Chapter Text
It happened on the incline, dark save for the floodlights. The gunshots had already been ringing out, an unrelenting chorus of cruelty, but not one that struck Barkovitch as abnormal given the circumstances. He only realized something extraordinary was happening when he saw chunks of a soldier's brain bounce across the concrete. A piece of skull struck him near his eye, prompting him to swing his head around.
An unprecedented struggle was taking place. Some of the boys, the dozen or so that remained, had scrambled up onto the vehicles, baying like hounds in frenzied pursuit of a raccoon. A few paid the price, blown away by carbine fire, their bodies crumpling in on themselves, but that wasn't the case for Collie Parker. Having managed to seize one of the guns, he stood triumphant atop a half-track, picking off soldiers one by one. It made Gary stop dead in his tracks – how could he possibly receive a warning now? The scene made him giddy, dizzy with the lovechild of delirium and satisfaction. He bared his teeth in a wolfish grin, only for it to fall when he saw Collie looking down the barrel at him.
“Fuck, Parker!” Barkovitch cried, lifting his pale hands as if in surrender. In his mind's eye he saw Rank skidding across the concrete, leaving skin and blood in his wake. “Fuck, man, I never wanted him to–”
The bullet went hissing past his right ear, hitting its intended target with a wet thump. Barkovitch, his head jammed with static, turned to look. A soldier was splayed out on the ground, blood pooling thick around his shredded abdomen. Gary felt a laugh bubbling up inside him, two parts relief, one part pleasure. He bent an arm in a salute, a display of mockery that the glassy eyes didn’t even register. He would’ve spit on the son of a bitch if he wasn’t being yanked away by the collar of his shirt. It was Collie, his strong lineaments set with determination, the rifle slung over his broad shoulder.
“The woods,” he said, shoving Barkovitch towards the treeline. “Move your fucking ass!”
Whether he’d ever admit it or not, Gary trusted Collie’s judgement far more than his own. He careened off the road and towards the forest, plunging headlong into the wooded veil. Collie was right behind him, occasionally calling out “go” or “keep fuckin’ moving.” It was dark here, away from the yellow glare of the lights, and Barkovitch swore viciously as thorns tore at his ankles, as he clipped his shoulders on tree trunks. He felt like an animal, the small, scared kind that showed the whites of its eyes, each and every neuron humming with fear. Then again, he’d felt less than human for years now.
He looked back for Collie. To see the powerful, long-haired silhouette was a strange comfort: the moonlight striking his eyes and turning them to stars, silver beams bouncing off his dog tag. Forty-eight was a good number. Nice and clean.
“Turn the fuck around!” Collie snapped. “I’m still with you, man.”
It seemed an eternity had passed before they stopped running. They were in the thick of the woods, bark and brush stretching out endlessly in all directions. Watery dawn light had begun to bleed through the treetops, gradually illuminating the mist-damp undergrowth. Gary all but collapsed on the forest floor, slumping against a tree with his eyes closed. He cracked them back open once the taste of iron had left his mouth.
Collie was across from him, knees pulled to his chest, carbine and backpack laying beside him in the leaf litter. Runaway strands of dark hair clung to his jaw and neck, damp with sweat. Barkovitch noticed then the rusty splotch in the right shoulder of his denim jacket.
“Shit, you get shot?”
“Bullet went straight through,” said Collie simply. “Bleeding stopped an hour ago.”
Barkovitch wriggled so he was sitting up a little straighter. “Who started it? The revolt, I mean. Who was it?”
“I started it.”
Hardly surprising. If anyone had the balls to pull a stunt like that, it was Parker. “They’re gonna come for us,” Gary mumbled, scratching at his neck with his dirty nails. “With search lights and dogs and–”
“Jesus, you think I’m some kinda dumbass? I know they’ll come for me, “ Collie said coolly. Me. Not us. Like Gary wasn’t even part of the equation. “But I’ll blow my brains out before I let ‘em catch me.”
“Did the Major go down?”
“He sealed himself away in one of the tanks.”
Barkovitch’s mouth twitched at the thought of the bastard running and hiding. “Bet he’s not too happy right about now.” Collie didn’t respond, a faraway look in his eyes. The silence made Gary’s guts twist, so he kept filling it, the syllables stumbling feverishly over one another. “What about the loverboys? They make it?”
“Ray and McVries? Shit if I know. I think I saw one of them with a carbine,” Collie muttered, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. “Harkness went down. I know that for sure.”
“Cryin’ shame. You'd think, y'know, with those fat fuckin’ glasses, he woulda seen danger coming a mile away.”
Something shifted. Collie abruptly rose up, slinging the gun over his wounded shoulder and the backpack over the other. Barkovitch reluctantly followed his lead, using the tree to help pull himself upright, his body a mass of long, deadened limbs. He was brushing wet leaves from his pants when Collie was suddenly right in front of him. He grabbed Barkovitch by the shoulders, eyes boring unapologetically into his own. “I’m not McVries, you understand? I’m not carrying your ass through these damn woods. Sink or swim, fuckhead.”
“Fine by me, man. I never needed nobody’s charity,” said Barkovitch as he wrenched himself free. Collie scoffed and turned away with all the indifference of a horse swatting a fly with its tail. Some childish part of Gary wanted to wave his hands above his head like a desperate castaway, to scream out, Look at me! Look at me! Look at me, I exist, I'm horrible but I exist! He’d quickly learned it was better to be gazed upon with disdain, hatred even, than to be dismissed altogether. And in Collie’s eyes, in their richness, warmth could be invented out of nothing.
Without another word, Collie began to walk in a seemingly random direction. Barkovitch remained rooted in place, glowering after him while he considered going his own way. After all, he hated to chase after anyone like a needy wretch, hated to expose his soft and lonely underbelly. He stood watching Collie gradually merge into the trees, waiting for him to look back, even in anger, even that. When it became abundantly clear that no such look was coming, Barkovitch hissed fuck and began hurrying after him.
When Barkovitch caught up with Collie, he went unacknowledged at first. Then he noticed the twitching in the corner of Collie’s mouth.
“Somethin’ funny, fuckwad?”
At this point Collie was openly smiling. “Just figures.”
“What?”
“That I get stuck with you. Wonder if there’s still time to trade you in for Stebbins.”
*
The trudge through the woods could have been worse – hell, compared to the Walk, it was a picnic. The towering firs and maples provided a refuge from the midday sun, though a few rays wormed their way through the canopy, dappling the mossy, twig-strewn carpet below. It was far easier on the ears, too: no bellowing Major or spine-rattling gunshots. Gary squinted through his camera at toadstools and chickadees, at tree bark that resembled human faces. He figured that, aside from the underlying dread and lack of supplies, this is what a camping trip would be like. He’d never been on one before.
“I can't stand all these goddamn trees,” Collie said with genuine disgust. “Make me feel boxed in.”
“Better than standing in an open field. They'd catch us then for sure,” Barkovitch pointed out as he lowered his camera. He stole a glance at his reluctant traveling companion, noting how the gray tank top was soaked with sweat, the dark eyes glazed and swollen underneath. “We've got a pretty good lead on ‘em, don't you think? Maybe we could take a break, y'know, a catnap.” Barkovitch’s suggestion seemed to go unheard by Collie, whose mouth was set in a hard line. “Seriously, you look like shit, Parker. Not that I wouldn't love to watch you keel over.”
“One of us would have to keep watch.”
“Well, yeah,” Gary said. Collie eyed him skeptically, making his face flush. “What, you don't think I can manage that shit?”
“Just don't want my throat slit in my sleep is all.”
“Fuck you,” Barkovitch snarled, a chorus of voices ricocheting off the peeling walls of his brain: killed that kid, now you a murderer, dance on his grave. It felt like somebody had stuck a giant screw in his chest, and they just wouldn’t stop tightening it, the walls closing in on his hammering heart. He was getting away from himself again, and that terrified him more than anything. He went to strike his temple with the heel of his palm – an attempt to lodge his brain back into place – only for Collie to grab him by the wrist.
“Christ, Barkovitch, it was a joke. Met girls with thicker skin than you,” he muttered, releasing his firm but merciful grip. Gary swore his fingers left scorch marks behind. “You’re right, we should rest. Here’s as good a place as any.”
Trembling, Barkovitch sank to the ground, his vision snowy at the peripheries. Collie kneeled down in front of him and held something out, something Gary didn’t quite register but accepted regardless. It was Collie’s canteen, nearly empty, the top already unscrewed. Barkovitch’s had run dry hours ago. Had he even told Collie that? He couldn’t remember, not right now. He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a greedy swig. The cool water provided a much-needed jolt, sending Barkovitch’s wayward consciousness hurtling back into his body. His breathing slowly but surely became less shallow. Collie was watching him closely, dense eyebrows furrowed as if in concern. Prickling with embarrassment, Barkovitch held out the canteen wordlessly to him. He’d taken care not to drink all of it, so a few mouthfuls still remained. He wasn’t a total asshole.
“Just finish it,” Collie said gruffly, a kindness that Barkovitch couldn't fully comprehend. “You want first watch?”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Gary rasped, straightening his back to seem more alert – trustworthy. With that, Collie shrugged off the carbine and backpack and stretched out in a bed of dead leaves, calloused hands folded beneath his head. His tank top rode up a little, exposing a dark, thick happy trail. Something rose in Barkovitch’s throat, something that would’ve choked him if he didn’t look away. He tried in vain to wash it down with the rest of the water.
*
The first real sign of trouble was the helicopter. The sound of it, like the droning of a giant insect, wormed its way into Gary's dream. He was in his grandma's trailer, sitting at her kitchen table with a fried bologna sandwich in front of him, lovingly made by arthritic hands. She was across from him, her eyes cloudy with cataracts. She was trying to tell her pitiful grandson something, some piece of good advice, probably something about making friends, but there was a fly buzzing around his head, so loud and so close, if only it would–
“Barkovitch! Barkovitch, wake the fuck up!”
Gary peeled open his eyes and found that the kitchen light had long since burnt out. He was sitting with his legs splayed out and his back against a tree, the Maine woods shrouded in blue-black darkness. Collie was in front of him, shaking him by the shoulders, the whites of his eyes shining against their burnt umber centers. Moonlight ran its fingers through his hair.
“We gotta find cover, man, they'll spot us. Get up,” Collie urged, hooking Barkovitch under his armpits and pulling him upright like he weighed no more than a cat. Over Collie’s shoulder he saw the harsh spotlight piercing through the treetops, slowly but steadily sweeping through the underbrush towards them. Adrenaline set in then, banishing any remaining mists of sleep from Gary’s mind.
In a desperate bid to outrun the light, he and Collie started booking it through the wooded dark, dodging trees and launching themselves over fallen logs, seeming to merge into one being in their shared panic. Through the haze of terror and shadow, Gary spotted a titan of a fir tree, its massive exposed roots forming a sort of cage where they could hide. He instinctively grabbed Collie by the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him towards it, crying, “Get under, come on!”
Collie managed to squeeze his broad shoulders through an opening, Gary following right behind, like two rabbits diving into a burrow. There wasn’t much room. They bumped against each other, knees and shoulders knocking, the butt of the carbine jabbing Barkovitch in the ribs. Huddling, breathing together in the cramped blackness, they peered warily through the latticework of roots. Gary’s chest constricted as he watched the spotlight creep towards their hiding place, an unrelenting hunter whose silver touch would seal their fate. Fortunately, the sheltering arms of the tree did their job, and it passed over without a second thought.
When it dawned on Gary that they were in the clear, he practically turned to liquid. His shaggy blonde head fell back, thudding dully against a root. He was too relieved to register the sting. Relief turned to something else entirely when he realized just how close they were in this moment: Collie’s knee between his legs, Collie’s hair flowing over his wrist, Collie’s warm breath mingling with his own. Something sticky and hot was gumming up his insides, something intoxicating and unbearable. He wanted to shove two fingers down his throat and puke it all up, whatever it was, this affliction that made his mouth water.
A beam of moonlight stabbed through the tree roots, catching on Collie’s crooked smile. Gary’s heart was slamming against his ribs like a boot against a door. Before he could work up the nerve to ask what was so fucking funny, Collie was sneering, “That a gun in your pocket, Barkovitch?”
The warm, thick pool in Gary’s stomach promptly froze over. He didn’t need to look down to confirm that his dick was straining against his pants, the bulge brushing against Collie’s thigh, convicting him of the deviancy his father had always suspected. Barkovitch could hear him laughing, laughing like he had the night before the Walk, when Gary had slunk into the living room with bleached hair, and his father had nearly split his sides at the sight, gasping, “Oh, ain’t you something? Whole country’s gonna know you’re a faggot.”
“Man, for all the shit you gave McVries–” Collie was cut off by Gary shoving him violently aside, eyes wild with rage and terror. “Fuck, watch it!”
Barkovitch scrambled into the open, practically gasping for air, as if he’d been suffocating. He staggered forward, lean body wound tight with self-hatred. He was dimly aware of Collie yelling after him, something about the helicopter, how it might swing back around, and then–
“I don’t give a shit if you’re queer, Barkovitch! Just stop being such a fucking pussy!”
Queer. The word pierced him like a white-hot knife. He spun back around. Collie had emerged from under the tree, and Barkovitch couldn’t make out his expression in the darkness, but he was sure it was one of disgust, one worn by so many before him, by peers who seemed to know instinctively that something wasn’t quite right.
“What’d you fucking call me? What the fuck did you just call me?” Gary snarled, lunging at Collie in a mad dog frenzy, only for a fist to collide with his jaw. There was enough force behind the punch to knock him flat on his ass. He swore he saw stars, like those old cartoons he’d watched on his grandma’s couch. He spent one moment in a daze, but in the next he dove for Collie’s legs, sending him crashing to the ground. Barkovitch let out a strange, triumphant shriek, a battle cry silenced by the bicep that squeezed his throat. He clawed desperately at Collie’s arm, hard enough to draw blood, eyes rolling wildly as his vision grew fuzzier. Just as he reached the threshold of unconsciousness, Collie released him from the chokehold. Barkovitch toppled forward into the dirt, clutching at his throat as he sputtered and gasped for breath. He’d scarcely caught it when he was being bathed in watery yellow light.
A stout figure stood just a few yards away, shining a flashlight on them. And, despite everything, Gary found himself looking frantically to Collie as terror seized him in its gnashing teeth.
“Take another step and I’ll fill you with lead motherfucker,” Parker spat, pointing the carbine at the silhouette. The stranger turned the flashlight back on himself, revealing a grave-looking old man who seemed entirely unruffled by the threat.
“Don't mean no harm, boys. Heard the commotion from my place,” he rumbled, and as he spoke his eyes fell on Collie's dog tag. Realization slowly took root on his weathered face, the bushy eyebrows lifting in surprise. “You two're from the Walk.”
Collie's finger twitched against the rifle’s trigger, his fierce eyes narrowing. The old man raised his free hand in surrender. The flashlight cast strange shadows, the kind that accompanied ghost stories. “Easy now. I'm no friend of the Major, and I've got no intention of turning you over.”
Gary’s gaze flitted from Collie to the stranger and back again. If he had it his way, the old fucker would’ve been blown away already. But he wasn’t the one holding the gun. That right was reserved to Collie, and his anger was of the righteous, rational kind, not unwieldy and juvenile like Gary’s.
“You boys hungry?” the old man abruptly asked. It was an effective olive branch to extend. They were certainly hungry, as well as dehydrated. They’d received their last, measly Walk rations three days ago, and since then they hadn’t spotted any deer to take down with the carbine, or a body of water to fill up their canteens. In other words, they were desperate. Gary suddenly wasn’t so keen on the old bastard’s execution. Still aiming the rifle, Collie glanced over at him as if asking a question, as if Barkovitch’s input were really worth a damn. His mouth went bone dry. He didn’t want to be held responsible for anything, didn’t want to be the deciding vote, but his stomach was eating itself and Parker couldn’t have been faring any better. So he nodded.
Collie lowered the gun. The old man just grunted and turned away, motioning for them to follow as he began to trample through the underbrush. Collie threw the carbine over his shoulder and rose up from the forest floor, marching after him in silence. Lightheaded, his boner long gone, Gary scrambled to his feet and trailed behind Collie like a dazed lamb.