"Apocalypse When"
Title: "Apocalypse When"
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Zombies. That is all ye know, and all ye need know.
Author's Notes: This fic was sparked by a late-night IM conversation in which the terrors of the slow-moving, "Romero" undead were discussed. Blame the brevity on my being an absolute coward. Yeah. Writing this totally creeped me out.
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It had taken them ten minutes to drag the billiards table in front of the pub door. England had the strength born of pure terror, but France was far more interested in the White Hart’s liquor selection, and told had England so, nudging the swell of polished wood around the right end pocket with his hip. “We have less than an hour before they find out we’re here, mon ami. Might as well make the best of it.”
The pop of the cork was echoed by a dragging slam in the street outside, and England dug his nails into his palm. “I hardly think this is a time for optimism.”
France quirked an eyebrow and hopped up on the bar, the heels of his loafers drumming against the mahogany. “I hardly think we’re in a position to refuse it.” He took a long swig of something England couldn’t be bothered to identify before handing it to the other Nation.
Saliva glistened on the mouth of the bottle, slick against the dusky green glass. England stared at it a long moment and drank anyway.
+
They came shuffling through the freezing air, dark sagging forms against the falling snow. The Red Square was thick with them: their rotting, papery scent, wet snarls.
Russia took a step back, boots slipping on the steps of the cathedral, and cast a wry glance up at the nearest dome. Long ago, he might have asked God for His help, supplicated, begged. Now this beautiful building would protect him better than any god ever had.
Higher ground. That’s what he had. And he was loathe to give it up.
He hefted the length of pipe over his shoulder, smiling as the ridges of the faucet bit through his coat. Hordes of these creatures against a single Nation...
The smile widened into a grin, hungry and wild, and his grip on the metal tightened. He’d take care of this himself.
+
“Fuck yes! You see that one go over?” America sat back in his lawn chair and grinned, propping the still-warm Remington 700 across his knees.
Canada stood at the edge of the roof, one foot on either side of the peak. He sighed and pushed his hair out of his face, then crossed his arms and turned to America. “If they figure out that we’re up here because of your damn yelling, I’m never going to let you forget it. I mean, we’ll only have about five minutes to live at that point, but still.”
America shot him that megawatt smile and gulped a mouthful from his can of Coke. “Nah, those things couldn’t find their asses with both hands. As long as we stay up here, we’re golden.” He paused, craned his neck a little, then lifted the gun to his shoulder again, sighting on one of the shambling figures moving across the lawn. “Adios, pal.”
A loud crack, and moist bits of skull splattered the trunk of one of America’s oak trees.
Canada flinched. “Christ, America, do you have to have so much fun with all of this?” He peered down at a torso dragging itself across the sidewalk, leaving a black, almost greasy-looking trail in its wake. Somebody. That used to be somebody.
“Yeah, I really do.” America’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “They aren’t people anymore. You want me to cry about all of ‘em? Tough.” He snorted, and his finger tightened on the trigger. “Now move, you’re in my way.”
+
The city was on fire.
Israel’s hands were tight, tense, propped on her hips in fists. She itched to run through the streets, to duck past deserted restaurants and smoldering bus stations, and cut a swath through the sickness ravaging her Jerusalem.
Her lip curled, and only the presence of soldiers at her back kept her from abandoning her post. They stood, followed orders. So would she.
A chorus of moans rose from the lower ground, just beyond the Western Wall. Israel straightened the cuffs of her uniform, and cocked her head. When she was staying with Russia, years ago, she’d listen to the wind in the branches, the groaning howl of ancient wood. It would sweep through the night like a living thing--
They sounded like that, and it disgusted her.
The Har haBáyit had seen enough fighting through the years, she thought as she curled her fingers around the first of her grenades. Black shapes were beginning to spill across the rubble of the courtyard, fairly shrieking now.
Israel took a breath, and pulled the pin.
Holy ground can only soak up so much blood.
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-This is the White Hart, one of the oldest pubs in London.
-This is the cathedral on the Red Square in St. Petersburg, known alternately as The Cathedral of the Protection of the Mother of God or The Cathedral of Saint Basil the Blessed.
-This is a Remington 700 tactical rifle. Isn't it cute, propped up on its little stand?
-There was a large Jewish population in Russia in the years prior to and during WWII.
-The Har haBáyit is the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, known to Muslims as the Noble Sanctuary.
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Reviews are greatly appreciated!
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Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Zombies. That is all ye know, and all ye need know.
Author's Notes: This fic was sparked by a late-night IM conversation in which the terrors of the slow-moving, "Romero" undead were discussed. Blame the brevity on my being an absolute coward. Yeah. Writing this totally creeped me out.
+++
It had taken them ten minutes to drag the billiards table in front of the pub door. England had the strength born of pure terror, but France was far more interested in the White Hart’s liquor selection, and told had England so, nudging the swell of polished wood around the right end pocket with his hip. “We have less than an hour before they find out we’re here, mon ami. Might as well make the best of it.”
The pop of the cork was echoed by a dragging slam in the street outside, and England dug his nails into his palm. “I hardly think this is a time for optimism.”
France quirked an eyebrow and hopped up on the bar, the heels of his loafers drumming against the mahogany. “I hardly think we’re in a position to refuse it.” He took a long swig of something England couldn’t be bothered to identify before handing it to the other Nation.
Saliva glistened on the mouth of the bottle, slick against the dusky green glass. England stared at it a long moment and drank anyway.
+
They came shuffling through the freezing air, dark sagging forms against the falling snow. The Red Square was thick with them: their rotting, papery scent, wet snarls.
Russia took a step back, boots slipping on the steps of the cathedral, and cast a wry glance up at the nearest dome. Long ago, he might have asked God for His help, supplicated, begged. Now this beautiful building would protect him better than any god ever had.
Higher ground. That’s what he had. And he was loathe to give it up.
He hefted the length of pipe over his shoulder, smiling as the ridges of the faucet bit through his coat. Hordes of these creatures against a single Nation...
The smile widened into a grin, hungry and wild, and his grip on the metal tightened. He’d take care of this himself.
+
“Fuck yes! You see that one go over?” America sat back in his lawn chair and grinned, propping the still-warm Remington 700 across his knees.
Canada stood at the edge of the roof, one foot on either side of the peak. He sighed and pushed his hair out of his face, then crossed his arms and turned to America. “If they figure out that we’re up here because of your damn yelling, I’m never going to let you forget it. I mean, we’ll only have about five minutes to live at that point, but still.”
America shot him that megawatt smile and gulped a mouthful from his can of Coke. “Nah, those things couldn’t find their asses with both hands. As long as we stay up here, we’re golden.” He paused, craned his neck a little, then lifted the gun to his shoulder again, sighting on one of the shambling figures moving across the lawn. “Adios, pal.”
A loud crack, and moist bits of skull splattered the trunk of one of America’s oak trees.
Canada flinched. “Christ, America, do you have to have so much fun with all of this?” He peered down at a torso dragging itself across the sidewalk, leaving a black, almost greasy-looking trail in its wake. Somebody. That used to be somebody.
“Yeah, I really do.” America’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “They aren’t people anymore. You want me to cry about all of ‘em? Tough.” He snorted, and his finger tightened on the trigger. “Now move, you’re in my way.”
+
The city was on fire.
Israel’s hands were tight, tense, propped on her hips in fists. She itched to run through the streets, to duck past deserted restaurants and smoldering bus stations, and cut a swath through the sickness ravaging her Jerusalem.
Her lip curled, and only the presence of soldiers at her back kept her from abandoning her post. They stood, followed orders. So would she.
A chorus of moans rose from the lower ground, just beyond the Western Wall. Israel straightened the cuffs of her uniform, and cocked her head. When she was staying with Russia, years ago, she’d listen to the wind in the branches, the groaning howl of ancient wood. It would sweep through the night like a living thing--
They sounded like that, and it disgusted her.
The Har haBáyit had seen enough fighting through the years, she thought as she curled her fingers around the first of her grenades. Black shapes were beginning to spill across the rubble of the courtyard, fairly shrieking now.
Israel took a breath, and pulled the pin.
Holy ground can only soak up so much blood.
+++
-This is the White Hart, one of the oldest pubs in London.
-This is the cathedral on the Red Square in St. Petersburg, known alternately as The Cathedral of the Protection of the Mother of God or The Cathedral of Saint Basil the Blessed.
-This is a Remington 700 tactical rifle. Isn't it cute, propped up on its little stand?
-There was a large Jewish population in Russia in the years prior to and during WWII.
-The Har haBáyit is the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, known to Muslims as the Noble Sanctuary.
+++
Reviews are greatly appreciated!
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