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Hank doesn’t know if the ache in his chest is new, or if it’s been there since the starting line. His body feels heavy, but there’s a strange lack of pain in his feet, as if he’s floating on clouds while simultaneously being weighed down by heavy stones. He barely registers anything anymore—not the darkness in the sky, not the presence of boys around him. Their numbers have dwindled significantly now, but Hank finds he doesn’t have the willpower to think about it. Or, he wonders, maybe he’s thought too much about it, if that’s the reason he feels so tired.
Surely, he thinks, surely he can’t die now. Not after so much preparation. Not after reading and rereading the hints upwards of twenty times, after triple knotting his shoes and kissing Clementine goodbye. Not after promising her that he’d be back soon to celebrate his win. Not after…
Hank’s mind wanders slowly, like it’s dragging itself through tar. He thinks he doesn’t want to die, but he’s not quite sure. His body is telling him to go, and his mind says that the world is rotten. He’s sure that line would’ve amused the other walkers, Ray especially, back when they were shouting curses to the Major, back when the whole thing seemed like a big joke. The world is rotten, and they are rotting along with it.
He feels a person suddenly next to him, calling his name out loud. Ray’s hands are around his shoulders, cradling him. He talks about Stebbins and carrots and donkeys, and he’s asking Hank to talk to him, to tell him what’s wrong. And Hank tries so hard, has tried so hard, but all he can do is keep walking. It’s all he knows now, even though he’s confident that wasn’t always the case.
Ray’s still talking, but Hank barely hears him. He wants to cry, to scream, to kill the motherfuckers who set this whole thing up, but all he can do is mumble incoherent phrases. But one, miraculously, sticks out.
“God’s garden,” he says, panting. “It’s full of weeds.” He pauses, is granted a warning, and takes off his cap, letting it fall to the gravel beneath his feet. He pulls himself from Ray’s arms, turns in the opposite direction. He hears voices shouting at him, to warn, to call him back, to encourage him to take liberty of his actions and get vengeance. He finds himself in front of a halftrack, with a carbine pointing at his chest. He takes it in a weak grip, and feels something rip through his gut. He screams, a sound so guttural he’s not even sure if it came from him or an animal. He gets a second warning as he slips on his own blood, hitting the ground with a crash, and he calls out a name before he even realizes it himself.
He hears footsteps racing toward him, a voice saying his name over and over again, hands clinging to his body and he clings right back. “Why?” It says. “Hey, come on. Why’d you do this?” Art’s voice is breaking on every syllable, sobs breaking through his lips. Hank’s unsure of his answer. He did it because the system, like Ray so easily says, is broken. Because the thing Hank tried so hard to prepare for, this contest, is just another weed hurting the Earth, polluting it, ruining the planet just like the trash so carelessly tossed out of car windows.
And then suddenly, so suddenly Hank wants to cry harder, Art is ripped from his outstretched hands. He’s pulled away by Ray, who’s shouting that Hank’s already dead, which is all wrong because he’s right here, he’s alive and bleeding and in need of help. Wait, he wants to say. Wait, please, I’m sorry, come back. He wants to hold onto Art, onto the only person who’s here and doesn’t want to give up on him. He wants to live, to go back to Clementine, to hold her and to be held right back. But all he can do is stare at Art, at his retreating figure, at his pleading, tear-filled eyes.
He can only scream, “Art! I did it wrong!” He can only reach out a trembling hand, and cry and cry until his eyes finally close, not being allowed the mercy of a bullet.