Not Like This [England]

[America]

[[my titles could use some work]]

America couldn't believe they were still collecting firewood. It was supposed to be pretty far along in spring, yet here they were, out in the forest, ready to grab what logs they had left over from the winter. Of course, there was the added bonus of possibly getting some meat while they were about, but America didn't count on it. Besides, he didn't think he could eat any more mutated deer and live to tell the tale.

He sighed, already feeling quite ready to go back to the warehouse. After all, he and England had been through a lot. He felt as if they should be treated like royalty, at least for a couple of extra weeks. Then again, England did assign most of the chores, so if they wanted to be technical, everything was his fault.

"Okay, seriously," he said, glancing over at his boyfriend. "Is there any point for both of us to be out here?"

[England]

((gurl, you're fine. Stahp dat))

It all started with a plate of boiled potatoes.

England had noted how much gas ovens cost for them and figured that they needed an alternative source of energy. So he figured they could use the fireplace to cut off on heating (spring storms did get a bit chilly) and would be able to cook smaller meals on an open fire. Probably, he could also salvage enough bricks from the nearest town to build a fire oven and save money on gas. Less money on gas meant more money on food and medicine, and he was sure that the nations would not mind waiting an hour longer for their pizza if it meant that there would be enough pizza to feed everyone, for once.

And whatever they did end up doing, he was done paying exorbitant prices to boil a pot of potatoes.

"I need to get someone out with me. You know the rules. No going out alone. Besides, you're good for transporting things, and I'm sure you didn't have anything better to do, am I correct?" The rhetorical question was just that: rhetorical, and England quickly moved on. "I'm going to go this way. The trees are really thick around there so perhaps I can find fallen branches a lot easier. Be careful to your right. Last time I checked, it was a marsh-like place. That, or the trees have grown out of the ground. All I know is that scouting has reported not to go that way."

((watch as America goes that way))

[America]

[[watch as america does just that]]

America hummed in reply, glancing towards the right of him. If they hadn't really been that way often, they hadn't collected as many tree branches If they hadn't collected as many tree branches over in that area, it meant there were more to collect. And, if there were more tree branches to collect, America could be finished quicker than he would if he went somewhere they frequently visited. And, if he continued with his train of thought, finishing sooner would mean going back to the warehouse sooner.

It was perfect.

There was the question of zombies, but they would be in the city, where they could smell human life. They wouldn't be hanging about near a marsh. Even if there were a few around, America could easily take them out. Zombies weren't usually too much of a problem for him, especially when there were so few.

However, he didn't want England to know that he was going to be deliberately disobeying orders and reports. That wouldn't go over well. Instead, he pointed to a different part of the forest. "You knock yourself out. I'll go this way and see if I can find anything, 'kay?" He grinned widely, waiting for England to move before changing directions.

[England]

Well, he supposed he could not keep America on a leash, especially during the rare times they actually went out. Shrugging, England continued on his own way, figuring they could just get back if they didn't wander too far from one another. He didn't sense danger, either. The forest was silent today. If it were human adversaries they were facing, England might have been worried, but zombies were less than subtle in their advance. There definitely weren't any zombies around, at least not in their immediate vicinity. England always kept his ears out for the usual moaning, but was not paranoid about it.

"Don't get yourself killed," he called back, waving dismissively at him as he headed off, not really paying attention to where America was going. He was a big boy, he could handle himself, after all. Things hadn't gone too peachy last time England had tried to coddle America, after all.

Weaving through the trees, England bent down to pick up the slim, but sturdy branches that would help in keeping the fire alive. They had logs back in the warehouse, and logs lasted long, so they weren't in an immediate need for those, but it was always better to have more than not enough.

[America]

America grinned, waiting until England was out of sight before turning to the right. Getting himself killed in a marsh was probably the stupidest way ever to die. He scoffed as he continued to walk, picking up branches when he came across them. Luckily, the trees continued to spread through into the marsh, where they rose up from the ground. He glanced across the terrain, crinkling his nose in distaste at all the mud. "Do not wanna step in that shit," he muttered to himself. Luckily, because of the way the tree roots were, he could easily pass across on those, and he did just that. He climbed up on the first one, gathering what fallen branches he could. If there were any on the tree that were close to him, he would also grab those.

After skipping through a few of the trees, he grinned with the realization of how many he had already collected. It was going quicker than he had expected. Only a little bit more, he figured, and he could go find England again, and no one would ever know that he went in the marshes. Or, as a matter of fact, he could point out how safe it was.

Irony seemed to strike just then. As he tried crossing on another tree, he noticed movement in the otherwise-still mud. He blinked in confusion. Were there animals that lived in mud like that? Land animals wouldn't be able to breathe, and aquatic animals wouldn't be able to swim. He pondered it for a total of three seconds before a hand suddenly shot up from the murk and grabbed at his leg.

Too late did America guess what it was.

Caught by surprise, he was pulled down from the roots of the tree. All of his branches fell, the majority of them getting stuck in the mud around him, and America fell, too. The hand continued pulling and pulling, despite how much America kicked to get away. He tried reaching for his gun, but by then, he was practically covered in mud himself. He couldn't move much at all, and because of all the zombies' pulling and his own thrashing, he found it was growing more difficult to breathe. The muck was getting into his mouth, making him choke, and as he stopped flailing about to catch his breath, he felt something sink into his legs.

"Eng-Engla-and!" he called out, but he was still coughing, still panting harshly. Fear gripped at him, and he doubled his efforts at escape, but by then, more hands had joined in. The teeth of the first zombie ripped through his skin, and he gasped out in pain. Unfortunately, it didn't stop there; the other undead creatures that had come decided they wanted a part in the feast, and soon, America felt the snapping teeth grabbing at the flesh on his legs. He cried out, scrambling to find something to hold onto. His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he remembered something England had said to him, months earlier:

"Zombies don't just bite, they eat. And if they get their teeth into anything human, they will pull, tear, and chew."

"N-No!" America puffed out. He couldn't kick, he couldn't run, he couldn't even grab a weapon to attack the zombies. He could barely cry out, as he was far too busy in trying to grab the tree he had been pulled from, and the mud kept getting into his mouth whenever he tried, his position forcing him to keep his mouth shut lest he wanted to choke. All he could do was flail about as he felt the zombies ripping into his legs, tearing through the skin, tearing through the flesh, and tearing through the muscle.

England doesn't know where I am, he reminded himself, tears dripping down his far as he sobbed, the torture of his legs being torn apart almost too much for him to bear. England thinks I'm somewhere else.

That meant he had no one to save him.

[[...oops? :'D the length. oops.]]

[England]

England may have cheated by tearing damaged branches off of trees, but the point was that he'd gotten his load of wood and was sure that America had not even come close. It was such a typical thing of him to get lost, or forget what he was supposed to do or to get too curious or distracted by something. He figured he may as well find him again, especially to prevent him from going too far. Just because there were not any zombies in the immediate vicinity, it didn't mean that they wouldn't wander their way from another section of the forest.

He retraced his steps where he remembered having parted with America, but then stopped, realizing that he hadn't checked where America had gone. He certainly hadn't headed back towards the warehouse, so that left him with two options. To the west was the marshland, so he definitely did not go there, so that only meant that he could have gone north.

"America?" he called, just in case, keeping his tone low than usual to avoid giving out his position to every zombie in the forest. "America, are you here?" he couldn't even hear the telltale crunching of feet on branches and grass, so America definitely wasn't around. He hoped he could at least get a sign of life from the young man.

"America?" And he waited in bated breath for any kind of response.

[America]

He was so scared.

He had been scared many times before in his life, but the majority of those times, he was immortal. He was immortal and being scared didn't stop the fact that he couldn't die. But now, here he was, being eaten alive by zombies, and he couldn't do anything but scramble about for purchase. He was dead. He was going to die. If England didn't know he was over here, England wouldn't look, and the only way America could get him to come and look was by screaming, but he couldn't, for the life of him, get his head out of the mud for long enough to do that.

What was worse was that he didn't know the extent of damage that was being done to his legs. All he could feel was the pain, but there was too much going on to properly determine how much the zombies had eaten. He also couldn't tell how much time was passing. Everything was a blur, and it could have been going too quickly, or it could have been going too slowly. He couldn't tell. He couldn't tell anything.

All he knew was that he had to scream. He had to make noise. He had to try and get England to save him, because that was all he wanted. He just needed someone to save him.

"He-el-" he managed to call out again, and it was a bit louder this time, but the zombies pulled him back down. He was becoming light-headed, exhausted, and he wondered how much blood he had lost. He could give up the fight, then, and just accept his fate, but he was never one for that. He certainly wasn't going to die that easily. He kicked his torn legs, trying to get his mouth above surface once more. The pain was unbearable, and he felt faint. But three words raced through his mind, the only three words keeping him going; don't give up.

With that, he pushed once more before dipping his head back. He gave a gasp of breath, then screamed, as loud as he could, "England!"

That was all he could do. His thrashing was tiring him out, and he couldn't stop it when the zombies pulled on him again and his mouth was, once more, filled with the mud. He choked out, the tears, muck, and exhaustion making everything too blurry to see.

Everything was left up to England now.

[England]

England heard America that time, and his heart immediately began pounding when he realized that he had been screaming. That was never a good sign. He had to find him and make sure he was okay. The screaming had come from the west, which definitely meant that America had gone into the marshland, contrarily to what he'd told him to do. Well then. If he was yelling on top of his lungs because he was stuck in the bog, England would be sure to kick his ass once he made sure that all his hollering didn't invite all of the zombies in the area over for lunch.

He made his way through the trees, knowing he was close when the ground began squelching as he walked. It really wasn't hard to miss America once he made it to the actual marsh-like area, for the young man was grasping to a tree root for his life and struggling to pull himself out. He went under a few times, and England rushed to go around the most dangerous part to get to him.

"America!" he called as he carefully tread over the soft ground. "Look at you! I told you not to go here!" And yet something seemed off with the young man. England's heart accelerated. "Are you alright?" he asked, not knowing what to expect as he grasped one solid-looking branch of the nearest tree, adjusted his footing, and pried one of America's hands away from the branch to try and dislodge him from the bog.

[America]

He could barely hear England's calls. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart and the squelching of the mud as England began to pull at his hand. He didn't even realize England had grabbed his hand, as he was just struggling to not go under, to not give in, to not just faint from all the pain. He had never been more thankful in his life, though, for England's appearance.

He tried helping England, tried to pull himself up, but every time he did so, he could feel his feet ripping apart. The zombies had just as strong of a hold on him as England did, and he let out a choked sob. They needed more effort. They needed to be stronger than the zombies were.

At least his head was out of the muck, though. At least now he could try and make England see the dire situation he was under. "Hurts," he gasped out. "Pl-Please, hel-elp me." He gave a loud, strangled cry when the zombies, sensing he was trying to escape, began biting harder, quicker. He didn't want to know what his legs looked like then. He didn't want to see the mess he was sure had become of them. He just wanted to get out.

"Oh, god, hurry!" he managed to screech, trying to focus his gaze on his boyfriend. At this rate, he would have no lower body left. Still crying loudly, he continued to pull up, hoping England would work fast.

[England]

Every scream was another horrible pang in England's heart, and he tugged with all his might, at least enough to drag him chest-level to the mud. Bending down, he anchored his feet on the hardest ground he could find and actually tucked one of his feet under a protruding root, and put his arms around his chest. It was a lot easier to drag him out this way, though England realized that America was a lot heavier than usual.

"What happened?" he grunted as he slowly but surely pulled America out, the sound of sucking mud echoing all around him. To be distressed enough to cry and yell like this, something grave must have happened. "God damn it, America, what happened?" he asked again, hysterics rising up inside of him. America was hurting, and he didn't know why.

When he pulled him out almost stomach-level, the first arm poked out through the bog with him and flailed wildly, trying to grasp at America's flesh. England's heart leapt and rose up in his throat, and out of reflex, he kicked the hand hard enough to break the brittle bones and bend the hand sideways. Only after he calmed down did he realize that there had to be more. Under the mud.

Terror coursed through his veins as he doubled his efforts to pull America out.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," he blanched, trembling as he slowly dragged his boyfriend out of the muck and choking a horrified sob when the first wound, on his upper thigh, came into view. England brought out his knife from its sheath and kept pulling, setting America on his back once his upper body was out. He then individually began pulling his legs out, almost faint as a hand, still lodged in America's skin, came up as well. England quickly stabbed it and got it off, but actually reeled back when a zombie head came up, still attached to America's half-eaten calf.

"Fuck," he swore, immediately stabbing it and letting it fall back into the mud. He pulled the second leg out, and only realized he was crying in sheer horror when he set the two legs down on the ground to survey the damage. "Oh god, America..." He turned to his boyfriend's face, white with blood loss and agony, and wiped some of the mud off of his face. "Oh god, America, answer!" He couldn't die, he couldn't die now. He wouldn't die unless he bled out, but if he did die, he would immediately go into a coma and turn into one of them. They needed to get back to the warehouse, and quick.

[America]

America kept crying, kept yelling, until he was fully out. The pain was unbearable, and America could feel himself slipping out of consciousness. Now that he wasn't in harm's way, he wanted to give up. He wasn't being eaten alive anymore, and he felt he deserved a good rest. Just as he closed his eyes, though, he felt a hand on his face. He yelped in alarm, swatting it away and opening his eyes once more, struggling to get away from the offending hand.

It was going to pull him back down and finish him off.

But, once he caught sight of the hand's owner, he relaxed- for a few seconds. Then the pain seared through him again, and he gritted his teeth, trying to keep back another cry. His whole body shook, his back arched upwards, and his hand grabbed a hold of England's, squeezing tightly to give himself comfort. England was here, and England would be able to save him.

"I-I-It hurts," he blurted out, then allowed himself to sob once more. "Oh, god, i-it really hur-hur-" He cut himself off with a loud, strained grunt, then brought one muddy hand down to the ground, moving it to a position where he might be able to push himself up. However, he didn't do any such thing; he did stay like that, wanting to see the damage. He had to know the extent of the wounds. "Enn...England, pl-please..."

He didn't want to cry anymore. He didn't want to scream anymore. His body was threatening to, though, so to stop it, he removed his trembling hand from England's and put it to his mouth, then bit down as hard as he could, trying to direct the pain somewhere else.

[England]

America's trembling voice brought England back to reality and he snapped his gaze to the arms struggling to get out of the bog and reclaim their prize. Not that England would actually let them. At least he now could explain the lack of zombies around. They'd all sunk into the mud and had waited for an unfortunate victim to come around. Like America.

"Okay, darling, it'll be okay," he wasn't sure who he was comforting as he ran his muddy hand over America's hand in a semblance of a caress. "Don't push yourself." A ball had formed in his throat and his heart was beating loudly in his ears. "I'm so sorry I didn't come sooner. Damn it, I'm so sorry," he ran a muddy hand through his hair, too scared to look at America's legs, fearing he'd get nauseous if he did. From what he'd seen when he pulled them out, they were a bloody, muddy mess.

"You'll bleed out if it goes on like this." Selecting a rather thick branch from the collection he'd dropped, he snapped it into a smaller piece and gingerly removed America's hand from his mouth, replacing the limb with the piece of wood instead. "Bite down. You hurt your hand." Indeed, bite marks that were an angry red decorated his skin in a semi-circle, and England was suddenly nervous at the thought of America's mouth getting near any kind of skin. "I know there's a spring not far from here. We'll bandage you there and go back." Of course, he didn't give him a choice, considering that he was semi-conscious as was, and gently helped him up, minding him legs.

"America, listen to me," he called, looking into his teary eyes. "I know it hurts, love, I can't imagine how that feels, but I need you to get on my back." Turning around, he gently squatted in front of him and looked back. "Just do this one last favour. Just one last effort."

[America]

England's voice barely filtered through. America was bordering between dazed and alarmed, and he was slowly beginning to lose all sorts of coherent thoughts. He just wanted everything to be over with. He just wanted to wake up and not have the memory of this day any longer. And, if he could do that by going to sleep, so be it. He would gladly fall asleep and give up the fight he was struggling through.

He whined when England took his hand away from his mouth and replaced it with something else, something much harder. However, it didn't inflict the pain he needed. He tried to complain, but he was too exhausted to do anything other than nod and bite down, as England instructed him to. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it was mean to help, anyway.

When England sat him up, he moaned out, voice muffled from behind the branch. No, he wanted to say. No, let me go to sleep, please, lemme just drift away, you don't understand, I can't do this- But he said none of it. He just listened and, after giving himself a few minutes to process what England said, he nodded. First, though, he let the branch fall from his mouth, knowing there was something there he had to say. Not now, not when he couldn't even remember, but soon.

He moved painstakingly slow, using his hands to carefully scoot himself across the ground, whimpering all the while. He didn't want to do this anymore. He wanted to give up already. He was so tired of fighting. Still, England's words echoed in his mind; he could quit after this. One last thing. He'd be able to do it. He was strong, after all. He was strong, and he could do it. England trusted him, and that was all that mattered.

Once in position, he wasted little time in reaching up and grabbing England's shoulders. So far, so good. He took deep breaths, already anticipating the next part. He gave himself a few seconds before pulling his body up, crying out as his legs left the ground, blood, skin, and torn muscle falling from them. He didn't dare look, though. He didn't think he could take the sight.

He kept on, letting his sobs continue, even after he was fully on England's back. His legs dangled, but he couldn't bring himself to move anymore. He buried his dirty head into his boyfriend's shirt, sobbing, and only one sentence was able to fall from his lips; "I-I'm so so-sorry." That was what he had to say, and now that he said it, he didn't have to do anything else. He could quit.

[England]

England was ready to catch him when he threw his weight on his back and rose up by adjusting America so that his legs would just dangle in the air instead of chafing against him. He tightly grasped the back of his upper thighs and grunted in effort as he took the first step forward, struggling to carry his boyfriend out of the muddy terrain. The ground was still soft and England was afraid not only of slipping, but also of sinking, but with carefully placed steps and cautiousness like he'd never had before, he made it out, back onto the regular forest trail.

America's weight was dead on his back, and England had a bit of trouble supporting him, even if his muscular strength had developed lately. Still, adrenaline and desperation drove him to the point where he didn't even care if he was bent in half for the rest of his life after this.

"You're going to be alright, my love," he panted out, trying to restore some form of comfort to America. "I promise you, you're going to be alright. The pain is going to stop, and you won't have to cry anymore, I swear it to you." England's throat locked up as America slid a little, and he gingerly bumped him back up and grasped his thighs again. "I'm so sorry I let this happen to you. I've put you through so much and I've demanded so much from you. I promise I won't let you suffer, darling. I'm going to save you, so please don't give up on me." If America died now, England would have no hope of saving him. He had to last out just a little longer, at least until they got out of the forest. He didn't know if America would be able to make it, but he crossed his fingers and prayed to every deity he'd ever heard of to keep him alive, just until he got a window of opportunity to save him.

"Please," his own voice rang out in his ears, and something cool ran down his face. England quickly realized it was a tear, and it was soon followed by many more. "Please!" His voice had a desperate, pleading edge to it, and England wasn't sure who he was addressing. "Please don't take America from me. Please don't let him die!"

He was talking to himself now, he was sure, but he needed to hear something. America's silence was more frightening than anything else, and he was thankful for the sound of gentle water that filtered into his ears as he entered the small clearing with the shallow spring.

[America]

After a few minutes, America had quieted down, too exhausted even to sob. He just let his head lie on one of England's shoulders, breathing harshly to try and keep himself breathing. A gentle call for sleep washed over his entire body, and though America closed his eyes, he found it was growing more and more difficult to sleep. He couldn't exactly hear what it was that England was saying, but he could hear the desperation in his voice, and only one thing stuck in his mind;

England's upset.

He had always hated hearing or seeing his boyfriend upset. He didn't want his boyfriend to be upset. He tried to spurn comforting words, words of gold that would make England smile again, but all that came from his mouth was a strangled moan, then he fell silent, unable to muster up any sort of strength to speak.

However, it seemed even making that one noise was enough to take all the strength and will out of his body. He felt himself drifting off, and he closed his eyes, blissfully drifting out of consciousness.