Chapter Text
Ray Garraty had done a fine job of tricking himself into not thinking about it. He’d felt the grief, the jolt of secondhand pain at every ticket, and recognized distantly that he could (probably would) meet the same fate. But up until now, he hadn’t considered how it might feel.
Harkness’ death broke something inside of him.
As he watched Harkness fall, fate barreled in with polished scissors to cut the string between Ray’s heart and his brain. He imagined in terrible detail the moment of his own death. The tap of the soldier’s finger against the trigger, right next to his ear. The deafening shot. His own blood and brains and maybe guts dripping out. Would it hurt?
He’d popped a stress ball once. It was a couple years ago, right before a big test at school. He squeezed too hard and the skin of the stress ball broke with a pop. The insides were sticky and squishy and inexplicably green. He imagined that might be how it felt. A pop. A release of pressure.
“Parker, you fucking stupid?” said McVries behind him.
Ray snapped out of it and turned to walk backwards. Collie Parker was kneeling by Harkness’ limp body. He slipped his hands underneath and rifled around. He was getting blood halfway up his arms. Bile rose in Ray’s throat. He looked away.
“What the fuck?” said Olson. He was walking backwards, too, squinting. “What, you groping him or something? He’s dead, Parker! That’s not just fruity, that’s fuckin’ sick.”
“Fuck off!” Parker shouted over his shoulder. He got his second warning, but then he was up, sprinting forwards with baffling energy. He had something tucked under one arm. Nobody else seemed to notice.
It was hardly surprising that Parker would want something of Harkness’ for sentimental value, though Ray wouldn’t have expected him to risk taking warnings to get it. He, Harkness, and the kid with the radio had been thick as thieves since a little past the drop-off point. At one point, McVries joked that they had their own group of musketeers. To Ray it felt more like a witches’ coven, the way they bent their heads together and whispered and darted looks at the other Walkers like they were planning everyone else’s funeral. Not that it mattered anymore. Three guys were a crowd, but two were just kinda gay.
By the time night rolled around again, it was clear: Parker had taken Harkness’ notebook.
He kept flipping through the pages with Tressler (the radio kid, whose name Ray made sure to learn) at his side, the two of them snickering and making marks in the margins. At first, Ray assumed they were writing dirty jokes or drawing boobs or something. But the more he watched the more he doubted that was all it was.
“You’re real obsessed with Parker today,” McVries observed. It was getting late. The two had been walking in silence for some time.
Ray looked away from where Collie Parker was walking, ear pressed to Tressler’s radio. Ray shook his head. “Not obsessed. Just… something’s fishy with him. Don’t you think?”
McVries leaned around Ray to get a look at Parker. “Fishy how?”
“He keeps writing in that notebook, listening to that radio. And he keeps—there he goes again, look.”
Parker quickened his pace to speak to another boy towards the front of the group. He pointed at something in the notebook and snickered. The other boy looked, hesitated, then laughed too. They spoke in low tones for a minute or so before Parker gave a decisive nod. He slowed down to drop back by Tressler, careful not to take a warning.
“Lookin’ at porn, or something?” guessed McVries.
Ray shook his head. “No. No way. Look, they got someone keeping an eye on him.”
And indeed they did. One of the soldiers on the halftrack seemed to have been assigned to watch Parker. He sat with his legs hanging over the wheels, his eyes locked on Parker’s silhouette against the lights.
The sight of it sent a chill up Ray’s spine. He said, “I think Parker is... I dunno. Plotting, or something.”
McVries’ eyes flashed with interest. “Really?”
Ray pressed his lips together. He shot another glance at the soldier and raised his eyebrows at McVries meaningfully. “Nah, I’m just fucking with you.”
McVries paused for a terrifying moment. Then he cracked a smile and slapped Ray on the back. “Come the fuck on, Garraty, you play too much.”
When daylight returned, Ray’s feet had come back around to numbness, his brain felt like a bowl of pudding, and Collie Parker had spoken to ten different boys. Ray decided enough was enough. He wasn’t about to die not knowing what the hell Parker was planning.
“Hey, Parker,” said Ray once he was within earshot.
Collie Parker was walking a few paces beside Tressler, face inches from Harkness’ notebook. He didn’t look up.
“Ray, what the hell are you up to?” Pete called, but he made no move to stop him.
“Hey. What’s with the notebook?”
Parker let out a huff of breath. “Go away, Garraty.”
“I’m not actually stupid. You gonna let me see?”
“No. Go enjoy the fresh air or whatever it was.”
“Hey, y’know, I’m curious, too,” said McVries, coming up on Parker’s other side. He nodded toward the notebook. “Just a little look-see, Parker, no big deal.”
Ray felt a little like they were ganging up on Parker, but he was achingly curious. If this was what Ray thought it was, then he couldn’t let it happen without him.
“Leave him alone, all right?” Tressler had dropped back to see what the commotion was about. His voice was soft, but his brows were drawn down.
Ray looked between Tressler and Parker. He hated feeling like a bully. He started to pull away.
McVries snatched the notebook from Collie Parker’s hands.
“Hey!” Parker yelled.
“Give it back!” said Tressler.
McVries danced away with the notebook. “Finders keepers.” He opened it and began to flip through.
“Fuck you,” Parker snarled, and launched himself at McVries. They scuffled.
“Just let me—see it, and I’ll—”
McVries took a warning. Parker grabbed the notebook back for a second, but McVries was fast, and the next moment they were playing tug-of-war. The boys around them yelled and jumped, reinvigorated by the excitement. Parker gave one big heave and managed to pry the notebook away—and then he fumbled it.
The notebook dropped to the ground.
“Fuck!” cried Parker. “Fuck, McVries, you fucking idiot!” He was three warnings in. He looked at Tressler, who shook his head sadly. They were past the notebook now, and getting further fast.
McVries turned around and sprinted for the notebook.
“Warning, 23. Third warning.”
“Pete!” shouted Ray, but McVries was fast.
He bolted back, spinning around a clump of Walkers, and swept the notebook off the ground. Then he stood and pivoted on his heel, and he was walking again. He caught back up with them.
He offered Parker the notebook. “Sorry.”
Parker and Tressler were both looking at McVries like he’d grown a second head. Ray just smiled. Pete was good like that.
Parker reached out. He narrowed his eyes at McVries, like he expected him to snatch it back at the last second. He took the notebook. Then he looked between Ray and Pete. “Either of you ever read Fahrenheit 451?” he asked, out of absolutely nowhere.
Pete frowned. “That’s banned material—”
“Yeah,” Ray cut in. “Yeah, I have. ‘S good.” Bradbury had been a lot more digestible than Kierkegaard.
Parker nodded. “If you met one of those guys, the firemen, what would you do? If you could do anything?”
Ray grinned. He hoped he knew where this was going. “I’d shoot him in the fuckin’ head.”
Parker cracked a small smile. He glanced down at the notebook, then up at McVries. “You think he would, too?”
“What, McVries?” Ray considered it. He honestly didn’t know. As much as they’d talked, as well as he felt he knew McVries, the reality was that they’d only known each other for a couple days. But he couldn’t imagine what Parker might do if he said as much, so instead he said, “Yeah. If he wouldn’t pull the trigger, I’ll bet he’d at least load the gun.”
Parker screwed up his lips. He and Tressler exchanged a series of incomprehensible looks, before Parker said, “You fuckers better not make me regret this.” He opened the notebook to a dogeared page near the middle and tilted it so Ray could see. Parker had scrawled over a page of Harkness’ writing in big, sharpied letters:
PRETEND THIS IS A STUPID JOKE.
Day 3, Houlton. Protestors meeting us downtown. Rioters, molotovs, looters, etc. They’re on our side. We use the distraction—stop the Walk.
Laugh if you’re in. Push me away if not. No beef either way.
DO NOT fucking snitch or I will give you your ticket myself, I fucking swear.
Ray gave as convincing a laugh as he could manage, considering. Pete let out one dry, “Ha,” and walked away, his shoulders tense.
Parker watched Pete go with narrow eyes. “He gonna be a problem?”
“No,” said Ray quickly. “I’ll deal with it.”
Parker snapped the notebook shut. “You better.”
“Be careful,” Tressler called after Ray, bafflingly.
“Why’d you laugh if you weren’t in?” Ray asked without pretense.
Pete hefted his pack higher up on his shoulders. He didn’t respond. His stamina was incredible. Ray felt ready to keel over at any minute, and had for nearly a day now. Fuck, look at Olson: that was in Ray’s future, if they walked long enough, he was sure of it. But Pete looked ready to go another two hundred miles, minimum. It was a little scary.
Eventually Pete said, “You’re gonna get yourself killed, Ray Garraty.”
Ray laughed, a real laugh this time. It took too much out of him but he couldn’t restrain it. (Conserve energy, which hint was that again? Olson would know, if he wasn’t half-dead already—Ray quashed that thought before it went further.) Gesturing wide, he said, “Where the hell d’you think we are, Disneyland? We’re all gonna get ourselves killed. That’s the game.”
“That’s not—” Pete shook his head. He quickened his stride and didn’t speak again for a good twenty minutes. Ray didn’t push him.
They were coming around a bend in the road when Pete fell back to Ray’s side. A river ran along the road here, just past the guard rail. What would the soldiers do if one of them jumped in, Ray wondered? The water was murky. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. It might be worth a try.
“There’s a difference between signing up for slim odds and commiting active suicide,” said Pete.
“Is there?”
“What do you think’s gonna happen, Ray? Huh? You figure they’ll just let you grab the guns? You’re—”
“Shut the fuck up, idiots,” Collie Parker hissed. Ray and Pete both startled; he’d appeared out of nowhere from behind. “What, you think you can just talk about that shit in the open? Jesus, why did I ever—okay. Just.” He looked around furtively. Then he opened Harkness’ notebook and tore a blank page out from the back. He shoved the paper and a ballpoint pen against Pete’s chest, and said, “Just act like you’re drawing dicks or something.” Parker stalked away with a flip of his hair.
“What is this, third grade? Passing notes. Motherfucker,” Pete muttered. He uncapped the pen and slowed his pace to drop behind Ray. He pressed the paper flat against Ray’s sweat-damp back and said, “Stay still,” which seemed impossible, but Ray did his best. The pen’s tip tickled through Ray’s shirt. After a moment, Pete handed Ray the paper:
It’s a suicide mission and you know it.
Ray rolled his eyes, but dropped back behind Pete and scribbled a response. In this way, they argued, which took far longer than it would have in spoken words:
This whole thing is a suicide mission. At least this way there’s a chance a few of us get out of this alive.
And there’s no chance YOU get out alive. The fuck do I care about Barkovitch? I want to see you live, Garraty.
I have bad news for you.
What happened to killing the Major? What about your wish?
Don’t you get it? This is my wish, but better. The Major is right up there. All it takes is one good shot.
And what if the shot isn’t so good?
Either we pull this off, I live, and we save some lives—or I get my ticket a few hours earlier than expected. It’s a win-win.
Pete looked at that last response for a good while. They were far past the river now, headed into a small town. Only a few miles to go before they reached Houlton. Pete eventually said aloud, “You’re a lot more selfish than I thought you were.”
Ray slowed, stung.
“Warning, 47.”
Pete grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back to pace. The touch was rougher than usual.
“What was that supposed to mean?” asked Ray.
“You’re talking like there’s only two options: you live or you die—”
“I die sooner or I die later, more like—”
“When you die the world keeps spinning.” Pete’s tone was harsher than Ray expected from him. “You ever think about that? You die, and then what? Then five more—twenty more guys are dead, too, because of you.”
“We are going to die! All of us. We’re all going out, except one.” Ray was shouting now but he didn’t care. “The fuck does it matter if we die in Houlton or Freeport or halfway into Massachusets? If there’s a chance that a few of us don’t die, isn’t that—”
“It matters because you’re dying sooner, Ray. Two more days, two more hours, two more minutes or seconds, that makes a difference. You have to take every moment you can and run with it.”
“I am running with it. I’m taking those moments and I’m making them fucking count.”
Pete swallowed hard and looked away. “You wanna die like a martyr.” Ray bristled, opened his mouth to argue, but Pete put up a pacifying hand. “That’s not an attack, just an observation. Hey, we all do. Why else are we here? Feels a lot better thinking you’ll go out noble.”
“Why are you acting like you don’t have your own special fucking death wish? And yours is a lot less noble, my God, Pete—I don’t think I’ve seen you slow down once in the past three days except to help me. That’s not about honor, or nobility, or whatever. It’s like you just enjoy the pain.”
Pete went stone silent. He blew out a breath. Then he nodded, it seemed, to himself. “Yeah, you’re right, Garraty. Maybe you’re right.”
Neither of them spoke again until they reached Houlton.
They could hear the roar of the crowd from a quarter mile away. Tressler and Parker were walking with shoulders pressed together, the radio between their ears. Feeling a bit like an idiot, Ray realized they must have been using it to communicate with the protestors this entire time.
With every step closer to Houlton, Pete’s shoulders drew further up toward his ears. His pace had taken on a wooden quality. Ray ached to say something, anything, but he felt he didn’t deserve to. He’d been a dickhead, he knew that, though Pete had given as good as he got. Either way, Pete clearly needed space.
Collie Parker dropped back toward Ray a few minutes out from town. He bumped shoulders with Ray under the guise of a friendly tease, slipped something into his belt pouch, then strode away before Ray could say anything.
Ray slipped a hand into his pocket and nearly stabbed himself on something sharp. Carefully, he drew the object out of his pocket. It was a wooden toothbrush handle, to which Parker had duct taped a wicked razor blade. He couldn’t imagine Parker managed to get all of that through the security checkpoint; they’d have realized he was planning on making a shank. He must have sourced the parts individually from other boys. Ray looked ahead and saw Parker brush past Pete, too. It felt sort of ridiculous. What the hell could they do with razor blades against carbines and mounted guns?
He guessed they were about to find out.
Ray closed in on Parker and Tressler as they walked into Houlton. There was a group of them hovering around Tressler’s radio like moths by a flame. The radio was audible now—Tressler had turned it up. Ray figured he wasn’t too worried about being overheard anymore. The soldiers would have to be deaf not to hear the protestors.
“... In position here in Houlton, Maine,” buzzed the voice from Tressler’s radio. The man was shouting over the cries of a crowd. “We made it past the block-off with about half an hour to spare. We’re mostly unhurt. If you’re hearing my voice, that means our equipment made it through, too. Got about a dozen soldiers here, they’re trying to hold us back but we have ‘em outnumbered ten to one. For anyone listening at home, send us your prayers, I think we’re gonna need it. And if our friend on the Walk is still with us—Godspeed, boys. We’ll see you soon.”
They were almost to the middle of town now, though there wasn’t much town to speak of. Houlton was small, and felt smaller still for its emptiness. They passed by old houses and empty storefronts. Outside a schoolhouse hung a banner that blared, The Shiretowners Welcome The Long Walk! Ray barely registered any of it. His heart was going a mile a minute. He was imagining his own death again. It was close enough to touch.
The protest, when they came upon it, was much larger than Ray imagined. There must have been a hundred protestors at least. They were holding signs: “END THE LONG WALK,” “HANDS OFF OUR BOYS,” “THERE ARE NO WINNERS.” One sign, held high above the head of a young man in a wheelchair, read, “YEAR 15’S WINNER SAYS: FUCK THE WALK.” There were perhaps ten or fifteen National Guard officers trying to hold people off the road, but they were no match for the crowd. If the protest worried the soldiers on the Walk, they were doing a hell of a job of hiding it.
A mighty roar tore through the spectators once the Walkers reached them. Many of the Walkers cheered back. Collie Parker raised a fist, to much fanfare. The protest began to move with them down the road, matching their pace. Nobody dared to cross onto the pavement; the soldiers’ carbines were at the ready.
After about a minute of this, the man in the wheelchair shouted, “Fuck the Long Walk!” From beneath his chair he produced something Ray couldn’t quite make out, and pitched it overhand at the Major’s Jeep. There was a moment of stunned, caught silence. Then the Jeep exploded.
“Fucking finally,” cried Parker. He turned and launched himself at a soldier.
All hell broke loose.
The crowd jumped on the National Guard officers holding them back, pushed them to the ground, and trampled over them in a wave. To Ray’s horror, the soldiers began to shoot into the crowd. They were indiscriminate. As long as the boys were still walking—which they were, save Parker, they’d been told to wait for the crowd’s distraction—they were safe. But any spectator on the pavement was fair game, apparently. What were the soldiers doing still following orders, he wondered? Hadn’t they just watched the Major die? He couldn’t possibly have survived a blast like that.
While the crowd raged, Parker pried the carbine from the soldier’s hands and shot him in the head. He turned to find another target. A soldier behind him aimed his carbine, switched off the safety, but Parker wasn’t looking, he was turned the other way—Ray wanted to run, wanted to say something, but his voice stuck in his throat—
“Collie!” yelled Tressler. He tackled Parker out of the way.
A bang. Tressler’s body convulsed. He fell, dead on impact.
Ray faltered. He felt himself slow below 3 miles an hour, but he heard no warning. That was Tressler, gone. He was walking with no warnings. He hadn’t left the pavement. He hadn’t attacked any soldiers. He’d just jumped in and taken the shot. That couldn’t be called a ticket, could it? It was just death.
“Fuck!” Parker’s voice was raw. He bore his teeth, pivoted over Tressler’s body, and shot two soldiers in quick succession. His aim was a bit off, but it didn’t matter. He fired until they stopped moving. “Now!” he screamed over his shoulder.
Ray and half the other Walkers jumped into the fray. Ray thanked whatever higher power there might be that his body moved on command. He felt as though it might not; as though he might simply keep walking forward, stuck on cruise control.
Most of the soldiers meant to watch the Walk were distracted dealing with the crowd now. Ray locked onto a soldier whose back was turned. The man was shooting into the crowd—how many civilians had died because of them? Ray pulled the shank from his belt and charged him, and he had to hand it to Parker: a shank was a fine match for a carbine, provided the gunman was turned the other way.
Ray was barely cognizant of stabbing the man. He felt only a rush of dizzying adrenaline, the creak of his protesting legs, a spin of noise and color. When he came to, he was atop the soldier. The man was not moving. Ray’s hands were warm and wet. He looked down his own torso to find he was covered in blood. He felt vaguely shocked that he was still alive.
“Ray. Ray!”
Ray looked up. Pete stood above him. He was bloody, too, and for a moment, Ray’s heart nearly stopped, thinking Pete had been shot, but the blood wasn’t his own. Pete clutched his shank in one hand and a carbine in the other. He seemed to have lost his pack at some point.
All at once, sound rushed back in. If the crowd had been loud before, now it was deafening: screams of defiance and agony, panicked shouting, running feet, shattering glass. Ray took stock of the soldiers. There had been perhaps six, and now he could see only one still standing, though the man had lost his gun. The National Guard men were almost all alive, but it wasn’t their job to keep the Walkers under control, and they seemed swept up by the crowd for the most part anyway. The gunshots had stopped.
A few other Walkers lay dead on the ground around them, but far more than Ray expected were unharmed. He couldn’t see Olson or Baker. The crowd was merged with the Walkers now, blocking sightlines, and Ray made himself believe they were fine, just hidden from sight. Collie Parker stood atop the halftrack, distributing rations. Barkovitch sat on the curb, a carbine at his side, rubbing his legs. They were fine. Most of them were completely fine.
Something giddy blossomed in Ray’s chest. He wanted to believe it was hope.
“Pete, you ok?” Ray asked.
“Fine.” Pete’s voice broke on the word. He offered Ray a hand.
Ray took it, and Pete pulled him to standing. Ray’s feet protested, and his legs nearly buckled, but Pete locked a hand around his forearm to brace them together.
Ray swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Thank you. I didn’t know if… I wasn’t sure you’d…”
Pete smiled. God, it was good to see him smile. “Hop to it, Ray. No rest for the wicked.”
Ahead, three or four of the boys were still walking. Stebbins, with his head down, led the pack. They were a few blocks down the road now, but they were alone. No soldiers. No reason to keep going. What was Stebbins playing at?
Ray started, “Did we really—”
A gunshot. Collie Parker crumpled over the side of the halftrack.
A voice crackled through a speaker: “Attention, Walkers. You have ten seconds to regain your speed of 3 miles per hour before more warnings are issued. Ten.”
“What the fuck?” Ray spun around. It was another halftrack—no, two, and a Jeep, coming up a side road towards them. “What the fuck?”
“Eight,” said the speaker.
“Keep on walking, boys! We’re being very generous here, giving you another chance.” It was the Major’s voice. Ray felt like throwing up.
“Shift change,” Pete rasped. His face was grey. “It’s dinnertime. It’s the fucking shift change. He wasn’t… Ray, he wasn’t in the Jeep.”
Parker pulled himself back upright atop the unmoving halftrack. Blood gushed from his shoulder, and the color was draining fast from his face, but his voice was as strong as ever as he shouted, “Fuck that. Garraty, heads up!” He tossed Ray his carbine.
Ray caught it, barely. Parker ducked back down into the halftrack, emerged with more guns, and began to throw them to the others.
“Five,” said the speaker.
“We could keep walking,” said Pete.
“You wanna keep walking?” Ray asked.
Pete grinned. “No. No, I really don’t.”
“Two. One,” the speaker said, then, “Warning, Number 5. Second warning. Warning, Number 23…” It was listing all of them off, one by one. How many warnings had Ray been walking with? He couldn’t even remember.
“Come the fuck on!” Pete yelled, and took Ray by the shoulder. He hauled them around to duck behind the halftrack. A bullet pinged the metal right next to their heads.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” Ray peeked around one wheel, switched off the safety on the carbine, and started shooting at the Major’s jeep like they did in movies. He couldn’t be sure he was hitting anything at all. He’d only shot a gun once before, with his dad at a range when he was maybe thirteen, and he’d been an awful shot, he was good with a baseball but terrible with bullets apparently—
Parker dropped down next to them. He looked rough, blood all down his front, face flushed and sweaty. “You gonna try and aim that gun or just shoot wherever?” he snarled at Ray.
“I don’t need a backseat driver!” said Ray.
Rapid gunshots started up again. Two Walkers dropped in quick succession, only a few feet away. They’d been headed for the halftrack, headed for cover, but they hadn’t been fast enough. Soldiers were spilling out of the other halftracks now, ten, fifteen of them, they must have known, must have gotten a call for backup. Ray poked his head out from behind the halftrack, then shot at the one closest to them. The bullet hit the soldier in one leg. He fell to the pavement, groaning.
“Fuck yes!” cried Ray. He felt drunk. He couldn’t be sure if it was the adrenaline or the exhaustion.
Pete pulled Ray back into safety, and hissed, “We have to go.” He was panting, looking out at the soldiers with wide eyes. He turned back to Ray. “Ray, we gotta fucking go.”
“I can do this,” said Ray, and he could, he would—he turned and shot another soldier, made his mark this time, watched as the man jerked back and collapsed. He could fucking do this.
The crowd was retreating now, leaving its dead behind like roadkill, scared back into compliance by the show of force. Ray watched a soldier grab a woman by the arm and force her back over the curb. She tried to pull away, gritting her teeth, but the man’s grip was too strong.
“Ray,” said Pete.
Ray wasn’t listening. “Fucking pig.” He aimed, careful. Narrowed his eyes. Breathed deep. Took the shot.
The woman cried out. Blood bloomed across the front of her blouse.
Ray’s breath caught. “No—”
“We have to go,” Pete said again, to Parker this time.
Parker shook his head and bent over at the waist, teeth gritted. He was losing blood fast. Ray watched none of it. His head was spinning.
Ray dropped the gun—the sight of it made him sick—and threw himself forward, out from behind the halftrack and toward the woman. She was on her knees, clutching her stomach. She was in pain. She was hurt because of him, dying because of him. Ray scrambled over Tressler’s body. A bullet whizzed past his shoulder. He barely noticed. He had to—
A gunshot, right next to his ear. The world turned sideways. Ray hit the ground hard, shoulder skidding across the pavement. He scrambled upright to find Pete standing over him, Ray’s discarded carbine raised. There was a soldier bleeding out only feet away. Ray checked himself over, frantic, but his only injury was his skinned forearm.
“You—” he started.
Pete said, “I just saved your ass, Garraty, now lemme focus.” His face was sterner than Ray had ever seen it.
The street had descended into chaos again. The crowd was louder than ever. It was a true riot now, molotov cocktails and fistfights and looters, although they all kept off the concrete so as not to get shot. Walkers darted about like chickens with their heads cut off, running for cover, shooting at soldiers, fleeing into the crowd, bleeding and squirming and dying on the concrete. A couple picked up their packs and started walking.
Pete fired into a group of soldiers. Ray had felt like a bad copy of an action movie before, like a kid playing pretend with life-sized toys, but Pete seemed like the real deal. His aim was deadly; it only took him a few tries to down each man, and within the minute he’d taken out four singlehandedly. Ray could have been convinced he really was an action hero, if he hadn’t seen Pete flinch minutely with every gunshot.
Pete grabbed Ray’s arm and hauled him up with impossible strength. “We’re fucking leaving.”
“Okay,” was all Ray could manage. He let Pete drag him back, looking over his shoulder the whole time, trying to seek out the woman he’d shot, he’d hurt, might have killed, but she was gone. That was good, he told himself. Maybe she got away. Maybe she was getting help.
Pete released him when they rounded the halftrack. Collie Parker leaned back against the metal, clutching a carbine to his chest like a teddy bear.
“Come on, Parker.” Pete slipped one arm underneath Parker’s own and around his shoulder. He hefted Parker upright with a grunt.
“No,” said Parker faintly. His eyes were distant. He coughed, then swallowed, and managed, “I told Harkness we… I said we would stop it…”
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Pete snapped. “We got maybe two more minutes here before the soldiers find us. Are you listening? Parker!”
Ray had to pull himself the fuck together. If not for himself, then for the guys who were still standing, the ones who needed help. He caught Parker’s eye and tried his best to look comforting. “Parker—Collie. Hey. I want you to live, okay?”
Parker laughed. It came out weak and shaky.
“I’m serious. Hey, listen to me. You did good, yeah? You did so much good here. But you’re either gonna bleed out right now, or you’re gonna live to see the sunset, and I know which one Harkness would have wanted for you. Right? Alright?”
Parker’s facade broke. His face crumpled. He doubled over, clutched at his shoulder, his face. “I can’t,” he said.
“You can. You can, come on. Let’s go,” said Ray, partly to Pete.
Pete nodded. Ray slung Parker’s other arm over his own shoulder.
Ray stepped onto the curb. Onto the sidewalk. He didn’t get his ticket.
Together they slipped into the crowd, quiet, unobtrusive. The civilians who noticed them made room. A few pushed ahead and cleared a path with a sort of quiet reverence. Some others placed themselves between the boys and the road. Ray wanted to say something, to thank them, but there was no time. Besides, he didn’t have the words.
“Garraty! McVries!”
The voice came from around a corner, in the alley beside an old five-and-dime. Art Baker poked his head out. The knot of anxious anticipation, the surety that he would soon see Art Baker’s corpse (or worse, that he would never see him again, that he would be left wondering) loosened, blessedly. Pete and Ray shuffled into the alley, then set Parker down against the brick wall carefully.
“Art,” said Ray. Delirious, he hugged him. Art hugged back so tight Ray felt his back crack.
Art mumbled, “This is crazy. This is fucking crazy.”
Ray released him, feeling vaguely embarrassed. “Where’s—”
“Olson,” said Pete. He crouched down, and Ray saw he was inspecting Olson, who was slumped against the brick wall beside Parker. It was odd, somehow, to see them sitting down. They existed as standing, moving objects in Ray’s brain.
“He ain’t doing so good,” Baker told them.
Olson didn’t look too different from the last time Ray saw him. His face was blank, eyes unseeing. It seemed like nobody was home. Still, he was alive. They were all alive.
“Neither is Parker,” said Pete.
Parker seemed to be drifting off. Pete slapped him full across the face.
“Ow, fuck!”
“Hey. Stay with us.”
“I’m here, goddamn.” Parker rubbed a hand across his cheek. “My shoulder hurts like a bitch.”
“Oh, damn, you are a mess,” said someone from the mouth of the alleyway.
They all jumped and turned (save Olson, of course). Ray felt his blood rush, adrenaline spiking, but it wasn’t a soldier; it was only a woman, spindly, middle-aged, with stringy hair and filthy clothes. She held a sign that read, “THOU SHALT NOT KILL.”
“We gotta get out of here,” said Ray with sudden, bonechilling clarity. He could still hear shouting and running outside the alley. Distantly, someone gave out a warning through the Jeep’s speaker.
“Yeah, no shit,” said the woman. She pointed at Parker with one long-fingered hand. “That kid’s gonna go septic if you don’t get him some serious help.”
“I can handle myself,” said Parker. He’d begun to slur his words.
The woman snorted. “Uh huh. Listen, I’m a doctor, I’ll handle it. Follow me, come on.” She turned and started out of the alleyway, as though she had no doubt they’d follow.
Ray looked at Pete, who was already looking back at him with a baffled expression.
“Sounds pretty good to me,” said Art Baker.
“Sounds like a trap, is what it sounds like,” Pete said. “Sorry, lady, but why the fuck would we trust you?”
She rolled her eyes and said dryly, “You’re kinda out of options, Number 23. The hell am I gonna do, anyway?”
“Snitch to th’ pigs,” suggested Parker.
The woman looked pointedly down at her protest sign, then back up at Parker. “You can follow me, or you can find some other nice doctor to patch you up—good luck with that—but you better decide quick, because soon you’re gonna be too dead to do either.”
“I’ll decide.” Bakovitch (fucking Barkovitch, thought Ray furiously) was peering into the alleyway curiously. “Oh, hey, it’s a whole party over here. Take me with you, lady, my feet are fuckin’ killing me.”
“And who the fuck invited you, Barkovitch?” Parker snarled, glaring to the side before turning forward once again. Anger takes energy, and he didn't have much to spare.
“Did anybody follow you, Barkovitch?” Pete asked, quiet, but tense. His teeth were clenched. Ray noticed the way he flexed his hand in and out at his side, how stiff his arms were.
“Hell no, you think–” Barkovitch snorted, shaking his head while reaching up and swiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “You think I'd be kickin’ if they knew where I was? Huh?”
“Coulda led ‘em to us. Coulda been bait,” Pete said.
Barkovitch's eyes were red already, scrubbed at and wiped at by frantic hands. The way they bore into Pete made Ray nauseous. Before anybody had a chance to add on, to berate him some more, Barkovitch reached up and unclasped something slung around his shoulder. The carbine unaccounted for, hidden behind his back, now shook in his hands, one thumb restless against the safety.
“Oh my god—” Ray breathed.
“Woah, woah there, now.” Pete held up his hands at the same time, stepping backwards. “Best to set that down, Barkovitch.”
“Haah–” Barkovitch sneered at him, a mockery of a grin that flickered in and out like a faulty light. “I get it, no, no, man, I get it… I'm gonna drag you down, hangin’ here, right?”
Ray thought he heard Art agree. Nobody else spoke. Not with the carbine in front of their faces. The woman had pressed herself back up against a wall, staring at Barkovitch silently. The carbine clacked and clattered as he maneuvered it around and up, pressed it against the underside of his chin.
“If you won't let me come, then I'll— I'll be with you whores forever–” he spat, and each word made the barrel duck further against his flesh. His finger tickled the trigger, petting it like a stray cat.
“No, no, hey.,” Ray broke away from the group, reaching his hands out in some sort of desperation. “Barkovitch, Gary, man, you don't wanna do that. You don't.”
“And what if I do?” Barkovitch bit.
“You don't,” Ray choked. There had been enough blood today, more than enough, and if he saw any more he thought he would faint. That woman, he thought, that woman was probably dead by now. His palms became clammy, and he wiped them against his jeans, not taking his eyes away from the frightened animal ahead of him. “You don't, Gary, you can come with us, just–” He smacked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Just put the gun down, please.”
“Yeah?” Barkovitch blinked at him, almost sheepish, demeanor shifting within seconds. “I can?”
The carbine taunted Ray. Beckoned him. Good luck.
“Yeah.”
Ray turned to the rest of their small group, nodding, waiting for their approval. Everybody murmured some sort of agreement, much to his relief, a small cacophony of Yeah and Sure. He turned back to see Barkovitch's chin exposed again. He breathed, finally. He felt lightheaded. If that had gone off, there was no way at least one soldier wouldn't have heard it, and found them, and… and… and hurt them, ruined them, ruined this–
Pete set a hand on Ray's lower back, grounding him again. Keeping him there. As much as he'd rather be anywhere else.
“Give us the carbine, Barkovitch,” Pete demanded plainly, holding out his other hand. Barkovitch seemed apprehensive for a moment, clutching the weapon to his chest like a baby. It was the kindest Barkovitch had ever been to something else on this earth, as far as Ray had seen.
“You set that thing off, you can say goodbye to any friends. You can say goodbye to your Meemaw, hell, Barkovitch, you can say bye to your fuckin’ cat.” Pete kept his hand steady, his voice firm. Demanding. “Because when they hear a carbine that ain't ‘cause of a warning, Barkovitch? They're gonna track it, and you'll be the reason we all get a fucking ticket.”
Barkovitch swallowed down a rockslide in his throat and used his thumb to pick at the nail on his index finger.
“Don't hav'ta be so fuckin’– tense about it, fuck…” he mumbled while handing over the carbine, practically dropping it into Pete's hand. Pete immediately used the long strap attached to sling it around his back. The sigh of relief that echoed in the short alleyway was so loud it very well could have given away their position. As if reading Ray's mind, the helpful woman with the sign cleared her throat and silently beckoned the boys to follow her. Ray waited until Barkovitch was walking ahead of him, and then started moving.
Their knight in a tattered dress motioned for everyone to stand and follow her through the back of the alleyway, and down a road Ray didn't even notice was there. He was sure everybody had groaned like he had once they started moving again, all of their footsteps and pain unison. Hell on the engine, he thought. Seeing the lot of them shambling down another road almost made him cry. At the very least, Art was carrying Hank a few paces behind Ray. He didn't have to see their ragdoll of a friend bob his head around like fresh game.
The boys pressed on at every turn. Every now and then they'd come across some sort of blockage, and collectively struggle more than any one man should to lift their knees high enough to get over it. Hitting the ground after it hurt like a bitch. Ray wished he'd brought a second pair of shoes, maybe even a second pair of feet. If only.
“Ray,” Pete whispered, the back of his hand grazing the back of Ray's for a short second. “You okay, compadre?”
“...Yeah, Pete,” he gave in, nodding, adjusting the straps of his rucksack. “Just hurting.”
“You know, Ray, I love learning about you. Somethin’ new every mile, I figure out about that mind of yours,” Pete drawled, clicking his tongue.
“Oh yeah? What'd you learn this time, Pete? My feet hurt?”
“You're a shit liar.”
Ray couldn't help but scoff, smiling at the corner of his mouth and nothing more. Like a book, fuck, Pete could read him so easily. Distantly, he wondered if he was just easy, or if Pete had some incredible power of perception. Neither would shock him.
“Yeah, well.”
The silence lingered.
“Pete, do you think I killed that woman?” Ray burst out, his eyes darting between his own battered shoes and Pete's suddenly solemn face.
“Where'd you shoot her, Ray?” Pete asked. Ray knew he knew. Ray shifted uncomfortably in his jeans.
“Chest,” he mumbled, sucking his lips in for a moment afterwards, blinking hard to cut back any moisture. “Lotta blood.”
“Then, shit, Ray… I ain't sure.” Pete shook his head, brought up his arm and rested his hand against the back of Ray's neck. He massaged with his fingers, fighting a tense knot. Ray shuddered and closed in on himself, ashamed to be touched by clean hands.
“Schrödinger…”
Ray looked behind them, to see a brand new line of drool falling from Hank's mouth. He'd moved his lips for that to happen. He'd spoken.
“Yeah, Hank?” Ray encouraged him, “What do you mean, Schrödinger?”
Hank said nothing more. Ray knew what he meant, anyway.
“Fuck is he talking about now, Ray?” Pete asked, stealing his attention back. Behind them, Art had smiled, white teeth showing through, a genuine smile. Felt bad to see someone so radiant become so dull, by no fault of his own, too devoted to someone else to really focus on himself. Ray didn't think it sounded familiar at all.
“It's this old scientist,” Ray started, talking with his hands, as he often did. “He had a cat, and he had this box, yeah? And he put some poison in the box, put the cat in there with it.”
“That's fucked up,” Pete said, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah, yeah, super fucked up, but– his point was that until he opened the box again, the cat was alive and dead. Poisoned and not. The cat wasn't anything until he saw it,” Ray finished, hands going back to grip the thick fabric straps of his bag.
“...Huh,” hummed Pete. It was a much shorter response than Ray would have liked. The last time he rambled Pete looked at him like he was a genius. Look at me again, he thought, staring at Pete. “That poor cat,” Pete finally relented, shaking his head with a weak and discouraged grin. “Dead, and he ain't even gettin’ a funeral.”
For a moment Ray wondered if that blouse he ruined with blood was her nicest. How much it would cost her family to get a new one, if they wanted an open casket.
Ray swallowed. “Yeah.” Faintly, he thought back to their conversation on the asphalt, back when he'd told Pete what his wish would be. When Pete told him he wasn't the type of man who could kill, and he shouldn't become that type of man either. When his gaze had remained so firm, so sure, that Ray had abandoned his wish right then and there, left it behind on the road for some poor schmuck to clean up later when they grabbed the bodies. He wanted the Major dead, yeah, but more than that, he really just wanted… something else. Something he couldn't place. Something he wouldn't name.
The group made a turn to the left, and Ray dragged on with them. The path had abandoned asphalt in favor of dirt roads, guiding them down a thin trail that split a field of wheat. It was tall enough to cover most of their heads, but Art held his low. Ray couldn't decide if the dirt was an upgrade. His feet ached like they'd never ached before. Without the looming threat of a carbine pointed against his head, he had to focus on it. Think about it.
Duck. Dip under a narrow window frame. Where the fuck was she taking them?
After they had to turn sideways and slide their bodies through a narrow crevice (which Ray was almost unable to do, panicked and embarrassed before Pete helped him by pulling the wooden boards back a little bit more), Ray felt his fraying boots touch down on something different. Something smoother. Linoleum tiles.
“Didn't think we needed t'go shopping for dresses…” Barkovitch mumbled from the front, snickering, looking to Parker for approval. He didn't get any, and deflated. Lo and behold, when Ray looked up and forced the exhaustion out of his eyes, he saw exactly what Barkovitch was talking about.
The mall was clearly old, older than the before times, and had been left to ruin after the war. Cracked floors and moldy walls, vines sneaking in and up and around pillars lining the long walkway through the center of the building. The ceiling– it was massive. Taller than anything Ray had ever seen before in his life, and when he knocked his head back to find the end of the large dome, it gave him vertigo. Half of the storefronts were boarded up, the gates closed and locked over. All of the light here was a byproduct of the holes scattered in that impossibly tall ceiling, natural and soft against the overgrowth and concrete. America used to love her.
“Holy shit,” Ray muttered, barely there. He heard the shutter of Barkovitch's camera. He'd do the same if he had one.
The woman who led them there brought a finger to her lips, hushed the boys as they began to chatter in wonder at the sight of it all. They weren't in the clear, not quite yet. Ray spared a glance at Collie. He wasn't looking so hot. The blood had stopped, for the most part, thanks to his hand pressed firmly against the wound, and the strip of his jacket he'd torn and used as gauze, but his face was sweaty and pale. Hair clung to his cheekbones, the moisture trapping it there, and the rest down his back had gotten tangled in the action.
“What's your name?” Art asked her, speaking up for the first time in maybe an hour. Surprise, surprise, he still had Hank at his side, upright and barely awake.
“That doesn't matter.” she responded, and stopped at what used to be a fountain. The stains from coins were still embedded in the stone, but the money itself was long gone. Picked clean. The boys huddled around her in a sort of messy semi-circle, waiting for their next objective, afraid to sit down. Afraid to stop.
“What's your goal here, anyways?” asked Pete, a skeptical tilt to his eyebrows. His stance was tight, prepared. Barely exhausted. Not like the rest of them. Pete, always strong, always– raring to rip, for lack of a better term. Ray wanted to be in his shoes. Feel what he felt. Maybe then he'd understand a lot more about the world.
“To get you boys safe, for the most part,” she began, dropping her sign to the ground. “The lot of us, we understand.”
“We?” Pete pressed.
“This place isn't just safe for you. It's safe for everyone the states don't want no more.”
“Are you sure it's safe?” Ray interjected, exasperated. What if we lead someone to you, what if– I don't know, what if they've got fuckin’ trackers on us, or something?”
At the mention of secret trackers, he noticed the others check over themselves. Barkovitch tore off his speedometer and crushed it under his heel without hesitation. Ray had forgotten he was wearing it, just considered it a part of his being. Glancing down to see 0.0 MPH made his heart stopped for a moment. Yeah, best to take that off.
“It's safe. For now.” She nodded. Something about that uncertain certainty reminded Ray of his mother. He missed her. He wished she was here to kiss his head and tell him that he wasn't stupid, he wasn't selfish. He wondered if he'd ever see her again. Probably not.
“Can you get this fuckin’ bullet out of me?” Collie groaned, chest heavy.
“Follow me, there's a pharmacy down the east hall.”
So they did, all of them. They followed her down across the tiles, across cracks and crevices and holes in the floor. Sometimes they'd see a dead rat, a bird. Barkovitch would run out of film in a day at this rate, Ray thought, with how often he heard that godawful click. How much longer would he have to listen to it? How much longer would Ray linger with the rotted nature, and how much longer until he was nothing more than the carrion in the corner? Glancing to Pete for guidance, he begged him with his eyes to give him anything to lean on. Pete offered his arm. Into the belly of the beast, they walked melded together, familiar and warm. 3 MPH. Any less would feel wrong.