Chapter Text
In hindsight, Ray couldn’t remember much about how he and Pete had come to escape from the Long Walk. He had only the vaguest snippets, and the rest Pete had filled him in on much later.
Ray remembered the explosions, and the gunfire. He remembered what appeared to be a fleet of off road vehicles and motorcycles, manned by people in black, wearing ski masks and bandanas and screaming and shouting—some kind of chanting, like protesters or something, Pete later told him.
It all seemed to unfold so quickly, that one moment Ray was trudging along beside Pete, and the next there was heat, and noise, and bullets flying, blood spattering the ground. A Jeep mowed through a pair of soldiers and one of the Walkers—a boy named Mason, if Ray recalled correctly—indiscriminate of who was in their way. It was at this point that Ray was struck in the head by something—he thought maybe the butt of a rifle—though he wouldn’t realize it until later.
All he knew at the time was that one moment he was standing, stupefied by the insanity unfolding before him, and in the next he was eating asphalt, and everything felt like it had been turned upside down inside his head.
“Garraty!”
He sat up, bracing his hands behind him, legs splayed. Machine gun fire shredded through the unfortunate Walker in front of him. His body hit the ground in front of Ray, and he watched the boy’s brains spill from his skull with the detached interest of someone who was in complete shock. Bullets hailed into the pavement just shy of his own legs.
“Garraty! Ray!” A hand grabbed the back of his shirt and he was dragged to the edge of the road. Ray scrabbled, and managed to get his feet under him as he skidded off the side of the road. Dirt and loose gravel sprayed out from under his shoes and he nearly slipped, but that strong hand was still clamped on the collar of his shirt. The owner of that hand was Pete, whose face materialized before him, shouting, “Run, you idiot, run!”
And Ray did. He pumped his legs until his muscles screamed, only distantly aware of the direction he was heading, guided by Pete’s strong hand, now locked around his wrist tight enough that his fingers tingled numbly. The shouting and gunfire and madness became quieter, and then they were crashing through undergrowth and passing by trees. The light which illuminated their path became weaker, though Ray couldn’t tell if that was because the sun was setting, or because the dense foliage was filtering the sun.
They slowed to a trudge, Ray didn’t know how much later. He looked at his watch and found the face had shattered. It had stopped at 5:14, which must have been the time he struck the pavement. His chest was burning, his head was pounding, and a hot stitch seared up his right side from his hip nearly to his shoulder. Pete had let go of his hand once he was sure Ray was stirred out of his stupor and properly following him. Though it wasn’t as if Pete had any idea where he was leading them.
In all likelihood, they would’ve simply died of exposure in the uncaring woods, if not for the cabin. Ray had been the one to spot it first. He grabbed Pete’s sleeve and plucked at it, tugging mutely. When Pete’s haggard face looked up, his eyes glinting with something semi-feral, Ray pointed to the cabin. Pete stopped in his tracks. Ray didn’t.
Someone’s summer place, Ray thought as he stumbled up to the cabin. It was a single story, and small, but not a hovel. Someone came here to camp out, hike, hunt, while the weather was good for it. Someone’s best memories were probably sealed inside the dark wood of these walls. This was the place their mind went to on long, hard days.
Pete had joined him and was scrabbling to get a foothold on the wall to see if he could pry open one of the windows. Ray, knowing that some generous souls left their cabins unlocked when they weren’t in use in case some poor unfortunates (such as themselves) found themselves in a spot of trouble out in the woods when the weather was at its nastiest, simply walked up to the door and tried the knob.
It turned easily under his hand and the door creaked pleasantly on its hinges. Pete scoffed and dropped to his feet. “Couldn’t have said something before I got splinters?” he snarked. But his humor was tense, token. He seemed jumpy, like some specter hung around them that he couldn’t acknowledge without provoking its wrath.
The cabin was dark, and as they ventured inside Pete tried the light switch by the door, cursing quietly when it did nothing. There was just enough light filtering through the trees and into the windows to see by.
Most of the cabin consisted of a single room, a modest multipurpose room—part bedroom, part living space. On one wall was a double bed, on the other a little kitchenette and a wood burning stove, and on a third, two doors. One door was shut, but the other was open, and there was a tiny bathroom within. Ray drew toward the latter, mindlessly thinking about washing some of the sweat and road dust from his face.
When Ray caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror, he realized why Pete had that look of muted, skittish terror in his eyes. I’m the specter, Ray realized. The entire left side of his head was matted with blood. He raised his hand and touched the tacky, tepid substance. For some bizarre reason he found himself thinking back to kindergarten, the sensation of slapping his open palm into partially-dried paint to stamp his handprint on construction paper and make a Thanksgiving turkey. A laugh fluttered up and out of his chest.
“Wet paint,” he mumbled, lurching forward over the sink basin, smearing blood over the porcelain. A pair of hands grasped his shoulders, steadying him as he wavered. He heard the muffled but urgent sound of Pete calling his name. He lifted his eyes and saw Pete’s terse, blurry face looking at him through the mirror, over his shoulder.
“I think you have a concussion,” Pete declared, his voice very far-off and hazy.
As if to confirm the diagnosis, Ray immediately doubled over, puked his guts out into the sink, and collapsed into a heap on the floor.