England momentarily fell back against America, but quickly stood up despite only wanting to crumple. He had to keep strong, at least until they finished off the last of those undead cannibals.
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Post by America on Mar 16, 2012 21:02:52 GMT -5
It was England's voice that caught America's attention. Even if he insisted he was fine, America knew better than to believe him. If he was truly fine, he'd be full of confidence and would loudly declare so, probably throwing in an insult before jumping back into the fight. However, since he didn't do any one of these things, America grew even more worried than before, which he didn't think was possible.
Then, once England fell back against him, it was certain that America's worst fears had become true- England had probably been bitten. Oh, god, what am I supposed to do? the larger of the two thought, his mind going blank, only registering when zombies made a lunge at him. He brought down a couple more, then quickly turned his head to look at England, his face a mask of fear.
"P-Please tell me you're alright," he begged, not wanting to hear any bad news. He wanted to be wrong in his belief that England had been bitten. He wanted England to laugh at him and tell him that he could never be wounded so easily. He wanted England to insult him, to tell him to stop bugging him, to force him to turn around, anything, except say what he thought he might say.
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Post by England on Mar 16, 2012 21:24:39 GMT -5
England licked his lips, feeling them to be too dry and shot down the last few zombies on his side without replying. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to explain what was happening to him, not to himself and much less to America.
"I said I was f-fine." he struggled on the word, letting out a harsh breath as he pulled his leg out of the lax grip the undead-and-now-permanently-dead hands still had on him. "F-Finish them off. I'll start lighting them right away." because he just wanted to get inside and collapse on a couch and never get back up again. Instead, he stumbled forward, unable to put pressure on his right leg anymore, and straightened, pulling a lighter from his pocket and unlatching the small bottle of lighter fluid he always kept on his belt. He forced his mind to concentrate on the burning process and that only, for he was sure he'd panic if he thought about anything else.
"Keep calm, England. Carry on." he breathed through his nose, trying to put his bustling thoughts at ease.
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Post by America on Mar 16, 2012 21:41:31 GMT -5
Hearing England speak once more, America instantly shot down the remaining zombies, sighing with relief. However, that was short-lived once he turned to face England. He put his weapons away, then stepped closer to his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"You were bitten, weren't you?"
Funny how he was so calm right now, even if his heart and mind said differently. His voice was free of any hitches or stuttering, though, mainly because he knew what the answer would be. England was tense, and his sudden lack of bitterness was all the proof he needed.
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Post by England on Mar 16, 2012 21:46:07 GMT -5
England didn't answer, because answering would shatter the only illusion he had left. And right now, all he wanted was hope to hang onto, even if it was false.
He glared at America for a while, and then threw him the lighter.
"Make yourself useful. Help me burn these bastards." he rasped, all too obvious in the quiet of the night, save for the crackling of the bodies on fire.
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Post by America on Mar 16, 2012 21:58:10 GMT -5
America caught the lighter, but barely, still staring at England in shock. He did as he was told, though, had he not been in a state of shock that his best friend was actually bitten, he probably would have all but thrown it down and whisk England off to the infirmary. But, no, he did what England wished, lighting the decaying bodies and ignoring the smell of burning flesh as much as he could.
Finally, he realized the seriousness of the situation, and spun right back around, grabbing England's hand. "You need to get that looked on," he commanded, his voice coming out in a choked sob. "Please. I...I can finish this, just..." He couldn't believe England wanted to work when he was like this. Hell, America still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that England, of all people, had been bitten. It hurt just thinking about it.
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Post by England on Mar 16, 2012 22:04:45 GMT -5
England immediately pulled his hand out of America's, holding it close to his chest as if wounded. He looked at the taller Nation, trying not to be influenced by the desperation in his eyes, the laced sobs in his quivering voice, and oh god- His mask was cracking, and fast.
"Let's finish this here and we'll head back to the roof to complete out guard shift. Morning's not too far now. We'll be done soon." he answered, turning around so America wouldn't see the gritting of his teeth to keep the terror out of his voice and the corners of his mouth twitching downwards. Quickly, he had to get away so that America wouldn't hear the sound of his heart leaping and thumping and slamming everywhere in his chest.
Still trying to pull his composure back together, England painstakingly took a few steps forward towards the warehouse.
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Post by America on Mar 16, 2012 22:17:09 GMT -5
As much as he wanted to go complete his shift with England, as much as he wanted to eat chocolate under the moon and talk, he knew better. He wasn't going to fall for England's stubbornness. "Dammit, England," he hissed, carefully spinning him around, once more, and staring him in the eye, trying to keep his fear and, regrettably, tears in check. "You're wounded! For God's sakes, could you at least care enough to get this checked out? England, you were bitten by a zombie, and you just think you can go back on guard duty? What if your condition gets worse, England? Have you even thought about how everyone will feel if their leader is..."
He couldn't finish that sentence, for he felt a tear slid down his cheek. Quickly, hoping England couldn't see him in the dark, despite how close they were, he turned his head, wiping it away. "I said, I'll finish up here. You need to go."
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Post by England on Mar 16, 2012 22:24:45 GMT -5
England looked at him again, somewhat taken aback by his outburst, and then clenched his fists. Why couldn't America understand? Why did the bloody daft fool always have to be unable to read the atmosphere?
England knew he was hurt. He knew he'd been bitten. He knew he'd been infected. He knew there still hadn't been any vaccines made against zombie bites. He knew he was doomed now. So there was no point in crying over spilt milk. As his last duty as base supervisor, he'd protect the Nations he'd sworn to save until his final breath.
"Leave me alone, America." he whispered venomously. "Go to bed. You're obviously tired. I'll finish the guard shift. Nothing else I can do anymore, is there?" he added the last part with a touch of bitterness.
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Post by America on Mar 16, 2012 22:32:53 GMT -5
America didn't answer this. He wasn't exactly sure what to do anymore. He didn't know whether to yell or cry or just do as England wished. Staring off into the distance, he handed the lighter back, not wanting to say anything else. He knew there was nothing much more to say.
However, there was no way in hell he was just going to flounce off to bed as if nothing happened. "I won't be able to sleep, anyway," he muttered, still not daring to look back at England. "I might as well help you."
He almost didn't want to be around the elder anymore. He felt nauseous just thinking about England's words. Nothing else I can do anymore, is there? They replayed over and over in his head, but America didn't want to listen to them. He just wanted everything to be okay.
He sighed, burying his face into the palm of his dirty, bloody hand. "What am I supposed to do, England?" he asked, his voice muffled and flat, all traces of his enthusiastic nature gone.
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Post by England on Mar 16, 2012 22:49:21 GMT -5
And England felt instantly guilty, horrid and nauseous for causing America to suffer so. This wasn't what he wanted. He just wanted everybody to be safe and sound and happy, which is exactly why he was ready to accept his fate. Afraid, terrified, terrorized, yes, but ready to accept it.
"Come back up to the roof with me so we can at least get out of this field, out of plain sight." he whispered out of a lack of anything else to say. "We can out wait the night there. There are a few more hours until morning, and the first symptoms of a zombie bite aren't that grave." he shivered as reality struck him for a moment there. "A-And then..." and then what? And then they'd cry? Mourn for a lost cause? What would they do, then?
There were so many things England didn't know, and that he wanted to know.
"And then we'll go to the hospital wing when one of the medics is awake." he finished lamely, hanging his head as he took a few more unstable steps towards the warehouse.
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Post by America on Mar 17, 2012 13:07:05 GMT -5
America vaguely heard England speak. His heart seemed to be pounding much too loud. However, the words finally came to him, and he stood for a few more seconds before pulling away from his hand, smearing grime across his cheek. "Okay," he mumbled, quickly going toward England's side.
He couldn't possibly imagine how his friend must have been feeling. To be bitten by a zombie, to not know whether you'd live or die... America couldn't help but feel admiration for England's complete acceptance of this. Cautiously, he placed on arm around England, wanting to help out somehow, someway. "I-If you can't walk," he started, struggling to get the words out of his mouth. "Just lean up against me."
That was probably the most he could do. He wasn't a medic, and despite claiming to be a hero, even he knew that there was no way he could magically use his heroism to save England. It was impossible. Knowing this made him even more depressed, but he managed to keep it all of his hysterics from escaping.
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