Chapter Text
A part of Ray Garraty knew this was a stupid idea.
Hell, he did know, and that was the worst of it. But it wasn't as though he could walk back to his mom's car, hug her tight while repeating meaningless apologies before crawling back into the passenger seat and hiding like a coward. He couldn't, not now anyways. The back out day was yesterday, and he had already made his choice. And yet, it didn't make walking towards the drop off point any easier. But he had his wish, and he wanted nothing more than to make it come true.
The bag in his hand feels like a ton of bricks as he approaches the soldiers, already craving his mom's warmth, how her arms wrapped around him so tightly, unwilling to let him go. He still remembers the faint smell of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies on her cardigan, so soft and comforting as his fingers curl into the fabric.
God, he could still remember her baking the cookies early in the morning as he got ready, her eyes red and puffy from crying the night before. He could hear her from across the hallway, and each sob was a gunshot to the heart.
Ray could only hope he knew what he was doing.
It wasn't all bad, though, he already made a buddy. Which, to be frank, was a bad idea when you enter something like the Long Walk. You didn't know if you, or your buddy, or either of you would live to see glory. But nerves got the better of Ray, and he had extended his hand out to the boy beside him as their bags are checked once over. "Hey, I'm, uh, Ray Garraty," Ray gives him a small smile, hand waiting in the space between them.
The other boy eyes him wearily for a brief moment before returning the smile, extending his hand to shake his. "Pete. Peter McVries," The boy, Pete, replies, calloused hands shaking somewhat softer ones. Ray takes a moment to analyse Pete. And Ray wasn't queer, no, he had a girlfriend before the Long Walk, Jan, and she was great. Her hair, her laugh, her smile, her kisses, that was all great.
But Pete was, well, impressive.
A deep scar ran along his right cheek bone, visible against the gleaming sun, and his eyes crinkle with the smile that spreads across his lips. Pete's hand falls from Ray's grip, the warmth gone within seconds yet leaving Ray tingling, and Ray can't help admire how Pete's hand flexes, each vein prominent against his dark skin. He wears a grey muscle tee that hugs around his torso, and his arms-
Oh wow, his arms-
"You ready for this?" Yeah, let's move on from that. Pete only shrugs, saying how he was a bit jumpy, and they continue their hushed conversation as they sank to the floor, bags stuck to their side as they talk about weight and how heavier guys get tired quicker (Ray had responded 'shit' when Pete had told him that). They take the time to survey the competition, both boys bearing a calculating look as they mentally check their odds. Each name passes Ray with a moment of consideration.
Stebbins, who was basically Superman in a white vest and a newspaper boy cap, probably able to outwalk most of them for miles and wearing a face that revealed fuck all about him.
Hank Olson, a mouthy Walker, Ray had to admit, but smiled nonetheless when Olson had called Stebbins a fitness nut. Around his neck is a white scarf, chewing on a clementine as he introduces himself with an air of confidence as though he has this whole Walk sussed out, as though he'd do it all right.
Art Baker, who wore a grey vest that fit snug and showed off toned arms, a silver rosary around his neck and a friendly smile Ray couldn't help but reciprocate too. In his hand was a small Bible, which he cradled with care as he raises one hand to wave to them. He tells them with a welcoming tone he'd like to make some friends along the way. And hell, even though it was slightly fucked to say (and Ray knew that), he was glad he could walk alongside Baker too.
The auburn sits in silence for a moment, tilting his head away from Baker and Olson and exhaling softly through his nose. His mom had always told him he had a kind soul, emotional for a boy his age and able to click with just about anyone faster than she could say Mississippi. He really hopes when the time comes before either Olson, Baker or McVries (or himself, but he can't think like that) falls to a bullet, Ray could close his eyes and remember them fondly (and pretend it won't tear him up from the inside), and settles his gaze on a figure, maybe few feet away from him, pacing nervously, eyes wide and worried and-
For fuck sake.
"Hey. Hey, you okay?" Ray asks before he could stop himself. The kid (yes, a kid) wore a yellow, striped t-shirt, wrists wrapped with thin arm bands with similar black stripes. His arms are wrapped tight around himself as if it could bring some sort of sacred comfort. His hair, settled in messy, yet somehow perfect, curls, glint in the sun, a soft brown visible against the light, and his eyes, a soft baby blue, darting around this seemingly foreign environment, narrow towards Ray. There's a glimpse of surprise, as though he weren't expect someone to talk to him, before pointing to himself.
"Me?" The younger boy attempts to confirm, his hand clutching his shirt. Bless.
"Yeah, you're pacing, are you ok?" By now, Pete is also watching the boy with the same curiosity Ray bares as the younger Walker drops his arms, hands on hips as he tries to grin.
"Just getting warmed up,"
"You have a few hundred miles to get warmed up. What's your name?" Pete chimes in, something about his voice so warm it puts Ray at ease. It seems to have that effect on the kid too as his shoulders drop just a fraction, smile slightly more confident (as if he's happy people are talking to him).
"Curley," The Walker, Curley, replies. Right, Curley. Ray makes a mental note of his name. nodding slightly.
"Ok, Curley. How old are you?" Ray isn't sure if he wants the answer, but curiosity killed the cat, or so they say.
Curley hesitates for a moment, gaze averting before he finally answers, "...18,"
...18, my ass.
Ray has to turn away, staring at the floor with a look of brief exhaustion. Not a physical tired, hell, all Ray has done was sit and talk, but a kind of tired accompanied by nausea as a feeling of dread stirred in his stomach. His look of curiosity and quiet concern was now replaced with something sour as he bows his head, and from the corner of his eyes, Ray sees Pete watching him carefully before glancing away.
Olson says what Ray wanted to say, though with more bite than needed. "Yeah, the kid lied to qualify," The shorter Walker said from his spot on the floor, pointing a piece of clementine at Curley. "Kid, if you're a day over 16, I'll eat my fucking shoes," Even 16 seemed generous. Youthful and jumpy, Ray would've assumed he was 14 nearing 15. Curley's smile vanishes, now replaced with something unsure as he kneels over to pick his bag up, sparing a glance to the group before walking off. Ray couldn't bring himself to see him go, instead turning to Olson as he tells the others how they got to be raring to rip and Pete mimicking him with a shit-eating grin.
The conversation comes to a halt as Baker points out the approaching vehicle. Ray puts his sunhat on, letting it envelop the top of his head comfortably, and his face settles into something colder as he stares with hard eyes. And there, stands the Major, tall and imposing with hands braced on a handle, a hat perched on his head with sunglasses (for what, Ray didn't know, the sky greyer than his grandma's ashes) sitting right on his nose, concealing nearly everything apart from his thin lips, pressed into a line of concentration as he surveys the group of Walkers in silence. He straightens up, and Ray feels his shoulders tense as the Major grabs his clipboard and begins to call names.
Barkovitch, Gary. Number 5
Baker, Arthur. Number 6
White, 'Curley' Adam. Number 7
Ray's jaw clenches as he watches the kid walk up to the soldier, eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat as he follows Curley's every move. How the kid lets the soldier place the dog tag around his shoulder, what was once Curley now a number to the eyes of America. How he glances back towards the soldier, to the Major, eyes flickering with unease before nodding and walking back to his spot on the floor. And Ray only grips his wrist harder.
The names continues, passing Ray with the same consideration for McVries, for Olson, for Baker.
Pete takes 23, Stebbins with 38, Hank Number 46. Ray doesn't remember feeling anything when his name is called. Number 47, that was his new identity for the pigs who watch and cheer. He snatches it from the soldier as they hold it up, hard eyes sparing the soldier a brief glance before he returns to his spot. Though he remembers the two numbers after him. Collie Parker. who'd walked past Ray with his hands in his pockets, long, dark hair that flowed with each step and a necklace with a tooth hanging from it bouncing off his chest. He takes Number 48. Then Richard Harkness, who's careful eyes followed behind thick glasses, his handbook (which Ray swore he heard Richard scribbling in furiously from a few feet away) snapping shut as he scrambled to his feet to take Number 49.
As the soldiers hand out their watches, ration belts and other necessities, the Major continues to speak, talking about the war, the first ever Long Walk 19 years ago, the epidemic of so called 'laziness' that seemed to drive the country into the pits of dire poverty. Ray could've blocked him out, or could've laughed when the Major talked about having a heavy sack because they signed up for this shit. But he continued to listen, strapping his watch to his wrist as the rules are laid out to them, boiled down, simple, and still just as chilling.
Walk until there is one of you left.
Maintain the speed of 3 miles per hour.
If you fall below the speed, you get a warning.
If you can't make speed in 10 seconds, you get your second warning.
Three warnings, and you get your ticket.
'Ticket' Ray thinks bitterly. As though they'll pick you up and send you home with blisters upon blisters, bleeding from your feet. They knew better.
"...I see every last one of you, and I see hope," The Major is still speaking, and Ray's hands had moved up to his backpack straps, gripping tight and teeth grinding. Pete is beside him, hands loops in the waistband of his jeans, but he offers Ray a moment of reassurance, a small nod and a smile Ray already liked. He can only smile back now. "Now who's set to fuckin' win?" A chorus of cheers erupt around Ray, but he catches a glimpse of Curley ahead of them, back turned from him, joining in the cheers with a bit too much enthusiasm. Ray didn't like that. Don't cheer, kid. They won't mourn you when you die.
"I said, who's ready to FUCKIN' WIN!?" Another cheer and BANG!
The Long Walk has begun.