Because I needed another online journal...

“There’s no question, sir. She has the virus. She’s infected.”

“Why isn’t she showing any symptoms?”

“I don’t know.”

“Speculate.”

“A genetic abnormality that acts as some sort of natural immunity…? But the virus is still in her blood and saliva, so technically she’s not immune. She’s a carrier.”

“Are you saying she has the ability to infect others?”

“Yes, sir… absolutely.”

~28 Weeks Later

0o0o0o0o0

America knew the exact moment when they crossed into British waters. England’s shoulders had drooped slightly, and a sigh of relief slipped through his lips. It was like watching a black-and-white photograph bleed into color. A healthy flush appeared his cheeks, and the grip on America’s hand didn’t feel quite as weak.

“You’re home…” America whispered, pressing his lips to England’s hair.

England’s eyes became riveted outside the window, watching for land, but he leaned into America’s shoulder and smiled as he did so.

When the plane landed, they separated from the returning refugees. A separate contingent of soldiers was waiting to receive them. England had insisted that he be able to go to his own home, even though it was located outside of the protected district. No one had argued with the nation, and even America failed to see the risk. The infected were dead, and he would be there to protect him, after all.

England wasn’t particularly pleased with the condition of his house. He paused on the lawn, glaring at the overgrown grass as if it had personally wounded him, and then looked up at the beaten-in door and windows. His hands were on his hips, his expression was severe, and suddenly America felt rather sorry for the excess foliage; it was going to die soon.

They crossed the threshold together. England froze in place as the light from outside spilled down the hallway. At its end he could see the dismantled stairs and dark stains smeared across the wall and hardwood floor. “Is that from…?” he ventured lowly.

“Yeah,” America said almost apologetically, unable to look at the blood and remember where it had come from.

As though seeking something to change the subject, England diverted himself by crossing into the living room. He surveyed the scene carefully, turning slow circle behind the couch. “Well, there’s not that much damage here…” he noted, seeing that the furniture was intact and the carpet unblemished. “Only… where are my curtains?”

America shrugged his shoulders, eyes wide and obscenely innocent. “I dunno.”

The older nation crossed his arms. “Yes you do. I know that look.” But he waved his hand distractedly. “Oh, forget it. I’ll make new ones, I suppose.”

Counting his blessings at a bullet dodged, America let out his held breath.

The dining room came next. England collected the piles of newspapers and letters, setting them to one side. He straightened a chair that didn’t need to be straightened, placed a set of coasters in their proper positions, caught sight of a coffee-ring on the surface that America had left there years ago, and scolded him for it. America smiled sheepishly, not hearing any of the words. He was just happy that England was being so alive. It had been months since he saw him with any sort of energy, even if it was fussy.

When they entered the kitchen, America heard England mumble something about “paint” and “bullocks, white” but chose not to comment. Instead he got in a good jibe about how England had still done dishes while hiding from zombies. England countered by saying that it had helped with his nerves, to which America replied he thought that only worked for women. Three strikes to the back of his head later, they were standing next to the broken stairs and looking up at the hallway above them.

“So… how are we going to get up there?” America asked, one hand massaging the lump forming just behind his ear. For a guy still recovering, England sure could hit hard.

“I think there’s a ladder in the garage…” England suggested, but judging from the tone of his voice, he wasn’t sure it would reach.

America clapped his hands together, looking determined. “Okay, so we’ll get the ladder, and then I’ll climb up and give you a boost the rest of the way. Then you can help me up after you get there.”

England sighed. “All right, but if we fall it is utterly and completely your fault.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The ladder plan had worked, but just as America had taken England’s hand and hauled himself to the second floor they realized they had no idea how they were going to get down again. The two looked at the ladder below them forlornly.

“Well, you jumped down last time, so you could probably do it again…” America tried. He felt a bit guilty that he hadn’t thought of this part; England probably would have if he wasn’t so exhausted. “Or we can try to climb down that criss-cross-thing outside your window.”

“It’s called latticework, and it’s just for decoration. It won’t hold your weight.”

“What are you trying to say…?” America demanded mock-defensively.

England rolled his eyes. “That you’re fat and eat too much fast food, obviously.”

The younger nation blinked. “Was that sarcasm…?”

“Yes and no,” he answered, straightening and catching America’s eyes with a meaningful smirk as he ventured further down the hall.

America felt a small jolt go through his body at England’s suddenly ‘come hither’ expression and hurried to catch up.

The older nation had been heading to his bedroom, but when he reached the open door his green eyes went wide and he stopped midstep. His grip on the doorframe was so firm that his knuckles were white and shaking.

“England…?” America started, but then he drew even with the doorway, and he understood.

The room beyond was destroyed, in tatters. The sheets on the bed were shredded, caked with dried blood; the walls were stained will handprints and splatter; the furniture was overturned, clothes strewn out over the floor; broken glass from the mirror dotted the carpet with small glimmers of light.

Silently, America gripped England’s shoulders, forcing him backwards and down the hall to the guest room beside it. This door was closed, and when he opened it, the room beyond it was pristine and untouched. Light poured in from the window and over a neatly made bed, dark wood furniture, and pale blue carpet.

England stepped away from his hands, stumbled slightly into the center of the room. His arms were wrapped around his waist, hands shakily fastened on his hips. He shook his head involuntarily in an attempt to rid some unknown thought from his mind. There was an empty gasp, and America could tell he was trying to compose himself and failing.

With slow, cautious steps, America approached him. He lifted his arms and pulled England into him. “Hey…”

England lolled his head back against America’s shoulder but didn’t respond.

“Maybe we… should just sleep,” America suggested worriedly.

“No.” It was his don’t argue with me tone. England turned in the younger nation’s arms. He lifted a hand and spun a strand of America’s hair between two fingers before cupping his face. “No,” he repeated, softer this time.

“Are you…”

“Yes, I’m sure!” he snapped, hands clenched menacingly at his sides. “Just kiss me you overprotective idiot.”

America’s eyebrows rose slightly. He scratched at his temple and grinned. “Well, if you’re going to be all insulting about it…”

England growled and unceremoniously yanked America’s face downwards. Their lips met at the same velocity, three parts hungry, two parts demanding. America’s grip around him tightened as England’s tongue brushed slowly over his bottom lip, completely at odds with the tone of the kiss. The older nation responded with a small nip, and America’s lips parted. Their tongues met with familiarity, America breaking away briefly to kiss a line over his jaw before reconnecting the kiss and pushing back into England’s mouth.

His jacket was pushed roughly off his shoulders as his fingers pulled England’s shirt loose from where it had been tucked in. England busied himself with America’s buttons, the younger nation’s nails scraping against the bare skin over England’s hips. He walked them backwards, England half suspended against him, and they fell on the mattress without preamble.

“You know…” England said breathily as America trailed path of soft bites over his throat. “Since I was… unconscious… because of the infection… it only feels like… a few months since… we did this last. How long has it been for you?”

“Almost a year,” America grumbled against the flushed skin. He raised his face to meet England’s eyes. “And we are so done talking.”

England laughed, and the sound was warm and seemed to temper them against the devastation outside their walls.

0o0o0o0o0o0

The next morning was technically the next afternoon. England, as per usual, had woken up at an ungodly hour, but America had latched his arms around his waist and prevented him from getting out of bed. What transpired afterwards only made them tired again, and they drifted back off to sleep, turned away from the sunlight that came in through the window and trespassed on their contentment. England grumbled something about making thicker curtains, and America gave a laugh that reverberated in his chest, making England smile as he pressed himself closer.

It was time for lunch by the time they rolled out of bed and threw clothes at each other. Having decided that America’s earlier suggestion of jumping to the bottom floor was essentially their only option, they did so. England landed rather gracefully, but America, in his enthusiasm, jumped too far and landed on the pile of wood. England found this very funny, but America was too busy cussing to appreciate the humor.

As a result of this mishap, their first chore was to move the debris out to the street. It took nearly an hour, and by the time they were through (England still glaring at his overgrown lawn every time they left the porch) they decided to break into the rations the soldiers had left them. It was far from first rate, and the only beverage was water, but the two nations ate and spoke and smiled anyway.

The next project should have been cleaning the blood from the downstairs hallway’s floor and walls, but they didn’t have running water. They had been promised electricity by the end of the week, but at the moment that task would have to wait. Instead, they decided the obvious course of action should be to work on England’s room. America offered to do it himself, but after paling for a moment, England told him he was being ridiculous and of course he could clean his own house.

They got garbage bags from under the kitchen counter, climbed the ladder, and hoisted each other up to the hanging hallway. Without any discrimination, they bagged the stained sheets and clothes, leaving nothing behind. They discovered that blood had seeped into the mattress, but that was beyond their help so they left it. The bags were thrown downstairs, and they made a game of it, seeing who could through them furthest down the hall. America won and stole a kiss as a prize.

The glass came next. America accidentally cut his fingers more than once and sulked as a result. He blushed and huffed when England pressed his lips to the cuts, telling him that he wasn’t a child anymore and had long since discovered that ‘make it better’ kisses were adult-made lies. England raised an eyebrow in amusement and gave him a kiss that wasn’t.

Darkness was starting to fall when the radio that the soldiers had given them buzzed to life.

The man on the other end was the General that America had left in charge of the safe zone. He told them that a woman, a survivor, had been discovered in the city. She had the virus but was not symptomatic. There was a possibility of a cure being fashioned from her blood, but she was still contagious. He wanted orders.

America looked at England, wanting the answer to come from him.

England’s eyes darkened. “I won’t risk my people becoming reinfected,” he said, and the words caused the older nation pain. “She’ll still have blood when she’s dead.”

An hour later, they were in the guest room. They were lying back on the mattress, eyes on the ceiling, fingers twined together. Everything was so quiet. There were no cars speeding by, no airplanes, no people, nothing. The only sound was their breath, and America concentrated on that sound and let it lull him to sleep.

The radio buzzed again, but it was drowned out by England’s sudden shriek. America sat up instantly in confusion and fear, arms going around him as he writhed, both pairs of eyes wide and afraid.

“England! England!” he shouted desperately, trying to hold onto the older nation.

England was struggling, flailing, crying out in pain. “It’s happening again! America, I can’t…” The last part of the sentence was clipped short by a horrific scream. Blood bubbled in a froth over his pale lips.

The radio buzzed a second time, someone called out his name. Still holding onto England, still senselessly pleading with him, America grabbed the radio and demanded that a helicopter retrieve them. The words had barely left his mouth when the man on the other end told him that containment had failed. The infection was loose. They had lost control.

America let the radio fall limply from his fingers and felt England go temporarily slack against him.

“America… I… I lo… love you.”

“Don’t say it like that!” America snapped desperately, cradling the other nation to his chest, curling in over him. “God, England, please… don’t.”

England’s hand rose shakily, cupped his face, met his eyes. There was blood on his lips, his expression was one of pain, and yet he smiled. “I love you.”

America couldn’t hold back the rough sob that broke from his throat, and he pulled England deeper into his arms even as the shudders of infection wracked his body again. “I love you, England. I love you too. Christ, please don’t do this… Please…”

By the time they were both transported back to American soil, the infection had crossed the ocean.

0o0o0o0o0o0

Gilbert had been with France when it happened. They were visiting Spain, hoping to share a drink in their own celebration of England’s homecoming. There had been no word from either America of England, but they assumed that was because they were… otherwise occupied. It had only been three days since they’d had England’s home to themselves, after all. There was a toast, laughter, but the wine never made it to France’s lips.

At first, he’d just paused, hand going to his heart, to Paris. Then his eyes had widened and met those of Gilbert and Spain. He looked confused, questioning.

Gilbert had lowered his glass. “You okay…?”

The moment that blood slipped sluggishly from the corner of his mouth was the moment that France screamed in pain.

Gilbert rushed forward, caught his friend as he fell backwards. Spain was beside them in an instant, shouting over his shoulder for Romano to call for an ambulance.

France tried to say something, words coming out in a gurgle through the blood pooling over his tongue. “The infected…” he choked out. “It’s spreading.”

Both of them had froze, eyes meeting in shock over France’s fallen form.

Those words had been spoken over three months ago.

No one understood how it could have happened. Infection overcame people so quickly that it should have been impossible for them to cross the ocean in a plane, and if they’d swam Paris wouldn’t have been the first city to fall. Their militaries seemed to hold the infected back at first, but outbreaks began to occur behind their lines in areas that should have been secure. Then new information came from the United States soldiers that had fled Britain.

There were people who could act as carriers.

Certain physical abnormalities acted as a natural immunity against the virus, but did not prevent it from spreading through the victim’s blood and saliva. Heterchromia, Down Syndrome, Hemophilia, Marfan Syndrome, Patau Syndrome…

Albinism.

Gilbert’s hands clenched at his sides as he jumped the last three steps to the bottom floor of the new facility located in Alaska. The infected could not survive in the cold; they died of exposure long before starvation. Because of this, the last vestiges of humanity were holed together in large numbers in Canada, Russia, and Iceland. Those three nations were the only…

Fuck… and now… America…

Their first mission had been to gather representatives –a thousand if they were lucky- from every nation and secure their positions in one of the safe zones. If all of a nation’s citizens were killed or infected, then that nation had no hope for recovery. Europe, the Middle East, and Asia’s survivors were huddled in Russia; North and South America’s were housed in Canada. The infection had spread through Africa too quickly. There was hope for Egypt, Morocco, Angola, Libya, Ghana, and South Africa, but the others were either too far inland or simply could not be reached fast enough. Those survivors had been transported either to Russia or Iceland.

Other nations were presumed lost because they had been bitten before they could escape. The knowledge of the existence of carriers presented the possibility of a cure, and because of that, they didn’t share Wales’ fate. They were held in cells alongside their brethren that had been overcome by the ratio.

Greece had been bitten, as had Turkey when he tried to subdue him. Korea had been overrun completely from the infected swarming in from China, bitten just before he’d made it to the plane. Finland would have been safe if he hadn’t tried to help the rest of Europe; Sweden would have been safe if he hadn’t gone after him.

Hungary would have been safe if she’d just left her people.

The one thing that Gilbert was thankful for was that Austria had already succumbed to the ratio and could not see what she’d become.

Gilbert walked down the hall, stride quick with pent up energy. He should have been back on the battlefield, but when Canada had called him, had told him that America was falling… of course he had to come. America was the last.

The new cells were different than the ones from before. There were more of them. They lined both sides of the hall, enough to house every nation in the world. All the walls were transparent except for the fourth in the back. It was a safety precaution, looking ahead years down the road in the event that the infected had not yet been subdued.

If one nation were to recover, he or she could look from right to left and in front of them to survey the condition of their neighbors. There was a code written in bright red above covered keypads by a door in the solid fourth wall. An infected couldn’t read it, but a nation who had reemerged could punch it into the keypad and find freedom.

The contingency plan was there in case the facility had to be abandoned.

Gilbert caught sight of Canada ahead of him, and sped up. He moved silently to the younger nation’s side, looped their arms together gently. He watched Canada’s face, caught the gleam of tears that he refused to shed; Canada had proved to be much stronger than anyone had given him credit for. When America had begun to succumb to the virus, Canada had risen to fill the hole his brother had left in the world. He’d lost a lot of weight, but his facial features seemed somehow hardened rather than gaunt.

He followed Canada’s gaze, found the bloodied figure of his twin.

America was hunched over, kneeling on the floor just beyond the glass. He was wracked with uncontainable shudders, and Gilbert knew he was fighting. By all accounts America should have fallen over a month ago, but he’d resisted with a fervor that had garnered Gilbert’s respect more quickly than anything else he’d ever seen the once-superpower do.

The infected nation raised his head to look at his brother. Blue eyes that had once been so captivating were now almost completely red. He managed a quivering smile, unable to speak, but for all appearances still trying to comfort the twin he was about to leave behind.

Then it was over.

The smile faded, he turned his face to the ceiling, and he shrieked, his cries joining in with those of the nations surrounding him.

Gilbert’s hand found Canada’s shaking one. He’d watched Germany turn; he understood. Fuck, he understood.

He closed his eyes for a moment, not in mourning, but in a promise. It was all up to him, Gilbert knew that. He was not a nation. He could not be infected by the ratio. Even if he was bitten, he possessed a genetic abnormality that would protect him. Canada, Russia, and Iceland could not afford to leave their safe havens. Gilbert was the one who would lead the resistance, the one that would take back the world they lost.

And he would not lose.

“We’re going to survive, Mathieu. We’re going to survive, and we’re going to save them.” His eyes met the blue ones that were the perfect mirror image of the ones that had just turned red and hailed the fall of the last overcome nation.

Canada nodded, and his resolve was tangible in the air. “We will.”

He touched his fingertips to the glass, a final farewell to his brother. Then he turned and followed Gilbert back down the hall, their friends and family howling for their blood on either side.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

A/N: Several things…

1) I’m sorry America! This is the worst birthday present ever D:

2) I am working on two different fics that will hopefully make up for this one by being completely lighthearted and hilarious. I’m done with dark depressing fics for a while.

The first is kinda like this one, except based on Shaun of the Dead. Basically the nations were at a world meeting in London when the zombies enter the city. Russia gets bitten but is so evil that his personality actually counteracts the virus. The result is a hive mind in which Russia controls the undead. In other words… a whole horde of zombies becomes One With Russia. As Gilbert notes: “We’re fucked.”

The second is titled Gilbert Does Standup. The storyline for this one is that Gilbert is really bored because he isn’t allowed to have a say in Germany’s politics anymore, so he tries his hand at being a standup comedian. Most of his act is on stories involving the nations (some of whom are in the crowd). I am having so much fun writing it!