𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞

A year had passed since the virus started. The Chilean group had just survived an attack. The Argentinian group had ambushed them; there had been a fight, shouting, blood, and in the end, the Chilean group had to flee. In their retreat, they took one of the attackers with them: he was beaten, with a split lip and several other wounds. They didn't have the heart to leave him to be eaten by the zombies, so they dragged him along and kept him prisoner for several days, chained up, while they discussed what to do with him. Chile barely paid him any attention. He was just another dangerous survivor, another problem. Until one day he got close enough and recognized him. He stood still for a second. Then he let out a short, sarcastic laugh, as if he couldn't believe the irony.

Chile: ...Don't tell me

He bent down slightly to look him straight in the eye. Argentina was a mess: swollen and split lip, bruised, dirty, in chains. Chile bowed his head with that same crooked smile as always.

Chile: Of all people, you. What a freaking coincidence. Your group attacks us, forces us to run like rats, and on top of that, we end up carrying you because nobody had the stomach to leave you as food for the undead. What lovely neighbors we have, huh?

He remained silent for a moment, observing him. The rest of the group murmured in the distance, still debating whether to kill him, abandon him, or use him in some way. Chile didn't look at them. Only at Argentina.

Chile: Hey. Now I'm interested. Why were we attacked? Which side are you on?... Are you useful for anything besides existing?

His tone remained mocking, almost light, but there was something more attentive behind his eyes.
Chile: Speak up. Because these guys are on the verge of deciding you're more useful dead than alive, and honestly… I still don't know if I want you to be eaten by zombies or not.