So I've decided to be very, very evil to you with this chapter. Warning: fangirls may suffer greatly. But read on anyway >:) so...enjoy this chapter...if you can. smash that vote button...if you can bring yourself to do so. share those intense feels in the comments. *evil laugh* see you around...if you live through this chapter.
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America sat staring out the window. His face was emotionless; he watched the world with a blank expression. He'd lost one of his fathers, and his only sibling. He thought he was strong, but this had shaken him to the point where he wasn't America anymore. He was broken. "No more hero...," he whispered inaudibly, "can't be the hero in a life like this." His once happy, darting, aware blue eyes were now soulless grey eyes that fixated on one thing and stared it down. His once messy-yet-clean sandy blonde hair was now a ragged, greasy heap atop his head. He never moved. He never ate. He never got excited or depressed anymore; he felt no feelings, is what it appeared. America just sat, waiting for his "bro" to race in so he could forget him, waiting for his father to return and wrap him in a hug that he'd wave off but secretly appreciate.
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It had been one week and six days since France had died.
The morning of the start of the second week, Belarus and Hungary set out to find Moscow's abandoned science lab. Surely, before the disease had gotten bad, Russian scientists were working their asses off to find a vaccine.
That meant England was alone with his France (who was still alive...to him). "So, France, how have you been doing?" England asked his dead boyfriend. "What did you say, old chap? I couldn't hear," he said, leaning closer to France's unmoving lips. England suddenly jerked himself to the side and planted a surprise kiss on the dead Frenchman's lips. "Oh! France, you bloody frog, that was unnecessary. But I still love you, you stupid Frenchie," he said, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
Russia looked uneasily at America. "Is he...sick?" The Russian man asked the emotionless American. America didn't respond. "I mean...he's talking and laughing with his dead boyfriend as if he would if France was alive...I don't mean sick with the plague...I mean sick mentally...we might have to end him," Russia said, his uneasy look returning when England smiled and stroked France's hair, telling the Frenchman that he would accept his apology on being so rude in the earlier years.
France didn't look so good. His grey skin was peeling off, revealing the raw flesh, bone and dead muscle underneath. His grey eyes had long since melted, leaving two perfect, black holes into his skull through his empty eye sockets. His teeth had rotted away, his hair had nearly all fallen out. The bare skin under his hair was flaking away, in fact so much that you could blow on the top of his head and it would take off a few layers of dead skin. So much dead skin, in fact, had fallen off, that they could see the skull in some areas. The skull-which was supposed to be white and clear-was in fact yellow and dented. France's corpse smelled horrible. But England was totally oblivious to France's condition. In England's eyes, France was his old self...and alive.
Russia decided to take a walk around, away from the demented Brit and his dead French boyfriend, and away from the most un-American America in the history of un-American Americas.
He loaded his m15 and slid an extra magazine in his belt, like Hungary'd taught everyone to do before leaving, then jumped out the tunnel and landed on the floor. The breeze felt so nice. Hungary and Belarus were usually the ones to leave the plane, and Russia hadn't left in over a month. It felt amazing. He closed his eyes, and imagined the world as the world again.
A screeching sound cut off his vision before he had a chance to think it up. Russia opened his eyes, and looked around. Firearm at the ready, eyes sharp and alert. A man crawled out of the bushes. "The lab..." he whimpered. "The lab. It has dangerous chemicals...the girls...they must leave the lab...leave...the lab..." The man whispered breathlessly, as his lungs were most likely failing him and every word he wheezed out turned them to slush.
"Bullshit." Russia growled at the infected man. "They're working on a cure." Then he fired. The man went limp. Russia tucked the rifle back under his coat, concealing it. He'd forgotten how long they'd been there; the plague had begun over three months ago. They'd been living in the plane for over two months. He began walking around the runway, and decided to walk to the airport that was connected to the runway their plane was parked on.
Russia walked down the runway, and used the butt of his gun to pry open the heavy doors. What he saw...was brutal.
Corpses. Everywhere. Children. Toddlers. Teens. Mothers. Fathers. Sisters. Elders. Brothers. Babies. Pets. Airport staff. Guards. Everyone...was dead. The corpses were rotting, peeling, or even shriveled into fleshy, bloody messes. Suitcases were blood-soaked. The pristine, white tile floor was now slick with dried blood and bodily fluids. Some older teens-much to Russia's dismay-were still..."together." Russia guessed that in their last moments, teens wanted to make it unforgettable. Many of them were still...two-backed. Russia curled his fat nose.
He walked through the rows of dead Russians...some maybe not even Russian. People were keeled over in the seats they'd been sitting in. The glass window walls that let people view the runway were covered in bloody handprints. Corpses were piled on the floor in front of the windows. Russia walked up to an information kiosk; a once-probably-friendly-looking lady sat in her chair, her neck jerked sideways so far that bones and muscles jutted out the side of her neck. Her mouth was open, and her tongue was sticking out; but her tongue was stretched farther than it should have..it reached down to her bloody knees. Russia casually walked out of the airport, brushing dried blood off of his jacket. When he got back to the plane, everything was the same, except England was curled up beside France, snoring softly and peacefully.
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When Belarus and Hungary returned late that night, they explained how they'd found the lab and begun expanding on the research the scientists had done before the plague had wiped them out, and how the two girls were eagerly testing chemicals so come up with the right medicine from collecting the previous notes of the lab workers. When Belarus stood to go to the cockpit and Hungary rose to take watch, America cleared his throat. "I...I have something to tell you all." He whispered, and the two girls sat back down. Everyone's eyes were on America...even France's empty eye sockets. The American's whisper was hoarse and slow, but everyone listened, as this was the first time America had talked in about a week. They were all eyes and ears on the non-American American as he whispered:
"The reason...I haven't spoken up much lately is...I...I think I may be infected."
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Hetalia-Worldwide Plague Outbreak
أدب الهواةA brutal virus has wiped out most of the countries. A few countries remain, and are under quarantine. Most countries have been destroyed, and the remaining ones are close to anarchy. Will England find love, or lose the fatal game? The countdown begi...
