Stranded [England] [Complete]

[America]

America groaned out again, bringing the jacket up to cover his face. It really did stink, though. Letting it get so wet in the rain wasn't a very brilliant thing to do, but it was in the past. Once they got back to the warehouse, America could focus on getting it the cleaning it needed. He smacked his lips together, the thought of putting food in his stomach a bit upsetting for the current moment. After all, if he was going to roll around in zombie blood, he wanted to make sure that he wouldn't throw everything up.

"Can we drink the rest of the water, too?" he asked, peeking out from under his jacket with groggy eyes. "I'm super thirsty right now." Probably the quick bout of yelling he did last night. That, or the crazy amount of blood he had lost during the weird surgery England had preformed on his leg.

Speaking of his leg, he sat up and looked down at it, scratching at his cheek. Maybe sweets would be good, after all. His hands were shaky, and he felt like he was going to collapse at any given moment. He let out a huff of breath, burying his face into his hands and allowing himself a few more minutes to sit and enjoy not doing anything physical. It was going to be ruined in just a little bit, after all.

[England]

"You can have a third of what's left in your bottle. We'll have another third right before leaving. And we'll keep the last bit as emergency water if we ever have to run," he licked his cracked lips and sighed. "We're better off distributing our supplies over the time we have left, and look out for unforeseen circumstances." Big words made him even hungrier than before. The bag with all of their food inside seemed so far away. England felt like he would puke if he even tried to reach for it. Then again, he breathed, and felt like he would puke, so he may as well have gotten constructive about it and attempted to remedy to his situation.

Throwing his hand out, he stretched the sleep out of his limbs and made a grab for the bag that was just out of his reach. Wiggling a little against the ground, the gained the extra inch he needed to grab one of the zippers on it and pulled it closer to them. He then reattempted to sit up, slowly as not to upset his spinning head and his growling stomach, and unzipped the bag, grabbing anything that fell under his hand and dumping it out. Nausea reared its ugly head again as he looked at all the soft cakes, filled with white cream, and imagined himself digesting half of all the little packets. What he wouldn't give for a loaf of bread, or potatoes, or pasta right now. He didn't think he'd be able to eat anything sweet for a while after this.

"Let's eat all of these at once so that we can digest in time for our escape. I fully intend to be done butchering the lucky ones of our lovely neighbours in an hour, tops, so we should get running while the sun has still just newly come up. I'd rather waiting until dusk, but... honestly, I cannot take another minute on this roof." It wasn't just because of the memory of tenseness that this place held, or the incessant noise of the zombies at the door, or the cold, hunger, thirst and weakness taking a hold of him, or the fear, or the absolute boredom of having nothing to do all day long. Actually, he wasn't sure why he wanted off the roof as much as he did. He just didn't want to stay anymore.

[America]

"At once?" America sighed and ran a hand down his face. "Dude, I like sweets as much as the next person, but I don't think my stomach can hold anything right now." He grabbed the water bottle instantly and began drinking the amount that England told him to, getting a little bit irritated with everything. He just wanted a balanced meal and a huge stash of water.

However, he reminded himself, once they ate the cakes and killed the zombies and limped away from the roof, he'd be able to go back to the warehouse and get the balanced meal and fresh water. He never thought that going back to the warehouse would become so comforting to his mind. As it was, though, the warehouse was the safe zone. It was the only safe place America could think of, the only place where they wouldn't die from zombies, starvation, or anything else. They would have all they needed. The warehouse wasn't exactly home, but the nations sure as hell wouldn't be able to survive without it.

Despite his earlier words, America reached over and grabbed one of the plastic-wrapped cakes, wincing just slightly when he opened it. He could smell the sugar, and it was already making him feel ill. "Ugh," he muttered, rubbing at his neck with his free hand. Never before had sweets looked so unappetizing to him. His stomach growled, and America finally stuffed the cake in his mouth, allowing crumbs to fall into his lap. He chewed painstakingly slow, keeping his eyes down as he ate.

Once he swallowed all of it, he took deep breaths, putting a hand to his stomach. "Well, isn't this such a healthy meal?"

[England]

"This is disgusting," England complained along with him for once, forcing himself to bite back a gag as the burning sugar made its way down his throat. He shouldn't have complained, but that was all they had. It was somewhat amusing to realize that he was more bothered by their supply of food, or sustenance, he should generalize it according to his distaste for the treats, instead of the real threat, the undead. "Right, well... Let's just swallow through it." What an ironic choice of words, he grumbled to himself as he ripped open his second packet and barely chewed the cake before swallowing. The faster, the better.

"If I throw up, do not hold it against me," he grumbled, swallowing harshly before putting a hand on his growling stomach. It was demanding more food, but the sugar was making him even more nauseous than usual. He quickly and wordlessly took care of his breakfast and energy source for the day and then got up to stretch and get ready.

"Alright, whenever you're ready, we should go ahead and get started. I'll try to work out some of the plan already. Join me when you're ready, alright?" he told him, wiping the crumbs of chocolate off the corner of his lips with the back of his hand. He then turned to the door and began walking away without rushing any. They still had plenty of time. And the zombies were in no hurry to let them leave.

[America]

Once America saw England was done, he hurried to finish up, stuffing the rest of his own cakes into his mouth. When it got to the point where he couldn't even swallow anymore sweet foods, though, he pushed the others aside, working on what he had in his mouth. It took him a few minutes to get it all down, and he had to sit and breathe for a few minutes more before finally standing up and following England.

He smiled when he realized his leg felt much better, and he didn't have to limp anymore. Not now, at least, but who knew how long they would have to be running?

"Okay," he said, nodding his head as he stood beside his partner. "I'm ready." He wasn't, really, not for what they'd be about to do, anyway, but he didn't want to wait any longer. He just wanted to get it all done with and then take the longest shower ever. He'd need it, after all. They both would. A shower, some meat and vegetables, and then a very long sleep.

America was already impatient for it.

[England]

"Come on over, then," England motioned him towards the door, and stopped in the place he was sitting yesterday. The zombies were still in the same place, arms still bobbing up and down to grab the human in front of them. There were a bunch of them, and England was unsure of how to proceed. If they got too close, one of them could grab them and drag them over to bite them. For rotted creatures, zombies did have surprising strength left in their ripped muscles and bones. They always had to keep a clear view on their opponent.

"Alright," he pulled one knife from each of his boots, leaving his trench pikes untouched as the job would be messy and was more fitted to a knife. "Perhaps we should begin by cutting off their arms at the elbows so that they can't grab us while we stab a couple." He observed the arms move around a little more before lashing out to catch one of their wrists, pulling the arm to its full length and taking a deep breath before stabbing the crook of its elbow. A squelching noise threatened to bring his breakfast right back up his throat, but he closed his eyes briefly and sawed around the stab until the weakened bones and cartilage snapped to leave him with a limp arm in his hand.

He quickly flung it away, forcing his nausea down as he grabbed another wrist and repeated the action with that arm as well. Shivers danced across his skin as he went through with the horrid task, every squelching slice of skin and bones threatening to turn the cakes into projectile vomit.

"Don't just sit there, help me out," he forced out through gritted teeth, flinging the second arm on the ground and flinching as it landed with a splatter of dead skin and rotten blood.

[America]

To say America had been expecting England to suddenly start chopping through zombie arms would have been the biggest lie on the planet. America didn't know what he was expecting, but such a vulgar sight? Nope. He had been hoping for something more simple, like just stabbing them and trying to drag them from their spot at the door. Sawing the limbs off of every single zombie was a little bit different.

"Oh, this is fucking lovely," he grumbled, but managed to smile as he took out his knife. "Always wondered what would happen if I start cutting limbs off of undead creatures right after stuffing my face with snacks." He took one whiff of the smell and instantly decided that he would probably lose his breakfast before all of this was over. Keep it down, he told himself as breathed through his mouth only. You're gonna be fine.

With that in mind, he reached out and grabbed one of the arms. He didn't like this. God, he hated touching them. Still, he refused to back out, and began sawing through the rotten bones and muscles, with only a little more ease than England. It took him a few seconds to rip the arm off the rest of the way, and he gagged at the blood that spilled out. "One thing's for sure; this roof is gonna have some interesting colors."

He tossed the arm to the side, along with the arms England had taken off, smile falling when he realized that they would have to roll around in everything.

[England]

"It's also going to be an interesting sight for cleanup crews," England let out a short chuckle. "I bet they'll spend so much time trying to figure out what the hell happened around here. Nobody will ever guess, though." Cutting off a second arm, he let the limp limb drop next to the two others and narrowly avoided a grab at his clothes as he picked out the next arm to cut. The ones in the back, reaching through various holes left by the ones in the front, did not bother as much, but England recognized the danger in grabby hands and watched out for them as he sawed through the next elbow.

A hand reached out and grabbed the side of his tunic, tugging insistently. England grunted and pulled away, ripping part of his clothes with a swear. He really didn't need to lose any more protection now, considering he'd be left with pretty much nothing to wear if this kept going. The lack of sleeves already gave him obvious chills, and he briefly wondered if he could convince America to give him his leather jacket for the motorcycle ride back. He'd definitely freeze his arms off if he stepped out into the wind dressed like that. And then maybe they could amputate his arms and add them to the growing pile at their feet.

The thought brought a smirk to his face and he threw the next arm with the others to turn to the hand clutching the piece of cloth missing from his side. He struggled a little to watch the flailing wrist without being cut by the nails (he didn't want to risk any kind of infection, after all), but when he grabbed it, he shoved the bloody knife through the elbow with sick satisfaction. His breakfast was screaming to rise back up through his throat, and England knew it would happen sooner or later, but he just hoped he'd have enough time to digest most of the sugars in his breakfast before throwing up the rest.

"That's pretty much all there is to it," he grunted as he cut off the arm he was holding and threw it away, wiping his bloodied hands and knife over his tunic. It didn't matter. There was a lot more of that coming soon. "Now put everything you don't need in the backpack, including your jacket, and let's roll." And he chuckled because the irony of the wording was painfully hilarious. He really did not want to keep going.

[America]

America managed to finish cutting off two more of the close arms before England told him to put everything away. And, at that moment, he realized they were actually going to go through with it. He was actually going to roll around in zombie guts. The thought just made his stomach turn for what seemed like the tenth time that morning, and he backed away from the undead creatures, piling everything back into the bags, including his jacket.

If he was allowed to save anything from the blood of the zombies, it was going to be his jacket.

He stared down at his knife for a few seconds before wiping it on his pants. They were stained with blood anyway, so what was a little bit more? Besides, it wasn't like his pants would be saved from what they were about to do. He didn't think he'd want to wear those clothes after they were all finished. He figured it was probably time to retire them.

"Alright," he said, looking over at England. "How are we gonna do this? Just grab one of them and drag it over and..." He hesitated before miming chopping it through. "Killing it?" Oh, but the best part would be what happened next. He figured he could wait for a demonstration on that before trying anything out for himself.

[England]

"I guess that's the only way to do it. We should pick off the ones that are easiest to pull out, so perhaps the lightest ones." There would be enough intestines inside a single human body, dead as it was, to sate their need for blood.

Unfortunately, the real trouble went with actually pulling them out. The zombies grasping at them with their forearm-less limbs were rocking the door violently, pushing one another to try and get at them. It would be hard to just pull one out of that mess without putting their hands and forearms at risk. It would be hard to pull one out at all with all that pressure. He wasn't sure how to go about his golden plan but it wasn't like he had a better plan B.

Sighing, he analyzed the zombies at the door another minutes or so, and then knelt, at level with their knees. He picked a pair of legs that didn't seem to be too big and grabbed the ankles, beginning to pull. A screech went up in the crowd as one of the zombies lost whatever balance it still managed to maintain, falling backwards into the crowd furiously tearing at it. England felt a bloody stub of an arm hit the back of his head and grunted, ducking a little and putting more strength into it.

"Help me out here," he sighed, letting go a moment to catch his breath. "You're the stronger one, can't you just pick one out and carry it over the chain? I bet you can lift anything." A dry chuckle escaped him. "My hero, right?" He fluttered his eyelashes in a visibly fake imitation of a flirty look, trying to get America to do the dirty work. The dirtiest work they had so far. Oh, there would be far dirtier things going on soon.

And it wasn't the kind of dirty that involved both of them and that England enjoyed.

[America]

America watched England's attempts to get one of the zombies out, and he would have completely dissolved into a fit of giggles if he hadn't known that England was choosing a zombie for them to kill and roll around on. Lovely. This was worse than a slaughterhouse. He crossed his arms and bit his lips at England's struggle, snapping out of his daze when asked for help. He would have instantly refused (he didn't want to have to do anymore of the disgusting work than he had to), but England brought up the whole hero thing.

And despite the fact that America knew was simply to get him to do the work, he couldn't help but fall for it.

"Aw, alright," he snapped, rolling his eyes. England had him wrapped around a finger most of the time, that was for sure. "You owe me for this, though." Yeah, England owed him alright. And the perfect payment would be time off of his usual chores and duties. More time to eat and sleep and recover from such a traumatic experience that they were about to partake in.

He took a deep breath before stepping forward, taking England's spot. How to do it? He didn't want to get bitten, not right then. They had already made it so far. He narrowed his before reaching both hands out and grabbing the closest one by the neck, thankful they didn't have arms. "Up we go, you little bastard," he grumbled in distaste. Propping one foot up against the doorway, he pulled at the zombie, ignoring the choked screeches it was giving, and ignoring the way the other zombies were snapping at his fingers. They wouldn't be able to get him; he was moving too quick for them, and their positioning was off.

In a matter of seconds, he had the zombie on their side of the door, and he watched it writhe and squirm on the ground. "So we just kill it now?" he asked, glancing over at England. "And then what?" He knew the answer was obvious, but he wanted to be sure England was also prepared to go through with the deed.

[England]

England got up, off the ground, and twirled one of the knives in his hands as he waited for America to get his job done. He should have felt bad for having ordered him around like that, but he didn't. After all, he was manipulating America, but it was for a good cause: to speed up their operation. It wasn't like he'd be doing this to him every single day. It would only be under exceptional circumstances that he'd ever allow himself to stoop as low as the "kicked puppy eyes", as it was more America's place to do such a thing than his.

As America brought the zombie out from the crowd and dropped it to the ground with an ease that surprised England, he stepped forward and put a foot on the ribcage of the creature, watching with slight pity as it hit his boots with its bloody stubs in an effort to grab him and drag him to his snapping teeth.

"Bring out another one, dearest. One for each of us, yes?" he rolled his eyes and watched the ungodly being writhe a little longer before suddenly stepping off of it, and stomping on its head. The zombie let out a screech, but didn't have time to follow up as England stomped again, twice before the bone fractured and its entire face caved in. Its teeth stopped snapping in a second.

To make sure there would be no surprises, England stomped on its forehead as well, breaking its skull and wincing as blood and grey matter leaked out of its smashed head, tainting the ground almost black.

"We'll use both of these to make ourselves look dead." He knelt down and looked at the body, ripping its shirt off first and running his fingers across its torso to find the ribs. He then put the tip of his bloody knife at the base of its throat, and took a deep breath of stinking air before digging the knife in an inch deep and beginning to slide the skin open vertically.

[America]

With a nod, America moved forward, but then stopped when he noticed the brutal way in which England was killing the zombie. He winced, eyes widening in alarm. "Jesus, England," he breathed out, shaking his head. "You think we can do it all in a cleaner-" He cut himself off with a grin, then rolled his eyes at his own suggestion. If they were going to be covering themselves with zombie guts, what was the point in being clean about it?

"Yeah, forget all that." He cleared his throat and brought out the second zombie with a slight struggle, considering he had picked a bigger one. He threw that on the ground next to the zombie England was working on, and took out his knife to dispatch it in a cleaner way, giving a pointed look to England as he did. The smell of the blood was beginning to make him nauseous, and he began making bets with himself on how long he could go before throwing up his breakfast.

He followed England's motions, using his knife to cut through the bigger zombie, opening it's body up. The blood poured out on his hands, and he kept his mouth closed as he worked, eyes narrowed in distaste.

"Okay." He put the knife aside once he was finished. "So now we just...do this?" Another chance, he mentally told England, glancing at his partner. Another chance to not do this. He figured England needed all those chances he could get. America really hoped they could come up with a different way in the three seconds they had.

[England]

England carefully opened the skin from the base of its throat to the waistbands of its ripped pants, and then cut horizontally on its collarbone and on its hip to create an I-shaped cut that was already leaking blood.

"This is as clean as it's going to get," England grunted and looked a bit unsure for a second before he took a deep breath and dug his hands into the slit at heart level and pulled on the colourless skin. The stench of death immediately infected the air around him and he choked, wincing before he continued pulling his corpse open. The skin stuck to the ribs a little, but a bit of knife-play quickly took care of that problem. Before long, he was kneeling right next to his very own opened-up corpse.

"This is foul, I swear if we ever have to do this again, I may be constrained to choke someone," he gagged a little at the rotten insides of the corpse and tried to hide his nose in his tunic so that he wouldn't have to smell the decay, but the stench was too strong and penetrated the cloth with ease.

"Here we go, then, I guess," he gulped and slowly bent down until his left arm had completely sunk inside of the corpse. The blood and bits of rotten skin stuck to his bare arm immediately and England clenched his eyes shut, pulling his bloody arm out after a bit of jostling around. He sheathed his knife, and then bent low to repeat the process with his other arm.

[America]

"Let's just not ever do this again," America mumbled. He watched England work for a few seconds, then turned to his own zombie and took a deep breath. Better now than never, he decided, and began to rip it open the rest of the way, shuddering when the smell wafted up to his nostrils. He was just going to go ahead and add this onto the list of the most disgusting things he had ever done.

His strength made ripping through much easier, so his zombie was torn open much quicker than England's was. His hands already felt grimy, and he bit back a groan when he realized that he would have to cover his whole body in the shit he was digging through. With one more glance to England, he held his breath, then dug the rest of his arm into the dead body, watching with morbid fascination when he couldn't even see his own skin through all of the blood that had collected.

He didn't know how much more of it he could take.

He did the same movement with the other arm, this time staring up at the sky. "Oh, god," he moaned out when he hit some of the internal organs. "O-Okay, this is probably the most disgusting thing I've ever done. Not probably. Never mind. It is-" He cut himself off with a gag, feeling his breakfast rising up. He shut his mouth and decided against speaking anymore.