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The morning of day 5 is a chilly one. Rain hangs in the air, dyeing the sky a nauseating greenish gray. Every breath tastes like wet gravel and dirt. The soldiers box them in, one squad car maybe 50 ft behind and another 50 ft ahead. With a vision blurry from walking all night — no amount of blinking or rubbing your eyes help — the jeep resembles a giant black beast with yellow eyes, herding them to their death.
278 miles in and Collie is losing it a little. Any flames that have kept him going are snuffing out. What is he doing here. Why is he bothering. He's 1500 miles away from home and he's never going back. He just isn't. He could stop walking right now and be better off. Fling himself off the road and get buried among the green. Rather there than on the road where the cameras can zoom in on the bullet holes. Fuck. No. He can't go out like that. Mom would never forgive him if he just gave up. He inhales deeply, to feed his brain some oxygen, and nearly pukes at the taste. Dirt. Gravel. Damp damp damp. Fucking Maine and its backwater smell. Why did they have to do this at the edge of the world?
He's losing it. He needs to stop losing it. Stebbins is in the back, coughing up his lungs. Can he smell Maine too or is he clogged with phlegm? Either way, Collie ain't talking to him. McVries and Garraty are in the front, walking hip to hip. He could talk to them. But they'd probably get too busy staring into each other's eyes and ice him out. With no other option, Collie sidles up to Baker. He's walked in solitude with his hood up for the past hour, secluding himself more and more after Olson and Barkovitch. It's likely he wants to be alone. Well, Collie 'wanted to be alone' earlier and it sucked. Now he wishes he'd walked with them since day 1 and created the kind of rapport McVries and Garraty have where you can just start talking and know it's always welcome. But he and Baker had a moment before, didn't they? When Barkovitch ripped his throat out — Baker had looked like he'd throw up, so Collie rubbed his shoulder and told him to breathe, breathe and focus on a point far ahead. Baker had smiled shakily, and kept it down. Then they danced together last night, Collie's arm around Baker as they sang. Two moments.
So Collie tries his luck. Noticing his presence, Baker turns to him with a tired but open face. So far so good.
"He's one lucky son of a bitch," Collie says, then clarifies, "Garraty. Gets to see his mom."
Baker nods jerkily. "Yeah."
"I hope he knows how good he has it. Who the hell am I gonna see between now and the end? No one but the fucking pigs who come and stare." His voice grows thicker and thicker in his throat, swelling until it cracks and splinters. He chokes on the pieces. "I'm homesick, and I'm fucking scared."
"You'll get to see your family if you win," Baker says softly. His drawling accent is like molasses.
"I'm not gonna win."
"You can't think like that. You gotta believe."
"No. No, no…"
The tears come then. Collie wipes them away but there's too many and they don't stop. Baker takes his hand, squeezing comfortingly. Collie gives up and just cries. They walk like that, hand in hand, while Collie sobs and gasps for breath. When he cries so hard he loses speed Baker wraps his arm around him and ushers him along; Collie leans his weight on Baker and buries his face in the collar of Baker's jacket. Baker holds him, holds him tight and secure, occasionally sniffling but not saying a word of complaint or empty comfort.
"It's fucked," Collie says and gulps in a lungful of shitty Maine air. His head feels stuffy but his chest is light. He could float away if Baker let go of him. "We shouldn't've signed up for this. We should've stormed the major and torn him to pieces before we started fucking walking. So goddamn stupid."
"Why did we sign up?" Baker asks, glancing down at Collie with raised brows. "Tell me."
Collie wipes his nose with his jacket sleeve. "Because there was a chance."
Baker nods. "If we win, it'll be worth it. If we lose, we won't be worse off than before." He chuckles at the absurdity; Collie would've screamed. This is worse. Throwing away your life for fucking nothing is worse. They cut the head of any chance they've ever had or could've ever gotten. "We had no idea… Do you believe in the afterlife?"
The change of topic is comically sudden. Collie's gaze is automatically drawn to Baker's throat. His rosary hangs there, beneath the jacket.
"I dunno," he replies hoarsely. "My people… It's said that, after death, our ghosts join Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka" — Baker repeats the phrase under his breath — "in the spirit world, where there's no suffering or pain or... yeah. The northern lights come from there. They're the spirits of future generations." This information visibly delights Baker. "But it's also said that those who die unsatisfied don't enter the spirit world and haunt the living instead, and I'm pretty fucking unsatisfied right now."
"There's always so many conditions." Baker shakes his head and clicks his tongue. "'You gotta pass judgment, you gotta be worthy'. But I think God — or gods, the spirits, whatever it may be — are kinder than that. We'll be let in. I just hope Heaven and the spirit world is the same place. I'll look for you when I get there."
They look at each other for a long time, walking step in step, shoulder to shoulder. Baker's hand has traveled to Collie's neck and is now absent-mindedly stroking the skin under his ear. Collie wants to nuzzle into it until it passes through him and wraps its fingers around his spine. He closes his eyes, surrendering to the touch for just a second, and feels sparks rush to his every last nerve ending. Baker is dark and so are his clothes, but unlike the soldiers he's no beast. No, he's the opposite of a shadow. A beacon. The only discernible thing in this greenish gray world that's blurring at the edges.
Baker grins suddenly.
"I ain't making you feel any better, am I?"
Collie surprises himself by laughing.
"No," he admits. "But nothing can make me feel better."
"I wish I could find a way."
Baker brushes the stray hairs from Collie's eyes and wipes the drying tears from his cheeks. His fingers are cold but gentle, and Collie feels like crying again. Baker's arm falls back to his side, but before he can stuff his hand in his pocket Collie snatches it up. He's not ready yet, he needs another minute. Please, don't let go. Baker understands; he smiles and nods. Weaving their fingers together, he tugs Collie into his side.
And then they walk like that.