Chapter 12

They Explore

Francis and Arthur looked around when the stairwell door was slammed open and Alfred stormed onto the roof of the apartment building, fuming. Arthur glanced at Francis and pulled away, blushing.

"Everything alright?" He asked. Alfred scowled.

"No, everything isn't fucking alright!" He snarled. Arthur frowned but before he could get into an argument, Francis stepped in.

"What happened?" Francis gave Arthur a warning nudge as he spoke. Alfred flopped down on the side next to Arthur and groaned.

"That fucking Commie…" He muttered. Arthur snorted.

"You realise at Ivan isn't actually communist, right?" Alfred cleared his throat.

"Of course, I'm not stupid." The American defended, running his hand through his hair. Ignoring Arthur's muttered "Negotiable" Alfred leant back, letting his legs dangle as he lay down on the roof.

"… Ivan was an arms dealer." He muttered eventually. Arthur hummed.

"Nice to see you've finally realized." He replied. Alfred shot up, and he and Francis stared at Arthur.

"You knew?" Francis asked, astonished. "How did you figure it out? And when?"

Arthur clicked his tongue.

"Really? He said he got the weapons from an abandoned military base. How many abandoned military bases do you think are just hanging around in the middle of the American landscape?" Alfred paused, thinking about it. Now that Arthur was saying it in such a matter-of-fact tone he was starting to feel stupid for not seeing it himself.

"Anyway, why should this bother you?" Arthur added, clambering to his feet and stretching. Francis grabbed his hand, using the younger man to pull himself to his feet, ignoring the Englishman's muttered, half-hearted insults and protests. Alfred frowned, lying back and staring up at the darkening sky.

"… I dunno." He muttered. "It just does. We've been trusting him with our lives, and he's been lying to us this entire time!"

Arthur and Francis glanced at each other, a silent argument raging between them. Eventually Arthur growled in defeat and sat back down, while Francis slipped back inside.

"Look at it from Ivan's point of view." Arthur murmured. "The world is going to hell, his sisters are on the other side of the country, he's got no idea what's going on or how to stop it, and he meets a group of people. They're strong and prepared for anything that can happen, and Ivan thinks "Safety in numbers." However, he doesn't know them, and they don't know him. All he knows is that he's got a rucksack full of illegally acquired weapons, and the discovery of their origins could result in him being left alone and vulnerable again.

"What would you have done in that situation?"

Alfred didn't reply, running over the words in his head.

"… I think that's the most I've ever heard you say." He stated eventually. Arthur clicked his tongue, tutting at the younger man in irritation.

"Tell me, do you ever actually listen to what other people tell you, or have you spent your entire life oblivious to the existence of anyone other than yourself?"

"No, I was listening." Alfred murmured. "I'm thinking."

"Well, I suppose there's a first for everything." Arthur snapped back. Alfred grinned at the wheat-blonde man, chuckling to himself.

"Are you sure you're the youngest out of your brothers?" He asked. "You'd make a good older brother."

Arthur flushed at the praise and looked away.

"Idiot." He muttered. "I'm only here because if you and Ivan fell out it'd be awkward for me, got it? I just don't want to have to deal with your problems."

Alfred hummed, pretending to acknowledge Arthur's half-hearted lie, and sat up.

"Cheers, Artie." Alfred grinned, climbing to his feet and patting Arthur's head. The Englishman spluttered and snapped at him.

"Don't call me Artie!" He growled as the taller man made his way to the stairwell, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Ivan tilted his head to look around the small tower of plates Feliciano had shoved into his arms upon the Russian's arrival in the kitchen.

The attached dining room sported a large, fold out table, which the smaller man was pulling out with difficulty. Before Ivan could put down the plates, however, Feliciano gave a cry of victory, and the table slid open and slotted into place.

"Done~" He sung, and started grabbing plates off of Ivan, lying them out, counting off the different members of the growing group as he did so.

"Me, Ludwig, Kiku, Yao, Angelique, Monique, Francis, Arthur~" He paused, frowning at the table, before pushing the plates closer together, trying to make more room. "Aled, Ian, Peter, Saun, Patrick, Matthew, Gilbert, Alfred and you!" He took a step back, placing his hands on his hips. "Done!"

Ivan stared at the table, where eighteen places were haphazardly set onto a table that would have usually held six people. Feliciano had insisted from the very beginning that every meal was to be eaten as a group, but Ivan was starting to doubt the wisdom of this meal plan.

"We could set out another table, da?" He asked. "There's not much room…"

Feliciano frowned.

"Si." He muttered, pouting.

"That should be fairly easy…" Ivan turned at the voice, and smiled. Alfred hovered in the doorway, looking slightly nervous and avoiding Ivan's eyes. "We could just grab one from another apartment."

"Da." Ivan agreed. "Me and Alfred will go, da? And you stay here." He told Feliciano. "We'll be back soon."

Alfred turned away, leaving the room. Ivan followed him closely as they left the apartment into the hallway.

The two men were quiet as they climbed the stairs, partially out of the lack of anything to say, but mostly because Francis' infection was still fresh in their minds; the infected could be in the building with them. There could be one behind every door.

Alfred cocked his gun as they paused at the first door, levelling it at head height. After a pause in which Ivan counted off on his fingers, the Russian broke the lock and swung the door open.

Alfred's finger trembled on the trigger, but after several long minutes passed and nothing leapt out of the dark, the men relaxed. Ivan stepped in and groped at the wall, looking for the light switch.

They had little luck inside the apartment, and several after that; most of the kitchens sported breakfast bars for their occupants. Most apartments were safe. Only once did Alfred have to gun down a zombie which leapt out of the apartment, hands bent unnaturally into dull claws, aiming at Ivan's throat. If the American shot it one times too many, Ivan didn't mention it. Instead, he kicked the twitching body out of the way and withdrew his own gun.

Alfred sprinted out of the apartment, bent over double, and threw up. Ivan followed at a slower pace, looking grim, and placed one large hand on the blonde's back as Alfred heaved.

"That's disgusting…" Alfred growled. From the open door of the apartment, the scent of rotting flesh reached their noses, and Alfred gagged. Ivan's nose twitched in distaste.

"Da." He muttered. Alfred moaned in response, clutching his stomach. Ivan pulled away and carefully made his way back into the apartment.

The Zombie inside snapped and snarled at him, pulling against its restraints that chained it to the floor by a collar around it's throat. Ivan circled the undead, staying just out of its small circle of freedom, and made his way to the kitchen table.

Wide, dead eyes stared up at him, the mouth open in a silent scream. The girl, no more than ten years old, was nailed by her hands and feet to the top of the table, a stake placed through her throat. She was clothed in a plain white dress. Ivan swallowed. With her long blonde hair and violet eyes, she looked like Natalya…

He reached down, cupping her cold cheek before closing her eyes.

Ivan turned away, but paused when his foot landed and paper crinkled underneath it.

The book that was laid, abandoned, on the floor was old and bound in leather; the paper was yellowed, the ink faded. Ivan flicked through the book and frowned at the diagrams; gruesome scenes depicting rituals, young woman dressed in long robes, pierced by nails, stakes, knives…

Ivan snapped the book shut. He'd have to show it to Arthur later on to get his opinion on it.

For now…

Ivan glanced out through the door at Alfred, who was still nursing his stomach, moaning and groaning over his own bile. Turning back to the Zombie, he cocked his gun and aimed.