Chapter Text
Pete heard the shot and the breath stilled in his lungs.
He turned too quickly to comprehend what he was seeing. With the dark, the rain in his eyes, the world turned to a blur lit in amber and roaring with the voices of spectators. Ray had been right there, guiding him forward, had saved his life, and Pete didn’t comprehend that the hand on his back had disappeared until it was too late. Ray knelt on the ground, dribbling blood from lips dry with dehydration, and Pete collapsed at his side, sobbing before he could even understand his upset. Ray hugged him tight, so strong even after being weakened with bullet wounds, and Pete was pleading.
“Ray, what’d you do? What’d you fucking do? Please, Ray-”
Pete should have been comforting him, holding Ray through the rattling breaths that spoke of fluid in the lungs, difficult to come back from when they were already so physically weak. Instead, Ray tried to reason with him, to make him understand with his final breaths.
“I can’t see it. You can. That’s why I love you.”
Pete couldn’t stop the nonsensical ramble leaving his lips, even as the cold hands of armoured soldiers tried to pull him away. Ray clung to him, giving into the fear of death and seeking comfort as he breathed his last, and Pete would do anything to stay at his side even a moment longer. He’d have done the walk all over again, grown too sick to breathe like Stebbins or suffer a haemorrhage like Baker, if it would mean Ray Garraty didn’t have to die alone. No matter if he died along the way if it meant that Mrs Garraty could hold her son, sing him the song that had got him through the nights they’d barely survive, he’d do it in a heartbeat.
In comparison, unhooking the gun from one of the soldier’s belts hardly seemed a challenge. If he was shot for his efforts, at least he’d bleed out at Ray’s side. What did Pete have to live for anymore, with all the Walk had cost him? He contracted every muscle in his body in fierce resistance, swinging with his left hand to give his right the cover to enact his (albeit desperately idiotic) plan. His chest trembled as he fought to breathe through the tension, feeling warmth erupt beneath his front teeth as they buried themselves in his lower lip. When he finally felt the gun come away from the belt into his weak fingers, Pete made eye contact with Ray, unable to help it.
The dying boy’s eyes darted between Pete’s fingers on the gun and the latter’s eyes, desperately shaking his head. His throat had given up on producing noise, which Pete was thankful for, because Ray begging him in such a hopeless manner might have killed his conviction entirely. In a weak attempt at reassurance, Pete smiled; with how strained the muscles of his face felt, it probably came off as a grimace, and perhaps that was why tears suddenly trailed down Ray’s cheeks. Too exhausted to sob, even to truly cry, but head tipped in defeat as tears mixed with the heavy rainfall until the two were indistinguishable.
It was that sight that finally pushed Pete over the edge. He pulled suddenly backwards, away from Ray and heavily into the soldiers pulling him, breaking away from their grips while he had the element of surprise. Before they could grab him once again, restrain him and keep him from his goal, Pete lifted the gun so the barrel sat squarely in the soft flesh behind his chin. He stumbled back from the soldiers who dithered, unsure what to do, until he was halfway between them and The Major, who looked undeterred by the way the situation had unfolded.
“Don’t kill him yet!” Pete screamed, voice cracking, pressing the barrel so roughly against his own throat that he could hardly breathe, “You touch him and I’ll shoot myself right here and now, in front of all these people!”
Pete gestured wildly as the crowd buzzed, a mix of panic and excitement making their voices swell. In fierce contrast, neither the soldiers nor the Major gave any distinct reaction, making frustration swell in Pete’s chest. They weren’t listening, weren’t comprehending just how serious he was about this. Before he could think about what he was doing, he levelled the gun and shot out one of the guards kneecaps, immediately returning it to its previous spot beneath his jaw. Cold metal nestled in soft flesh, biting at the skin as Pete watched the other guards ready to shoot, stances shifting. The crowd buzzed, a few voices crying out, but the rain drowned it all, leaving Pete alone with the rush of blood in his ears and the Major’s cold gaze.
There was a cry, weak and pained, and Pete gave into the sound, glancing briefly at Ray. He looked petrified, shaking his head violently the moment he realised he’d caught Pete’s attention, and it took everything the latter had to look away again. If he pulled this off, no one could ever stop him from looking at Ray again. No one would tear them apart, Pete wouldn’t allow it. The thought of such freedom gave him the strength to return his gaze to the Major, to the soldier’s ready to end his life at the slightest signal. It gave him the strength to shout, over the rain and the crowd;
“I want to make my wish! You have to listen to me!”
His vision swam for one terrible moment, his body so exhausted that shouting was almost too much for it to handle, but he forcibly tensed every muscle to stay upright. There was no visible change to the Major’s expression, only the indifference of a man who’d spent his life watching boys die just like Ray soon would, and Pete fought the rising panic in his chest. Then, the Major raised his hand, gesturing for the soldiers to lower their guns, and the breath shuddered out of Pete in palpable relief. He relaxed, ever so slightly, into the gun he held firmly against his throat, and felt the metal cutting into his skin.
“You can’t change the game, McVries. This is what has to happen.” There was a slight uptick at the corner of the Major’s mouth, and Pete realised he was smiling. Smiling at the sight of Ray bleeding out and terrified, of Pete threatening his own suicide. While the Major had always seemed larger than life, above mere mortals, that was the moment Pete decided he wasn’t human at all. He could sweat and shit and laugh like the rest of them, sure, but no human could look at such a sight and smile. Such an unsympathetic creature could not be mistaken for human.
“I don’t want to change the game,” The time for lofty aspirations was over; it was every man for himself, “I just want you to try and help Ray. Take him to a hospital, try and make him better. You can use my winnings for the bill, I don’t need them; I only need him.”
The crowd had fallen silent, and Pete wondered if the cameras were still rolling. If they were going to shoot Pete and make an example of him, of what defiance did even to winners of the Walk, or if his impudence was already great enough to get them shut off. The Major seemed to consider him, lowering his glasses and looking at Pete over the frames. In the dark, his eyes were no more visible than before, and the dark sockets only furthered Pete’s impression of something inhuman. It was those dark, empty pools he’d resorted to pleading with, even though it was hopeless.
Pete hoped there wasn’t a God; if there was, he was a sick motherfucker.
“Your friend’s half dead. No point wasting a wish on a corpse.” The Major sounded almost incredulous, as if Pete was stupid.
“I don’t care. I just need you to try. Give him the best treatment you can, try everything. That’s my wish.
Quiet fell for several moments. There was an ambulance tucked somewhere nearby, Pete knew it. Someone on the Walk had mentioned it, that they always had one ready for the final boy the minute they cut the cameras. Pumping them with fluids and drugs, making sure they wouldn’t keel over before they could become a symbol. Ray was still sat up, eyes still open and pleading with Pete not to do this; they could save him. They just had to try.
The Major gestured, and the soldiers raised their carbines again. Pete thought Ray might have screamed. The Major slowly walked towards him, and Pete held his ground. He had no anger left to muster, no violence, only the cold determination of a boy with a gun to his chin and nothing to live for. Before the Walk, the money had been something to survive for; after it, Pete knew no money in the world was worth the lives of the boys he’d gotten to know in its duration.
Pausing barely a foot away from Pete, the Major looked him up and down. They were almost the same height. The man wasn’t what you could call fit; he probably couldn’t get half as far as Pete had, but no one would ask him to. Not with his title, with his power. He’d heard the word ‘hate’ thrown around carelessly all his life, but Pete could not think of one time he’d felt true hatred that compared to what the Major ignited in him. As the Major opened his mouth to speak, Pete felt the man’s breath hot against his frozen skin, soaked from the rain.
“Would you let these soldiers shoot you in exchange for your friend’s life, McVries? Take the ticket meant for him to guarantee his survival?”
Pete just nodded. The Major knew he would. There was another cry, a guttural thing, and Pete couldn’t help the sob that burst out of him when he heard it. Ray didn’t deserve this; he should have been at home with his mom, with her warmth and love that he so deserved. He wasn’t like Pete, who’d been raised rough and welcomed it, who’d beaten kids bloody in his time and fought tooth and nail for his survival. No matter how much he longed for that soft life, for a mom who begged him to not to Walk and sang while she made dinner, it had never belonged to him, and no money would give it to him. The least he could do was make sure Ray could get back to his.
“If that’s what it takes, kill me. Make him your winner, I don’t care anymore. I just want Ray to live.”
“Pete-!” Ray’s voice came strangled, more of a wail than a shout, and Pete couldn’t look at him. If he saw the grief in Ray’s face, he was sure all his conviction would leave him in favour of trying to reassure him.
“That’s my wish. For Ray to live. If I have to die for it, so be it, but I’m not going against the rules. I’m not asking for two winners, or to change the Walk. I just want him to live.”
The Major chuckled.
“Son, you’re an idiot. There are millions of boys in this world, and you’d give up your wish for this one?”
Pete nodded again. Oddly, even with everything only the line, he couldn’t help but think of Stebbins. Would the Major have laughed at him too, for wanting nothing more than to be acknowledged by his father? Would Stebbins have been disappointed, or had he known all along what his father was like? The boy had said the Major knew all along that his son was involved, yet there was no grief in the man’s face. No sign that he’d lost one of his children. What hop did Pete have for gaining the man’s sympathies when he didn’t care that his own son was dead? For a minute, he was certain all his pleas had been for nothing; that the Major would shoot Ray anyway. He held the gun steadfast beneath his chin just in case, an assertion that, without Ray, he would not continue to live. Then a hand, a warm hand, clapped him on the shoulder.
“Alright, McVries. You get your boy.”
In the aftermath of those words, the world moved too fast for Pete to process it. A stretcher appeared, as if from nowhere, and uniformed paramedics helped Ray onto it. The other boy was still shouting, reaching for Pete like he didn’t know that things were okay, now, that Pete had saved him. The latter stumbled towards him, vision blurred like a wet windshield, until he could grasp Ray’s hand. He was still warm, despite the rain, despite all the blood, and Pete was still crying, even though everything was better now. The paramedics strapped Ray down, keeping him still while they put pressure on the bullet wound and prepared to move him, but the boy kept fighting, his mouth forming desperate words Pete couldn’t hear.
Someone eased the carbine from Pete’s hands, and he surrendered it without thinking, the slick metal leaving behind patches of skin too numb to feel. Someone else tried to guide him away and he thrashed, clinging to Ray’s hand, until his legs gave out and he collapsed into the hold of the one of the paramedics. In his moment of weakness, no one tried to drag him away, and he finally relaxed, letting them support him.
“We’ve gotta get your friend to the hospital, kid. Are you alright to sit in the back of the ambulance with him, or is someone here waiting for you? We can call another one.”
Pete shook his head and tried not to take advantage of the soothing warmth of another body, even one trying to help him.
“I need t’go with Ray.” He asserted, as forcefully as he could while too weak to stand, and the paramedic hummed his assent, still holding Pete steady. The other medical staff started wheeling Ray’s stretcher towards the ambulance, which had been moved closer as the crowd was ordered to disperse, and Pete’s hands were too slick and weak to hold on. It was alright though; the paramedic helped Pete to limp along after them, and guided him to sit beside Ray in the back of the ambulance.
In the bright lights, Ray looked even paler, almost blue with cold and blood loss. Pete wanted so badly to feel panicked, to ask if Ray was okay, but it was if he’d lost his grip on his own body. He could feel himself shaking, goosebumps raised painfully against the fabric of his clothes, and someone wrapped a blanket about his shoulders. The buzz of indistinguishable voices became a soothing lullaby, and Pete fought the draw of unconsciousness. It had been so long since he’d been warm, since the weight had been taken of his feet and he could sleep without death looming. He’d saved Ray, and with it, his body had finally begun to give in.
“Rest, kid. We’ve got him.”
Pete couldn’t place the voice, but it hardly seemed to matter. His eyes drifted shut before he could even try.
¶¶¶
When Pete woke, he woke screaming, and he couldn’t even remember why. In those hazy moments, the entire world was white, and he wondered if he was dead. If this was what the other boys saw, Art and Stebbins and Hank, and if they, too, hadn’t escaped being scared, even in death. Reality trickled in soon enough, however; the white forming walls and a ceiling, and the weight of his battered body leaving him scrunching his brow. It wouldn’t cooperate with him, his every nerve blunt, and it took Pete several tries to muster the strength to lift his hand and find the source of the pinching pain there. Sure enough, an IV, filling him back up with the nutrients he’d lost while Walking, and almost certainly a cocktail of drugs along with them.
His other hand was warm, ever so slightly sweaty, and while Pete returned to consciousness, he became aware of another presence in the room. Someone running their thumb in comforting circles around his palm, telling him to breathe over and over. That was when Pete realised the pain in his chest and heaved him a breath too long for his lungs to handle, leaving him coughing in its aftermath. Gentle arms helped him into a sitting position, patting him on the back as his throat rebelled, dry from disuse, and all Pete could see was sandy hair. Too red to be blond, especially in the light - strawberry blond, not sandy at all, really.
“Ray?” He choked, trying desperately to touch it, and they urged him to be quiet, running a hand up and down his spine.
The voice was too high pitched to be Ray, and he’d known that all along, but if this wasn’t Ray, where was he? Had they stopped the bleeding and the shivering, gotten him warm again? Was he still scared like Pete was, like he had been when Pete looked back at him, when he’d known he would soon die. Had they saved him like they promised, or had they taken advantage of Pete’s weakness and killed him anyway? Had he still not been enough, in the end, to protect the one thing he’d found worth saving?
The voice came again, warm and soothing in tandem with the hand tracing his spine, and Pete clung to it like a babe to its mother’s teat.
“Ray’s gonna be alright, honey, they’re doing the best they can for him now. You just need to calm down, alright? You got some healing to do before you can worry about Ray.”
She was warm; Pete never wanted her to leave, selfish as it would be to ask. When she spoke, Pete vaguely thought how similar she sounded to her son before he was drifting again, his spell of consciousness fleeting. He faded in and out of awareness, too brief to really take anything in, sometimes woken by nurses trying to check on him and on others by nightmares that never lingered longer than it took to wake him.
The only thing that stayed were the faces. Stebbins, too sick to care about wiping his nose anymore, snot running down his chin and a flush high in his cheekbones, despite how badly he shivered. Art bleeding out through his nose, still talking about winning, about being strong enough to keep going while his body betrayed him. The boy with the radio, whose name Pete couldn’t remember and hated himself for it, the terror on Hank’s face as he screamed, how desperately he’d clung to Art as Ray and Pete dragged him away. The blood spurting from Barkovitch’s neck and how devastated he’d looked at the end, Ray’s whispered explanation that Barkovitch just wanted to be friends and the word ‘killer’ echoing in Pete’s own voice.
The only one that really stuck was, of course, Ray. The circumstances were different every time he closed his eyes; that night on the hill where Ray had faltered , when he’d tried to step off the road into his mother’s arms, when they’d shot through his side and he sunk to his knees in defeat. All individual horrors but always ending the same: Pete helpless but to watch as Ray’s brains splattered across the pavement.
In the worst and latest one, Pete kept on walking. Ray begged for his life, cried for his Ma, and Pete just kept on walking like he was deaf to it all. Selfishly guaranteeing his own survival but unable to face the consequences. His footfalls left a trail of blood and sinew, his path carved out with the guts of every boy who’d died before him. Then Ray was in front of him and it was Pete who held the carbine, not to his own head but focused squarely on the boy in front of him. Without the mercy of the rain or the dark, the terror in Ray’s face was unmistakeable. Pleading, not with the Major but with Pete, to spare him and let him go home to his Ma, but Pete still held the gun steadfast. When the bullet hit, Ray’s skull burst like an overfilled water balloon, and the two of them screamed in unison, some distorted cry of pain and distress that echoed from each of them equally. The crowd were a rush of noise, leaving Pete claustrophobic as he faced what he’d done, and above it all rang the Major’s laughter. Unsympathetic and entertained as Ray Garraty’s body crumpled, his head split like overripe fruit and spilling its every intricacy onto the endless road.
The nightmare only ended as he was dragged out of it, that gentle presence returning and enveloping him in her kind arms, smoothing her hand across his hair as she rocked him from side to side, murmuring reassurances. Now he was somewhat lucid, Pete was able to recognise Ray’s mother, but too overcome by distress to think about it. She smelled of soap and cinnamon, with an overtone of smoke that hadn’t quite sat yet, like she’d chain-smoked recently but did not usually do so. Her arms cradled him like he imagined his mother might have, once, like he was someone worth care and tenderness, despite everything he’d done. Ginnie Garraty must be like her son in that way; to kind for her own good, especially to those who did not deserve it. The humiliation of crying in the arms of a woman who barely knew him lingered at the back of his mind, persistent in its efforts to overwhelm him, but it was trumped by his selfish need for comfort, leaving him clinging to her.
“It’s all right now.” She whispered, still rocking him like a child, “It was just a dream, honey, you’re safe.”
Pete’s breath shuddered and slowed, soothed by her comfort, and she carefully lowered him back against the bed, like she was afraid he might break. She took his hand in her own, tracing the delicate bones of it with her thumb, and gave him as smile as tragic as it was warm. She looked exhausted, deep purple smudges as dark as bruises beneath her eyes and a sunken quality to her face that hadn’t been there before, even if Pete had only briefly seen her before. He doubted he’d ever be able to forget it; holding Ray back as he begged for his mother’s forgiveness when she’d wanted nothing but for him to come home to her. Had he known then what he would do? Was his conviction that he would soon be dead why he’d been so desperate for forgiveness?
A fear suddenly came over him, so potent he almost gagged with the force of it, and he leaned forward, entire body tensed.
“Ray, is he…” Pete choked, unable to voice his fears.
“He’s in surgery, honey. They had to stabilise him before they could operate, since his body was so exhausted, and they’re trying to repair the organ damage the bullet caused.”
The words were too clinical for such a loving mother, like she’d repeated the doctor’s words directly. It was a relief to know she was only keeping vigil at his bedside while she couldn’t be with her son. It was Ray who needed that comfort, Ray who’d sacrificed himself and was now in surgery because of it. She’d leave once Ray needed her.
“I’m sorry,” Pete heaved, overwhelmed by the insatiable and selfish need to be forgiven, “I should have let him win, I shouldn’t have let him stop me-”
“Peter.”
“I would’ve kept walking with him forever if it meant he’d never get hurt. I got nobody waiting for m, and I’m not good like him. He deserved it, Mrs Garraty, I shouldn’t have let him stop me-”
Ginnie reached for him like she couldn’t stay away, sitting on the bed to envelop him properly in her arms, his cheek against her shoulder.
“You saved my boy, Peter.” She said in a whisper, “None of those other boys would have done what you did. Without you, he’d be dead, and I owe you everything for that.”
Pete could do nothing but shake his head, overcome.
“You’re not going to feel alone in this world anymore, I won’t allow it. Have you got any family?” Pete, again, shook his head, “When you’re well enough, you’ll come home with us, alright? Let you regain your strength somewhere safe and get back on your feet, so to speak. Ray will appreciate the company while he gets better; you’ve become a lovely friend to him.”
And wasn’t that such a funny way of putting it? They’d happened to arrive at the start line at the same time, brought together by chance, and if they hadn’t, neither of them would have likely lived. Mrs Garraty had thanked him for saving Ray’s life, but hadn’t she seen Ray save him too? Seen him pull Pete back to his feet, encouraged him forward when they both felt hopeless, all in aid of a sacrifice they’d promised neither would make? They’d made it to the end, sure, but they’d spent most of the Walk grieving one another even while they were still breathing. All they’d really done was ruin each other, and if they were sane, they’d hate each other for it.
“Now you’re awake, I’m going to call the doctor in, alright?” Mrs Garraty said gently, settling Pete back on the bed before standing, “You’ve got a long recovery ahead of you, honey, but I’ll be with you every step of the way. You’re not alone.”
And Pete couldn’t respond, his eyes stinging too badly from all the crying to risk opening his mouth, so he just nodded, too grateful for words.