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Peter isn’t sure what he’s doing here. It isn’t his place to show up like this, standing on the porch in the clothes he just walked in for four days. He didn’t promise this, didn’t tell Ray he would do anything for him. But they were friends, for however brief a time, and Peter feels drawn to this house, to what is left of Raymond Garraty.
He doesn’t knock on the door - fear keeps him in place, standing shakily under the porch light. His legs still ache, along with his hips and arms and back and head. It opens of its own accord, a woman - the same woman, from the side of the road - stood behind it with tears in her eyes.
How does he introduce himself? Hello, I’m the man who won The Long Walk so your son didn’t. Or, I’m the one who murdered the man who executed your whole family. Or, I am the epitome of all your nightmares.
She speaks first, this mousey woman who looks just enough like Ray to haunt him. “It’s you.”
“Um.” Peter bites his lip. He didn’t expect to be recognised so quickly. Though, he hasn’t had the door slammed in his face yet, or been run off the property with a shotgun, so this is better than his worst case scenarios. He resorts to the script he kept repeating in his head on the way here. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you, but-”
“Peter McVries.” She says. He stares at her. “They had all of your names on the TV. You saved my boy’s life.”
“Actually, ma’am.” He isn’t sure what compels him to call her ma’am, except a lifetime of respect for older women, for mothers. Especially her, someone who could raise a man like Ray. His next words feel like glue in his mouth. “I’m the reason your boy is dead.”
“No.” She makes a strange sound, like a laugh that got caught halfway up her throat. “No, I saw you pull him back into the road when he tried to hug me. On the TV, you helped carry him, kept him awake at night. You made sure he made it to the end.”
“I- I wanted him to win.” He admits quietly. “Ma’am, believe me, if I had my way-”
“Come in.” She says suddenly, looking surprised herself that she said it. She recovers herself quickly, though. “Come in, please, you must be starving.”
“Oh.” Peter whispers. Christ, is he ever. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. A friend of my son is a friend of mine.” She steps aside, holding the door open for him.
Hesitantly, Peter steps inside. Into Ray’s house, with no Ray.
It’s a nice house - not extravagant, not huge, but well kept and homely. There are pictures of Ray and his parents on the mantle, and for the first time, Peter sees what Ray’s father looks like. An average working class white man, gruff but kind. The last good man on the planet, Ray said.
Mrs Garraty pulls out a chair from under the kitchen table so Peter can sit. She sets out a bowl of soup in front of him with thick cut bread slathered with butter and a glass of milk. His stomach rumbles. His head spins with nausea. He hasn’t eaten a real meal in days.
“Tomato soup was Ray’s favourite.” Mrs Garraty sits down across from him with no food of her own. “I made it specially for him, for when he came home, but…”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Garraty.” He stares down at the soup, red but not like the blood pouring from Baker’s nose at the end, not like the stain on Hank’s shirt. It’s almost orange, like a flower in half-bloom. Spring, the rebirth of everything, and the death of forty-nine young men.
“You can call me Ginnie.” She says. Like what they make martinis with. He nods, but they both know he’ll keep calling her ma’am. “I don’t blame you, not for a second, you understand?”
He breathes out, not a sigh of relief but of acceptance. “Yes, ma’am.”
Peter picks up his spoon and scoops up a mouthful of soup. It tastes a little like guilt, like he’s eating someone else’s meal - he is, it should have been Ray’s - but it tastes damn good. He takes another mouthful, then a bite of bread, and before he knows it he has eaten the whole bowl. It settles heavy in his stomach. This is a dead man’s meal. A first supper of the rest of his life.
Briefly, Peter wonders what Ray’s last real meal was, then decides he doesn’t want to know.
“You’re a damn good cook, ma’am.” He says, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. “I see why Ray was so big.”
Ginnie laughs. “He was always hungry from running around playing baseball with his friends. Or catch with his father, when he was alive.”
Of course. The baseball. Peter reaches into his bag and pulls it out.
He definitely isn’t supposed to have this. When he asked the soldier, they looked at him like he was insane. But he had just shot their boss and everything was in mayhem, so they just shoved the bag into his arms to make him go away.
The other’s personal belongings. Ray’s baseball, Baker’s crucifix, Parker’s necklace, Olson’s wedding ring, Harkness' notebook, hell, even Tressler’s radio. Peter definitely shouldn’t have all this, but… he needed it. He’s the only one who cares enough about those kids to want it.
“I came to bring you this back.” Peter says, placing it carefully on the table so it doesn’t roll. “We played with it when we were walking, sometimes. I know it kept him sane. Me too, at times. He would want you to have it.”
“Thank you.” Ginnie reaches over the table and takes it, squeezes it in one hand. Tears well in her eyes. “It was his father’s. After William died, Ray wouldn’t let it out of his sight.”
“I’m so sorry, ma’am.” Peter doesn’t know what else he can say. Despite all the money now in his bank account - for some reason, they still gave him the reward money - there is no way he can fix this.
“You must be exhausted.” She says, to free them both from trying to have this conversation. “Do you have a place to stay?”
“No, ma’am, not up here. I’m from down South." He explains, then chuckles a little. “In all honesty, I have no damn clue where I am or how I’m getting home.”
“You can stay here until your family can come and get you.” Ginnie stands up and collects his bowl and glass. “We have a landline, you can call them.”
“I ain’t got a family, ma’am.” Peter admits slowly. “But if I could stay the night, I’ll be out of your way in the morning.”
“Stay as long as you need.” She pats him on the shoulder. “You can sleep in Ray’s room.”
Peter doesn’t know if he can do that. It might kill him. He would happily take the couch instead, but he also doesn’t feel able to turn down an offer from Ginnie. He owes her - and her son - so much.
“Do you need any money, ma’am?” He asks. She freezes at the sink where she’s rinsing out his bowl, water overflowing up to her sleeve. “Just, will you be alright, financially? If not, I can give you something to keep you afloat while you…” Grieve? Recover? Get past the death of your only son that is all Peter’s fault?
There’s no handbook on how to talk about this. He’s feeling his way through a dark, dark tunnel with no sign of light at the end.
“No, William left me with savings and I have work as a bookkeeper.” She insists, turning off the tap and putting the dish aside. She picks up a dishtowel and presses it to her sleeve. “My dear, you really shouldn’t worry about me.”
“I’m offering it to everyone.” He says quickly. “To all the families of the walkers. Hank has a wife, you know, and I need to give Baker’s cross to his grandma, and Curley was so young he must’ve had folks. I want to make sure they’re alright.”
“That’s very noble of you, Peter.” Ginnie says gently. “How will you find them?”
“I have names.” Peter flicks through Harkness' notebook. “There was this one guy who wrote them all down. He got states too, a few hometowns. And I know a few things they all told me, so I figure I can find at least some of them.”
She looks over the notebook carefully, running her finger down the list of names. She taps one, Vermont. “I know where this is. We could go there tomorrow, find a phonebook and see who we can find.”
“We?”
“Well, why not?” She shrugs. “There’s nothing left for me here now that- I don’t know what to do with myself. Maybe if I meet the families of my son’s friends, it’ll help.”
“Well, alright.” Peter agrees. He doesn’t mention that there’s at least one of the walkers that was not Ray’s friend. “It ain’t gonna be easy, ma’am.”
“Because letting my only son go off to his agonising death was?” Ginnie asks. Peter looks down at his hands guiltily. “I’m sorry. I just… need something to do.”
“Me too.” Peter says. “And at some point they’re gonna come after me for killing the Major. So it would probably be better for me to be on the road.”
“We’ll go tomorrow.” Ginnie repeats. She grimaces. “You need to take a bath.”
Peter chuckles. “I do, don’t I?”
She gives him a towel and some of Ray’s clothes to wear. They’re about the same size so the shirt fits, but it’s a little loose around his shoulders. When he’s finally clean - after much scrubbing in the Garraty’s pristine bath - he feels wrong. New again but like he shouldn’t be.
There is no rebirth for him. He is a man on borrowed time. No two ways about it - he should be dead. Ray should be here, lying in his own bed, a belly full of his mother’s soup. Instead it’s Peter, like a ghost haunting Mrs Garraty’s life.
Ginnie leaves the hall light on. Although he’s far too old for such a thing to be a comfort, he appreciates it. He had nightmares during his few moments of sleep on the walk. Not huge, wake-up-screaming nightmares, but quiet ones. Curly, laid out on the asphalt with half his face missing. Harkness' broken ankle, dragging it along. Barkovitch with the sharpened spoon sticking out of his neck. Olson, gut shot, with Baker running back for him, and Ray dragging him back. The screaming, the gunshots, the crying, ringing in his ears.
He slides Baker’s necklace through his fingers. The beads click against his fingernails, slipping along his palm. Was this a token of good luck from Baker’s grandmother, or was it his to begin with? It didn’t save him either way. Nothing saved any of them.
Except Ray, who saved Peter. He still doesn’t understand why.
Peter dreams of Ray, of being dragged further and further away from him by the soldiers, the Major firing bullet after bullet into Ray’s chest. He doesn’t die, just suffers, suffers, suffers, shoeless feet bleeding through his socks, blood tinged sweat rolling down his face.
When he wakes, with fear all the way down to his gut, he doesn’t know where he is. Part of him is still out on the road, a piece of his soul dropped with every one of his friends. If he went back out there, would he find it? Or has it all been washed away by the rain?
Ginnie makes him eggs and bacon for breakfast. She hums a tune, soft and comforting, and Peter wonders if it’s the lullaby Ray talked about. Her eyes are red like she has been crying, but he doesn't bring it up because his are too. They eat in silence, and while he does the dishes, she drags out her suitcase.
“Jesus, woman, we’re only going to Vermont.” He says when he sees how much she has packed.
Clothes upon clothes, two pairs of good shoes, a hat, sunglasses, a notebook and pens, toiletries, and a small purse full of money. Like they need spare cash with the amount he has.
“No, dear, we’re going to all fifty states.” She drags out a second suitcase. “We should go down to where you're from as soon as we can, get some of your things too.”
Peter doesn’t have a lot of stuff, but it would be nice to have his own clothes instead of wearing Ray’s. They smell like him, from the first day, before he got sweaty and covered in grime and blood. That fresh laundry scent that told everyone that someone cared about Ray, enough to wash and iron his clothes, and to give him cookies for the road.
“Alright,” He agrees, “We’ll have to swing through quite a few states to get there. Might as well get some work done while we’re passing through, see who we can find.”
They load everything into Ginnie’s car, including a map that covers East Vermont and the town they’re heading to. Ginnie sits in the driver’s seat, staring at her house through the windshield, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“You don’t have to go.” Peter says gently. He wants her to, doesn’t want to do this alone. Even if, out of the very corner of his eye, she looks just like Ray, walking alongside him until the end of time.
“Ray would do this.” She says, and she’s right. That’s why Peter is doing this, too. “He was a good boy.”
“I’m sorry it’s me here and not him.” He says, for what feels like the thousandth time and won’t be the last.
Ginnie takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes. “I’m glad someone is here. At least we aren’t alone.”
Peter nods. He has always been alone, no parents, no siblings, no real friends. For a moment, he had Ray, and Hank, and Art, and Collie, even Stebbins. Now he has Ginnie, and a list of families to whom he needs to give belongings, money, condolences. Like he isn’t the reason their sons and brothers and husbands are dead.
Ray would do this. He would look every one of those people in the eye and say, I’m sorry I survived and not him. At least Peter can say that he tried to end it - he killed the Major. That, too, was Ray’s idea, but Peter followed through. He looked the Major in the eyes, the operator of all his misery, and ended him. Just like the Major did Ray.
It didn’t feel good. He knew it wouldn’t, no amount of killing ever will. And it didn’t fix anything, the Long Walk still exists, but they cut the head off the snake. It can only thrash for so long.
“Let’s do this.” Ginnie says, starting the car.
“For Ray.” Peter whispers.
“For Ray.”