Work Text:
Billy Stebbins stopped walking.
He squinted against the fluorescent light of the half track and willed himself to stay upright. Without the ever-present movement of the walk, he felt unsteady. His head spun as if he was still moving.
Through the light, he saw the carbine raise, trained on his head. He couldn't see the soldier's face. Up the road, Garraty and McVries had pulled closer to one another. He wondered if his father would watch him die.
The gun fired.
The impact never came.
Instead, he found himself on the concrete, stripped down to his undershirt under the mid-morning sun.
Garraty was speaking to him. He sat on the road beside McVries, arms loosely around his knees and looking so very alive. His shirt was no longer stained with sweat or blood. He looked well rested.
Stebbins blinked hard, trying to figure out what Garraty could have to say to him right now. He was supposed to be dead. He’d thought – hoped – that it was finally over.
Instead, he heard Hank Olson’s voice from behind him: “Jesus, man. You some kind of fitness nut?”
“I don’t think he wants to talk,” McVries said, amused.
Your name. He asked your name.
Stebbins cleared his throat, surprised to find that the act didn’t feel like swallowing sandpaper. “Stebbins.”
“You nervous, Stebbins?”
He couldn’t find a response to that. It didn’t seem to matter; the Musketeers were already busy getting acquainted with one another. Nevermind that in less than five days, two of them would be splayed out on the asphalt like roadkill. He tried not to remember the way Olson had screamed for Baker in his final moments.
With shaking hands, he pulled his shirt on and turned to look for the others. The constant, throbbing pain throughout his body was gone; but the slight tremor in his hands remained. His throat was tight, the way it was that first morning. He'd chalked it up to nerves at the time, but knew now it was the beginnings of the illness that would kill him.
The kid, Curly, was pacing again, buzzing with manic energy. Stebbins considered warning him to conserve himself, but what did it matter? There wasn't much he could do to prevent a charley horse, and it would only delay the inevitable.
Around him boys rose to their feet as the major's armored jeep crawled to a stop. Stebbins didn't look up, opting instead to stretch the hip that had become particularly strained in the final days of the walk. The major's voice was shockingly easy to tune out for such a loud man. He didn't need to hear the speech a second time to remember it anyway – he'd been so transfixed by the image of his father before him that he'd hung onto every word.
This time, the Major’s words fell flat. There was no fucking glory in the long walk.
His name was called. He got to his feet and approached the soldiers, ducking his head to let them loop the dog tag around his neck. The Major’s expression was unreadable behind his sunglasses, voice slightly lower as he nodded at Stebbins.
“Good luck, son.”
Stebbins tried to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth.
It was cruel. The Major didn't care about him any more than the other forty-nine men he was sending to die. It may have brought him a misplaced sense of pride, seeing his offspring marching himself to death to inspire this fuckass country, but that was it. He was disgusted with himself for ever looking up to this man.
He must have hesitated for too long, because one of the soldiers gestured for him to get back in line with the tip of her gun.
He kept his eyes down as he lined up with the rest of the boys and pulled the utility belt tight around his hips. The Major’s gun fired. The walk began.
Again.
The first few miles passed in relative peace. He waved off Harkness asking questions for his stupid book and tried to enjoy the fact that he could taste his jelly sandwiches again. Barkovich taking three warnings to get a rock out of his shoe was much less amusing now that Stebbins knew what the inside of his skull looked like.
Curly died just as he had the first time. Number 1 seized in the road a few miles later. When Forty-Five died, shitting his brains out a few miles after that, Stebbins kept his mouth shut as Garraty cursed. He strategically avoided the back of the group when Barkovich started antagonizing Rank.
By the time the next morning hit, he was sore, tired, and agonizingly bored. Sometime during the night the cough had reappeared, rattling against his ribcage. He’d spent the better part of the night listening to Harkness talk quietly to the other walkers to distract himself, but he'd gone quiet after the hill; and now Stebbins was left with the rhythmic stomp of boots and the distant sounds of Garraty and McVries forming a fucking blood bond.
The chilly morning was already giving way to the unforgiving heat of New England spring, when the warning rang out. They all turned to look at Harkness – stumbling at the back of the group on an ankle that had no right to have carried him this far. The joint was buckled in on itself; his sock soaked through with oxidized blood.
“My ankle,” he sobbed, still attempting to put weight on it. “My ankle’s all twisted up.”
Stebbins felt the blood drain from his face. He’d forgotten this was coming.
“Come on, Harkness!” Garraty called. He kept his gaze ahead, away from the scene unfolding at the back. Stebbins couldn't keep his eyes off him.
“WARNING, NUMBER FORTY-NINE. THIRD AND FINAL WARNING.”
Baker was yelling at a pair of kids on the side of the road, warning them to look away. Harkness had fallen to his knees and was, impossibly, getting back to his feet, trying desperately to return to 3mph.
“I’m g-gonna g-go ho–”
The gun fired. For a few moments, Harkness stayed upright, balanced on his intact foot like a marionette on invisible strings. Then he crumpled to the ground.
“Fuck!” Garraty yelled. “This thing is so fucked. It’s all so fucked!”
“You're too emotional, Garraty,” he said, ignoring the tears prickling in his own eyes.
McVries stared at him in disbelief.
“The fuck’s your problem, man?”
“You know only one of us is gonna make it out of this fucking thing, don't you?” Only one of you. For the first time, he wondered which of the two of them had finally stopped walking.
McVries just shook his head. “Course I do.”
At mile 100, the Major appeared to yell at them about balls before retreating back to his jeep. One kid tried to run for it and ended up splayed across the entrance to a diner, body full of bullets.
Stebbins started losing time sometime after Number 4 tried to climb onto the half track and had to endure all three warnings with his legs flattened like a discarded tube of meat concentrate. He couldn’t tell if he was sleepwalking or if his brain had supplied some other escape, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care either way.
By the time he returned to himself, Olson was nearly gone. He didn't waste his breath on a metaphor this time – just bluntly told Garraty that Olson was fading and they should say their goodbyes.
Not that it mattered. Olson still went after the carbine and died screaming for Baker with his guts hanging out.
The pneumonia was progressing faster. By the morning of the fourth day, he was coughing up blood. Breathing was getting harder. He tried to join in when the others sang for Olson but felt so lightheaded he had to stop after a single line.
Garraty lost his shoes just as they entered Freeport. Stebbins recognized the anxious figure of his mother on the sidewalk, hugging herself with her cardigan. He wondered if his own mother was watching the broadcast on their tiny television back in Texas, or if she’d turned it off after the first few boys died.
Ahead of him, Garraty took off towards his mother. McVries bolted after him. The soldiers called out his first warning, guns raising.
Stebbins tried to take a breath and found that his lungs were frozen in his chest. He stumbled, clutching at his throat.
“WARNING, NUMBER THIRTY-EIGHT. FIRST WARNING.”
His vision blurred. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. His chest ached, a horrible, seizing pain that radiated down to his fingertips.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Parker yelled from somewhere above him. Above him?
He was on his knees. There was blood on the road. Distantly, he could hear Garraty’s mom screaming.
“WARNING, NUMBER THIRTY-EIGHT. SECOND WARNING.”
“Get up, Stebbins!”
Garraty and McVries were back on the road. He watched their feet move in sync, climbing up the side of his vision. One of them twisted to look at him.
“WARNING, NUMBER THIRTY-EIGHT. THIRD AND FINAL WARNING.”
He died on the pavement, listening to Ginny Garraty sob at the retreating figure of her son marching towards his death.
***
"What's your name, man?"
Ray Garraty was speaking to him again.
"Stebbins."
"Jesus, Stebbins. You some kind of fitness nut?"
The third time around he decided he couldn't stomach listening to Olson bleed out again. He suspected Olson simply didn't have it in him to complete the walk, but a bullet to the head was better than dying alone.
Stebbins kept an eye on him from the back of the group. The bravado from the drop off point faded early in the first day, around the time his leg started acting up. The way he walked was frankly distressing. Stebbins couldn't figure out if he was limping already or if he just didn't know how to be light on his feet.
As night fell on the third day, he found himself hoping that this time Olson would find it in himself to keep walking. Maybe something in him would snap back into place and he’d find the strength to make it a few more days.
No such luck. As the night wore on, Olson became practically despondent. He snapped at Baker for trying to check on him and muttered to himself under his breath, wobbling on progressively unsteady legs.
Eventually Stebbins had to admit defeat. He gave Garraty the warning to check on Olson and let himself fall back slightly. When Olson started hobbling toward the light brigade, Stebbins pushed in front of him and tried to use his momentum to turn him back in the right direction. Olson stumbled, hands coming up to push against Stebbins’ chest.
“WARNING, NUMBER THIRTY-EIGHT. FIRST WARNING.”
“Olson. Olson, listen to me.” Olson managed to shove him off momentarily and started trying to walk backwards again. Stebbins caught his arm, pulling him forward. “You go after those soldiers, they'll shoot you in the gut and leave you to bleed out. You know how long that ta– fuck.”
Olson had gotten his foot between Stebbins’ shins, nearly sending them both onto the pavement. Another warning rang out.
“Come on man, just a few more miles,” Garraty said from behind them.
Stebbins tried to glance at him but was distracted by Olson grabbing him by the collar again. He twisted oddly, his free arm swinging upwards.
Stebbins didn't recognize what was happening until it was too late. Olson’s fist connected with his jaw with a dull thud.
The bullet hit a second later.
Olson’s head jerked sideways on impact, the right side of his face exploding in a spray of blood and gore. His body went limp, dead weight slumping into Stebbins’ arms. He tasted blood and realized that bits of Hank’s skull had lodged themselves in the back of his throat.
“WARNING, NUMBER THIRTY-EIGHT. THIRD AND FINAL WARNING.”
Stebbins couldn't bring himself to keep walking. He stood in the center of the road and held Olson’s limp body to his chest. He let the soldiers shoot him without looking back.
****
“Stebbins, Billy, number thirty-eight!” Richard Harkness had appeared at his side for the fourth time in a row, notebook in hand. He had it open to a page with Stebbins’ name and number written down, followed by a single bullet point: big muscles.
Stebbins glanced sideways at him. 10 miles in and Harkness was already dedicating far too much energy to bouncing around asking questions for his book. He might have been annoyed if it wasn't such a welcome distraction from the dull hum of panic that permeated his whole body.
He'd been so shaken when he woke at the drop-off point that McVries had to nudge him with a steel-toed boot to get him in line with the others. He barely registered the first few hours, only managing to snap out of it when Curly was shot three feet from him.
Harkness took his silence as a sign to continue.
“Texas boy, right? You must be some kind of laborer to be built like that.” When Stebbins didn't answer, he added: “I'm writing a book. A book about the long walk.”
“I know.”
“O-oh. Well, what do you think of your chances?”
Stebbins raised an eyebrow.
“About one in forty-eight.”
Harkness forced an awkward laugh. “Really? You don't think you have a good shot at winning this thing?”
Stebbins just shrugged.
Night fell. Stebbins pulled on his jacket and tried to prepare himself for the inevitable ache in his chest as the chill set in. He dozed intermittently, blinking awake every few minutes to check his watch. It was hard not to be jealous of Garraty and McVries up ahead, arms around each other’s shoulders to stay upright while they slept.
He felt the others reacting to the approaching hill before he saw it. All around him, boys shifted, backs straightening into alertness. A lot of you are going to die on this hill. Maybe more than half. He sped up, watching his pace climb on his pedometer.
Warnings rang out intermittently, followed by gunshots. Bodies fell to the pavement and crashed into other walkers. Garraty tripped over his own feet. To his left, Barkovich was practically skipping up the hill. He leered over Harkness, yelling,
“Come on, four eyes. You're dying tonight, you’re dying tonight!”
Stebbins turned so fast he nearly toppled back down the hill. He grabbed Harkness by the shoulder and pulled him away from Barkovich, who had already shifted his focus to Garraty.
“Eyes up,” he said to Harkness through gritted teeth. The beam of the headlamp swung upwards, just in time to see the man in front of them drop like a stone, taking his neighbor down with him. Stebbins recognized one of them as Pearson, the boy who always spent the better part of the first day hovering around the Musketeers.
A soldier’s gun came up inches from his head, trained on someone behind him. Stebbins flinched so hard that he momentarily dropped below the three mile mark. Harkness gripped his shirt to pull him along.
“It’s for Fourteen,” he said, wide eyed. Stebbins just nodded.
They made it to the top of the hill just behind Parker, winded but still whole. Harkness pulled his notebook out of his pack immediately and started writing hurriedly in it. Stebbins caught sight of several numbers they’d heard warnings for on the hill — he must have been documenting the fallen.
After an hour of walking in silence, Harkness switched off the headlamp and looked at him.
“You can let go of my shoulder, you know,” he said gently. Stebbins’ eyes fell to where his hand was still grasping Harkness’s vest. He pulled it back.
“I—” His voice caught, and he paused to cough in the other direction. “Forgot. Sorry.”
They walked in silence for another few minutes. Then: “Hey, why’d you help me? I— I’m not complaining, just — you have this whole ‘lone wolf’ thing going on.”
“You were going to break your ankle.” Stebbins said, without thinking.
“How could you tell?”
“You're wearing converse.”
Harkness looked down at his shoes, then back up at Stebbins. He opened his mouth to say something, then paused, gaze dropping to Stebbins’ thigh, where his own pair of tennis shoes was dangling.
“Worse than those?”
The corner of Stebbins’ mouth tugged upwards. He shrugged.
“I’m not wearing them.”
Harkness stayed by his side well into the next morning. It made sense; Stebbins stayed consistently at 3.1mph, so matching pace with him helped Harkness conserve energy without having to worry about slipping below 3mph. Stebbins did his best to keep his eyes ahead, but found his eyes kept drifting back to his walking partner. It seemed like Harkness was capable of sleepwalking now that his ankle wasn’t broken, but never for more than a few minutes at a time. Each time he woke, he would pull out his notebook and write something before tucking it back into the strap of his bag.
The sun rose slowly, warm light cutting through the chill of the morning fog. The others began to wake as it got brighter, grumbling quietly amongst themselves.
Stebbins stayed quiet. His chest had grown tight, and his abs ached with the effort to stop himself from coughing. He knew ultimately there was no way to avoid the pain, but maybe this way his throat wouldn’t be so raw.
The morning passed as it always did. McVries pulled out a toothbrush and tried to goad the others into talking. Parker complained about being stuck in Maine; Stebbins found he agreed. The blistering sun and cold, wet nights were wearing on him. At least back home it was consistently hot and miserable.
They passed the spot where Harkness died. Stebbins watched carefully for any signs of slowing, but they made it to the 100 mile mark without issue.
Garraty noticed him coughing as they passed the Major’s jeep.
“You getting sick, Stebbins?”
He suppressed another cough. “Just allergies. I get ‘em every spring.”
Garraty looked like he wanted to argue but was interrupted by Number 31 booking it towards a diner and landing slumped across the front entrance like a ragdoll as bullets tore him apart.
“Jesus, that's overkill,” Harkness muttered.
“They save the big guns for the runners,” he said, raising his voice just enough that he knew Olson would be able to hear him. “At least it's quick for them. If you go for a soldier they shoot you in the gut and let you bleed out in the road like a pig.”
As if sensing that the sentiment was directed at him, Olson turned to look at him incredulously.
“Jesus, man. You ever think about anything normal?”
“Nah, he's right,” McVries said. “I don’t wanna see you boys dying over something stupid like that.”
“At least take one out with you,” Parker added.
A few miles later, while the others went on about wishing for rocketships and naked ladies, Harkness pressed something into his palm. Stebbins blinked down at the object, brain struggling to catch up to this new development.
“I’m not trying to poison you, man. It's a cough drop.”
“Why?”
Harkness looked at him like he was stupid.
“That's not allergies. You're getting sick.”
Stebbins worked his jaw for a moment, then sighed.
“Don't rub it in. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, and that’ll help.”
The others were getting louder, conversation devolving into calls of “fuck the long walk!” and “fuck the major!”. Tressler, Number 24, had gotten his handheld radio working and held it up for the others to hear.
He caught himself grinning, properly this time. McVries caught it too, walking backwards with a fist held in the air.
“Come on, Soldier Boy, loosen up!”
Stebbins rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth to join in, but the intake of breath stirred something in his lungs. He doubled over, hacking.
“WARNING, NUMBER THIRTY-EIGHT. FIRST WARNING.”
“God, I didn't mean that much,” McVries said, laughing. Harkness thumped him hard on the back. It didn't help, but it was the thought that counted. “Hey what's your deal, anyway? What are you walking for?”
“Same shit as everyone else,” he wheezed.
“I don't buy it. Come on, man. Say something real.”
Stebbins closed his eyes for a moment. Opened them. Tried to control his breathing. Finally, he said,
“The Major’s my father.”
McVries laughed. “Bull shit.”
“You’re the one who asked.”
He could feel the others’ eyes on him, sizing him up, searching for the resemblance. Olson let out a low whistle.
“No fuckin’ way.”
Garraty turned all the way around to look at him, walking backwards alongside McVries. The expression on his face was dangerously close to pity. Stebbins shifted uncomfortably.
“Did he force you to be here?”
“No. He… no.”
Baker raised an eyebrow. “So? What's the story?”
“I’m his bastard. One of many. I thought maybe if I won, he would —” He cut himself off, hyper aware of the lump in his throat. “I was going to wish to be taken into his home for tea.”
“Does he know?” Garraty asked.
“I miscalculated. He knows I’m his son, he just doesn't care.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don't. It's my own fault.”
“What would you wish for now?” Harkness asked. He had a hand on the journal tucked into his backpack strap, and seemed to be using all of his self control to keep himself from pulling it out.
“I don't know. Didn’t get that far yet.”
“You should think about wishing for ten naked ladies,” Olson said solemnly.
“For what?”
“Anything. That’s the beauty of ten naked ladies.”
“No.”
“I don't think Stebbins has to pay for his naked ladies,” Garraty pointed out, facing forward again.
“You guys have to stop talking about this,” Harkness begged.
On the third night, Olson simply sat down. There was no fanfare. He whispered “I can't do this,” to Baker, pressed something into his hand, and fell to his knees on the pavement.
Garraty and McVries were both sleepwalking when it happened, and by the time they woke up, they were 300 feet ahead and Olson was on his third warning. There was nothing to be done. Stebbins had hoped a gentler end would make his death easier to bear, but it turned out the manner of death didn't make grief any easier for the living.
By day four, his cough was so bad that he had to resort to the cough drop for a few minutes of relief. It was over far too quickly. He spent the better part of the day hacking into a cloth while the others shot him concerned looks. The ache in his chest had spread, and now every step was like an agonizing shock to his system.
The usual beats to the day stayed consistent. Parker revealed that Hank had been married. The seven of them promised to help his wife. Barkovich spiraled and eventually snapped. They sang for Clementine.
By the morning of day five, Harkness was becoming increasingly unsteady. His legs trembled, and he had to keep grabbing Stebbins’ elbow to keep himself from stumbling. By Freeport, Stebbins was practically holding him upright.
Art Baker’s nose started bleeding a few hours later. He left little dots of blood on the concrete as they walked, even with bits of rag shoved up his nose. He complained about it once, but there was nothing anyone could do.
Collie Parker went after the soldiers without prompting. He charged off the side of the road, wrenched the carbine from the soldier’s hand, and shot him in the head.
It still went sideways. He called out for the others to join, but the rest of them were too shell-shocked to act before the second soldier aimed his gun at Parker’s gut and fired. Stebbins must have started to turn around, because Harkness hooked his arm around his and yanked him back in the other direction.
Behind them, Collie began to sing. The first time he heard it, Stebbins had assumed he was humming, but now he realized that there were words, muffled by the blood in his mouth. It didn’t seem like the words were in English. He’d have to ask what language it was the next time they met.
The gun fired. Collie stopped singing.
They walked in silence after that.
As the sun began to dip beneath the trees, Harkness turned to him.
“Billy,” he said quietly. “I-I don't think I can do this anymore.”
The finality in his tone made Stebbins’ blood run cold.
“You're okay. Just hold on a little longer.”
“And then what? I’m not gonna win, and I’m so fucking tired. I don't… I don't wanna lose my mind, you know?”
Stebbins couldn't look at him. His eyes had been watering for days, but now fresh tears were streaming down his cheeks.
And really, what was he expecting? That he’d allow himself to rely on someone else and the Major would let them all go home? He’d read the hint book a thousand times, he knew you weren't supposed to make friends.
“I know,” he said finally. “I know.”
Harkness pulled the notebook from his pack and held it out with shaky hands.
“When you win, can you g-give this to my mom? And tell her I'm s-sorry.”
Stebbins shook his head, pulling his hands into his chest to stop Harkness from handing it to him. He wanted to scream. He was so fucking stupid for letting himself get attached.
“I can't–”
“Please, Stebbins.”
He relented. Harkness pushed the notebook into his hands, watching until Stebbins’ fingers curled around the cover before he let go.
“Okay. I’ll do my best.”
Harkness smiled sadly.
“Thanks for walking with me,” he said. Then, loud enough for the others to hear: “I’m gonna go home, boys.”
He stopped walking.
Stebbins couldn't bring himself to watch. He kept Harkness’s notebook clutched to his chest as the soldiers called out three warnings. The carbine fired. Harkness’s body hit the ground.
Stebbins tucked the notebook into the strap of his backpack the same way Harkness had.
It was harder walking alone. The pain felt sharper, harder to ignore. The fluid he coughed up was starting to come out tinged with blood.
When Art Baker stumbled up to squeeze himself between Garraty and McVries, Stebbins shut his eyes and pressed his hands over his ears like a kid. He was tired of watching his friends die over and over, tired of the indignity of their deaths being broadcast all over the country. If he could give Art the privacy of dying with one less set of eyes on him, he would.
The Major showed up sometime after that. Stebbins, delirious with fever and exhaustion, couldn’t stop thinking about his stupid sunglasses. He wondered if he could even see anything at this time of night, or if the three of them were just hazy blurs behind the lenses.
“You’re in the home stretch!” He was yelling. “For better or for worse. There’s going to be wheat, and there’s going to be chaff. You choose boys! Remember, you choose.”
“Shut the fuck up, holy shit,” Garraty snapped. “Suck a dick, will you? I mean, just — you fuckin’ lotus eater, you old sack of shit, shut up!”
Lotus eater was right; the Major looked completely unphased.
“That’s the spirit, my boy! That’s that killer fucking instinct. Take no prisoners! Flex that sack and go get that prize.”
Warnings rang out for all three of them, layered on top of each other.
“Does it bother you that he doesn’t acknowledge you?” Garraty asked, turning to Stebbins. Stebbins flinched slightly. He’d forgotten that he’d already told the others.
Garraty took his silence as confirmation and turned back to the Major.
“Hey, father of the year! You know your kid’s dying of fuckin’ consumption back here, yeah?”
The Major just smiled.
“What would happen if we slowed at the exact same time?” McVries asked.
“There’s no way any three humans could measure exactness like these instruments. They have it down to a science. Increments.”
Pete just nodded. He didn’t seem particularly surprised.
They passed the spot on the bridge where Stebbins died the first time. He almost expected to see blood on the ground.
Maybe we should stop being rabbits, and pigs, and goats, and sheep, and just be people.
Some part of him had thought that maybe if he did it all again as a person instead of a rabbit, this part would be easier. That if he just pushed himself to make friends and opened up and suffered through it all again, the loop would end and he would get to go home.
They kept walking. The rain came down hard, beating against the thin protection of his jacket. He tried to pull Harkness’s notebook from his shoulder strap to shield it from the rain, but his hands shook so badly that he dropped it on the pavement and took another warning picking it back up. He might be on his third now but couldn't find it in himself to care.
He let his mind wander, desperate for distraction. He thought of Gary Barkovich, who pretended not to care what the others thought of him but broke down the moment someone showed him kindness. Hank Olson, who hid his fear behind jokes and vulgarity. Percy Grimes, whose mother cried so hard at the drop-off that she had to be dragged away. Richard Harkness, who might have been his first real friend.
And Collie Parker, the only one of them brave enough to refuse to go out without a fight.
Real people who bleed.
Maybe that was it. The walk could only have one winner; even if he managed to outwalk Garraty and McVries, he would be winning alone. But Parker hadn't shot that soldier because he was trying to win – he’d been trying to end it. He just couldn't do it alone.
Abruptly, he grabbed Garraty’s arm. The other man startled, pulling away from McVries slightly when he saw the expression on his face. He put a steadying hand on Stebbins’ shoulder.
“There’s gonna be crowds. They allow them when there’s two.”
“Stebbins, what—”
“The real die hards, the ones who will walk with you. The ones that want to see the Major do the final kill.” He glanced up at his father, watching dispassionately from the jeep. “Just keep walking, okay?”
It was hard to make out either of their expressions in the rain, but he felt Garraty’s thumb rub a comforting pattern across his shoulder.
“Nice walking with you, Stebbins.”
“An honor,” he said, and stopped walking.
Stebbins didn't turn to look at the soldiers raising their guns. He closed his eyes and let the rain wash over him as the bullet found its way into his skull.
*****
“What’s your name, man?”
“Billy.”
“Jesus, Billy. You some kind of fitness nut?”
Stebbins was exhausted. It didn't matter. He still grit his teeth and pushed himself through five days of walking, five days of his body betraying him. He told himself that if he just suffered through it one last time, he could finally rest.
One way or another.
On the fifth day, when Collie charged ahead and pulled the carbine from a soldier’s hands, Stebbins followed. The second soldier was harder to reach, perched behind the console with his gun slung over his shoulder. He had it raised and trained on Parker’s head before the other soldier had even hit the ground.
Instinctively, Stebbins reached up and tried to yank the gun out of the soldier’s hands just as he fired at Parker. The heat seared his hand where it was gripping the barrel, and he released it quickly, skin already blistering. The soldier used his moment of distraction to drive the butt of the rifle hard into the side of his head. He fell backwards, head hitting the concrete with a dull crack. Harkness screamed.
The soldier fired once. Collie fell to his knees beside him, bloodstains blooming across his torso. Stebbins tried to push himself up, but the soldier had already trained the carbine on him. He fired. Stebbins barely registered the sound of the gunshot as his abdomen erupted in pain. He fumbled with his jacket, trying to find the wound, and another bullet caught him in the thigh.
He screamed, back arching instinctively like he could somehow escape the pain. Up the road, he could hear Harkness shouting his name, fighting against Garraty and McVries.
Another soldier approached, her gun raising to point at Collie. He was singing again, rocking backward on his heels. His gaze flickered between the approaching soldiers and Stebbins’ limp body. With shaking hands, he raised the stolen carbine until the barrel pointed up into his jaw. Stebbins reached for him, gripping frantically at his leg.
“I’m sorry,” he sobbed.
Impossibly, Collie Parker found the strength to smile. He gave Stebbins a single nod, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.
Collie’s body slumped to the ground beside him. The soldiers, satisfied that he was no longer a threat, turned and walked away. He watched the half track disappear down the road, where he knew his friends would still be walking.
He was alone.
Blood seeped from the wound in his gut, plastering his skin to the remains of his jacket. His vision swam. He could feel his blood pressure dropping, life slowly draining out of him.
As the sun began to set, he finally allowed himself to cry.
He missed his mother. He’d been so stupid, leaving her behind for a chance at his father’s approval. She'd sacrificed so much to raise him on her own, and this was how he repaid her: bleeding out on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.
Selfishly, he wished the others were here with him. He’d never been one for affection, but right now, lying on the cold pavement, he’d give anything to be held. He understood why Hank cried so hard for Art as he died now.
Darkness crept into the corners of his vision, threatening to pull him under. He was losing feeling in his extremities, his existence narrowing down to the two bullet wounds and the stuttering rhythm of his heart.
Stebbins closed his eyes.
******
“What’s your name, man?”
“Stebbins.”
“Jesus, Stebbins. You some kind of fitness nut?”
“I'm writing a book. A book about the long walk.”
“Harkness,” he said, voice rough. “We’ve done this before.”
Richard laughed uncomfortably, glancing down at the nearly empty page of his notebook.
“I — What do you mean? No we haven’t.”
“The walk, Harkness. We've done it before.”
“A-Are you feeling okay, man?”
He stepped off the road an hour later.
***************
It became a habit. He woke up on the concrete, walked for a few hours, and then stepped off the road. The turret gun was meant to dissuade walkers from trying to escape, but the speed of each death was a mercy compared to the slow death of the walk.
In one cycle, he risked two warnings to pet the eyeless cat sitting on the mailboxes. The cat’s quiet purr as he scratched her chin fueled him enough to make it to the hill before he gave up, sat down, and let the soldiers take him out. He went back to visit every time after that.
Once, he made the mistake of walking too close to Garraty and McVries and got so fed up with their blatant flirting that he snapped,
“Can you assholes just kiss already?”
They just gave him a look and continued on.
A few loops after that, he broke down crying when Harkness asked his name. Something just broke. He couldn't stop, even when the sobs turned into gasps and his vision blurred. He bought his ticket on his knees.
In the next cycle, he didn't even bother standing. The soldiers shot him at the drop off before the walk even began. He did it twice more before finally allowing Pete McVries to pull him to his feet. He lasted two hours before walking into the grass.
His erratic behavior began drawing the attention of Gary Barkovich, who spent the first few hours flitting between walkers, trying to get a rise out of someone. He was smart enough to realize Stebbins wasn't a smart target, but still watched him when he thought Stebbins wasn't looking. Maybe he just wanted to talk, but Stebbins suspected he wanted to watch him snap.
Eventually he got bored enough to test it. Just before Barkovich would have started bothering Rank, Stebbins waved him over.
“I know what a Meemaw is,” he said. Slightly too late, he realized that he had no idea what to say to Barkovich — in fifteen plus loops, they hadn't said a single word to one another.
Barkovich stared at him.
“Okay? Good for you.”
Stebbins scrambled for something else to keep his attention. He was already regretting this entire interaction.
“You're from the South, right?”
Barkovich’s shoulders relaxed slightly; it seemed like he’d been tensing for Stebbins to make fun of him.
“Yeah. Florida.”
“Do you miss it?”
Barkovich narrowed his eyes. “The fuck do you think? Course I miss it.”
Despite Stebbins’ pathetic excuse for small talk, Barkovich didn't goad Rank into buying his ticket. Without a death on his conscience, he was more mellow — he still made jabs at the others and laughed at their deaths, but the hard edge to it was gone. It helped that the Musketeers were slightly warmer to him now that he wasn’t partially responsible for someone’s death.
Rank was dead by the next morning. Richard said it happened while Stebbins was sleepwalking.
As night fell on day two, he found himself desperately wishing he could walk off the road. His chest hurt. His feet were blistered and bleeding. His skin was sticky with sweat. Resetting the loop meant he’d be back in a body that was well-rested and free of pain.
But he couldn't bring himself to stop, not while Richard was pressed to his side to keep the pace while sleeping, and buying his ticket would mean forcing him to walk alone. Besides, he was curious how Barkovich would fare now that he didn't have Rank’s death haunting him.
He forced himself through the motions with the promise that when Barkovich died, he could end it as well. He told the others about his father, warned Hank not to run after the soldiers, and even managed to stop Patrick Smith from being run over. When the pneumonia became unbearable, he let Richard wrap an arm around him for support. He didn't feel like a rabbit anymore. He felt like roadkill.
On the fourth day, Pete asked Barkovich to help Clementine unprompted. His face lit up at the question, and he promised to help alongside the rest of them. The spoon stayed tucked in his jacket pocket.
That night, as the seven of them sang for Clementine, it struck him just how grateful he was that he’d been stuck this with specific group of boys.
A fragile spark of hope bloomed in his chest.
Two of them hadn’t been enough. But maybe seven was.
In the early hours of the morning, he approached Collie Parker. Quietly, so neither the cameras or his friends could hear him, he said,
“You’re planning to charge the soldiers.”
Collie looked at him sharply.
“Don’t say that shit, man. You could get me shot.”
Stebbins shook his head. “I want to help.”
Collie was silent for a long moment. He kept his eyes on the ground, refusing to look at Stebbins. Finally, he asked:
“Why?”
“The more help you have, the better the odds. And I’d rather die fighting than keep playing their game.”
“I can respect that.” Collie eyed him, his expression scrutinizing. “Fine. But don’t get in my way.”
He held out a hand to shake on it.
They spent the morning speaking in low voices to Art and Richard, who both seemed wary but willing to help. Stebbins suspected they sensed what was coming for them otherwise.
When Ray started to run towards his mother in Freeport, Stebbins intercepted him. Ray tried to pull away, but couldn’t fight both Pete and Stebbins at once.
“Pete, you were right. I did what my dad did! I made such a fucking massive mistake, I should've just stayed in the fucking car—”
“Garraty,” Stebbins hissed, keeping a tight grip on his arm. “If you want to see your mother again, you need to listen to me. I know the Major killed your father. You’re planning to kill him, aren’t you?”
Ray stared at him.
“How the fuck do you know that?”
Stebbins ignored him. “What happens after that? You go home to your Mama, marry a nice girl, spend your whole life thinking about what could have been if you hadn’t let McVries take a bullet?”
Ray looked like he might have punched Stebbins in the face if his arms weren’t still being held.
“The fuck are you driving at?”
“We’re going to attack the soldiers.” Stebbins flicked his gaze to Pete, gauging his reaction. He continued, “Today. When there’s only four of them.”
Pete leaned forward slightly to get a good look at Stebbins.
“You know what they’ll do if we fail.”
“Course I fucking know. But it’s the only chance we have. You want to make it out of this together, don’t you?”
Ray’s face softened. He looked at Pete, searching for something in his expression. Stebbins suddenly felt acutely aware of the fact that he was getting in the middle of a deeply intimate dynamic. He tried to avert his gaze to let them hash this out in privacy, but still caught the silent understanding that passed between them.
“Yeah,” Ray said finally. “We do.”
“You know this makes us outlaws, right?” Pete asked Stebbins. “Got a plan for that?”
“We’ll figure it out. No one else is dying on this damn walk.”
Pete reached around Ray to grasp Stebbins’ shoulder, his smile grim.
“Damn right.”
Stebbins fell back into place next to Richard as they passed through the remainder of Freeport. The notebook was closed, tucked into the strap of his backpack. Stebbins hadn’t seen him open it in hours.
They reached the long stretch of road where their previous attempts had failed a few hours later. The soldiers switched off, dropping to just the four men that accompanied them in the afternoons. Collie, walking at the front of the group, shot Stebbins a look, searching for confirmation.
Stebbins glanced around at the others. Pete and Ray were both watching him. Barkovich was working his way through a can of beans, the sharpened end of the spoon glinting in the afternoon sun. Richard’s grip on his elbow tightened for a moment, then let go.
Stebbins looked back at Collie and gave a single nod.
The effect was instantaneous. Collie broke into a run, wrenching the carbine from the hands of the nearest soldier and shooting him before he even had time to react. No time to waste, he turned immediately and shot the second soldier in the head. He slumped over the console, carbine hanging limply. The others scrambled for cover behind the slowing half-track as bullets flew past. One missed Stebbins so narrowly that it tore a hole in the arm of his jacket.
“Parker!” Pete yelled, hands up to catch the gun. Collie tossed it to him and leaned up to pull the second carbine off the soldier.
It was over before he knew it. Pete and Collie took out the two remaining soldiers from a distance while Stebbins used Barkovich’s spoon to smash the camera lens. The five of them stayed crouched behind the half track as Pete, Ray, and Collie checked the second vehicle.
“All clear!” Collie called finally.
Stebbins suddenly feels like he’s outside of his own body. He tries to stand up and finds that he’s shaking too hard to move. He presses his face to the cold metal of the half track and tries to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over.
“Fuck,” Ray says, coming to sit beside him on the concrete. “What now?”
“We need to move,” Collie says. “They'll be watching the broadcasts. We should try to get as far from the road as we can.”
“More walking,” Art mutters.
“We’ll find somewhere to rest when it's safe,” Pete adds. He’s standing behind Ray, like he's afraid if he sits down he won't be able to get back up.
“I have spare shoes tied to my bag,” Stebbins says without lifting his head. His voice is rough, choked out. “You should see if they fit.”
“Are you okay, Stebbins?”
“No,” he groans. “But I will be.”
He lets Richard help him to his feet, too worn down to pretend he doesn't need it. The others are standing slowly, stretching muscles that have grown weak with overuse. Ray takes one of Stebbins’ shoes and slides it onto his bloodied foot. It’s slightly too big, but better than nothing.
With nowhere to go, and no idea what the future holds, they start walking.