and miles to go before im free
chapter 1: the starting line. the ao3 version has art! by @soledadcatalina words: 2517 Long Walk au longfic.... yeah....
Dear Mr. Alex Sawyer.
Congratulations!
Your voluntary submission to participate in the Long Walk has been accepted through lottery.
You now have the solemn task of proving your penance and earning your acquittal alongside forty-nine other convicts of the United Kingdom’s Youth Penal System.
If you win, a rare opportunity that many of this nation’s criminal youth can only wish for awaits you - a chance to break free from penitential living with a financial grant, and a full pardon of all criminal charges placed on your person.
Your parole officer and prison warden have been notified. You are expected at the starting line on May 1st by 8:00am.
Luck to you, Mr. Sawyer.
Alex’s head rattles against the dirty glass of the bus window, nauseous with nerves and motion sickness as he is towed down this cobbled country road. Sun glaring through the back screens and baking in the musty scent of dirt and oil, sandwiched between three armed, suited guards, the sweat on his brow is not from the heat nor the gun-barrel gaze of being the object of Blacksuits’ crosshairs. Hands beneath his thighs, tacky with sweat and stuck against the leather seats, his stomach churns at the hum of the radio.
“Still today, on the 19th anniversary of the Summer of Slaughter,” a faceless news anchor rehearses through the tinny radio, the somber voice a crackling whine “the riots that terrorized our nation, we begin our first annual attempt at the rehabilitation of our nation’s youth -”
The voice on the radio gets louder, Alex watching as a hand reaches out to twist the knob. He dares a glance up at the rearview mirror and immediately regrets it - he bets the poor sucker stuck driving this bus probably wasn’t expecting to drive a murderer to his grave today, but the vitriol Alex sees in the eyes that stare back at him before flicking back to the road is enough to make him shrink back in his seat. Shame roils in his gut. He stares down at his feet, swallowing back tears.
“Right now, as our country watches fifty of its troubled youth prepare for the ultimate redemption, let us join together in reflection and hope.” Alex keeps his eyeline down, the shadow of trees flickering past in his periphery through the windows. He is too focused on the radio, on hiding from the glares and his guilt, to notice the roar of voices approaching on the road ahead. “We give thanks to the King and his politicians, our correctional forces, and to the mercy they bestow, the order they provide, and their inspiration to our next generations. Let this inaugural Long Walk inspire us, as it guides these troubled souls back to the prosperity and social good -”
Alex is lurched forward as the bus comes to a harsh stop, wheels crunching on the broken concrete. The voice on the radio is cut off as the engine rumbles to a halt and he is hoisted by his armpits to the front.
“We’re here,” a Suit jeers, his voice booming over the hush that now blankets the bus. Alex knows he has no choice but to follow the pull of his insistent captor, one foot in front of the other as he leaves the relative peace of this sanctuary and into the chaos beyond.
One foot in front of the other, he thinks, as he watches his feet leave the steps. He drops down from the shade into the light, the rustle of chatter and chains washing over him. It’s just one step in front of the other from here on out.
“Hands,” the guards growl at the clearing, the shackles around his wrists released as he is shoved into a clearing. He has to blink through the sun’s rays, adjusting to the ever dawning light as he is passed through a gate, trembling and sick to his stomach. He misses his mother, his father - wishes he could’ve slept in his bed last night, instead of the hard metal bench at the municipal jail. It was a halfway point, he knew, between his hearing and the prison cell that he knew awaited him if he had not applied here in his desperate rush to blink into the sun like this again, and yet -
Another cage shuts behind him, the clang of a gavel screaming guilty in his head as he sits among the other convicts in this clearing. There are no fences to his sides, but the Suits and their dogs, restless on their chains as their muscles ripple, are enough of a deterrent to keep anyone from running. Ahead, the concrete strip stretches endlessly into the horizon.
A cursory glance at the people milling around him does nothing to soothe his nerves. All clad in the same grey jumpsuits, teenagers of all heights and weights sit or stand, either dejected or empty-eyed as they stare at the ground beneath their feet. Some of them make Alex’s heart hurt - a fat kid wiping his eyes silently; a nervous girl with her hair tied back and her knee bouncing; one looks no more than twelve years old, her braids hanging around her face as she holds her knees to her chest, picking at the flakes of skin on her arms - but the others…
He’s glad to be sitting, or his legs would give out. Many of the people around him are the people he expected - or should have expected - to be participating in the walk. Many are taller than him, most of them burly or wiry, their legs strong and their faces twisted in perverted determination. He sees tattoos and scars and bandanas with different patterns tucked into pockets and wrapped around biceps. These are the people jeering at each other silently, a dare in their eyes - these are the ones who would never see the light of another free day if they didn’t dare the Walk.
You mean like you? He thinks with an awful lurch. He tears his eyes away from the centre of the clearing, blinking away tears until -
He meets the eyes of another boy that stops him in his tracks, something curious in the dark brown stare that have trained themselves on him. They belong to a handsome face, stern and discerning as they appraise Alex with a quiet dignity. He does not see the fear or anger that shines in the eyes of the other kids in that gaze, but something deeper, something distant and undiscoverable.
“Wha’ch you here for?” the boy says, nodding to Alex. There are bags under his eyes, a subtle bruise of grey-blue that taints the otherwise rich warmth of the boy’s dark brown skin. He’s handsome, Alex muses, a strong jawline and round cheeks. As his face moves, three lines along his right cheek ripple in parallel to each other, three thin, ragged scars that mar his otherwise smooth skin.
“I’ll tell if you tell,” Alex says, because he doesn’t think either petty theft or murder would make the best impression with the lot here - but for completely different reasons. “Or would I just earn a scar like you?”
Alex wants to claw the words back in his mouth before he watches the boy’s lips curl into a half smile. A glint of teeth shine as they crack open in a smirk, white against the rich darkness. “What’s your name?”
“Sawyer,” Alex says, reaching out a hand. “Alex Sawyer.”
“Donovan,” the other boy’s hand - Donovan’s - is warm in his own. He can’t help but be embarrassed by the sweat on his palms.
“Is that your first name or your last name?” someone pipes up from Alex’s left, and when they both turn in tandem -
Alex recognizes the bright, lively blue staring at him, the curve of the nose, the shock of black hair on brown skin. He had spent his criminal trial in and out of transfer cells with this kid, sharing passing glances as they were hauled to and from court. Once, he had seen him try to bolt before being knocked out by the butt of a carbine that had left a sprawling, ugly bruise; it doesn’t mottle the boy’s face now, but in his own mirrored smile of recognition, Alex can see where a tooth had been knocked out.
“Don’t you worry about that,” Donovan sucks on his teeth, turning away as he watches Alex lean into the other boy.
“You’re Hatcher, right?” Alex guesses - carjacking, stunt driving, vehicular manslaughter, the list rings from memory, though he hears their twin echoes of it wasn’t me, I’m not guilty along with it, the end of their free lives as they knew it announces together on the same day.
“Yeah, man,” he says. “Name’s Zee. Guess you also didn’t want a life in prison?.”
“Who the fuck names their son Zee?” laughs another kid. Auburn curls bounce with his breathless laughter. Alex had noticed him staring wistfully at the only girl taller than him here - she sat silent and stoic, broad shouldered and wiry and paying him no attention whatsoever - but now those eyes told only of mischief as they sparkled. He was surrounded by chalk drawings of dicks.
“I like your rocketships,” a third boy nods. “You compensating for something?”
That gets them all smiling. It feels good - his cheeks are sore, unused to the gesture after the miserable weeks spent on trial, but seeing Donovan’s half smile reach full bloom makes the ache all the better. Still, Zee shakes his head, body tense and trembling like a live wire.
“Nah man,” he continues. “Last of five siblings - mom insisted that I be the last one, so she named me Zee, since it’s the last letter of the alphabet.” Alex watches him, smiling and laughing at the road ahead - there’s a lilt to his accent that isn’t quite American, almost mimicking the West Indies, rolling languidly over soft n’s and silent t’s. “And I’m planning to still be the last one.”
“Man’s really proud he’s the last evidence of his mom being a whore,” someone sneers from the side of the group. All their hackles raise as they watch him, twitchy-eyed and anxious in his cruel laughter. It subsides awkwardly, an angry blush immediately forming on his face knowing he had overstepped a line - everyone knew it wasn’t cool to talk about each other’s mothers like that - but none of them dared speak against him. They had all caught the skull-emblazoned bandana in his pocket, shrinking back.
“Fuckin’ Arnold,” Donovan mutters under his breath. Alex assumes they must’ve been from the same prison; he suddenly feels very lucky to be beside someone who could so casually curse a gang member under his breath.
The awkward silence is interrupted by the rumbling of an engine, the turning of spiked wheels. The entire crowd of teenagers turn their heads as one. Some of them stand, staring in awe, while others curl into themselves, but all of them fall into a hush as they watch the armored car approach, flanked by a squad of Suits and drooling canines.
“Holy shit,” someone stutters. A girl, her tight face slackened with awe at the power approaching her, interrupts her own heated, almost frantic conversation with another boy. “It’s the Warden”
Alex looks up at the towering figure, standing statue-still in the cab of the truck. The Warden watches them from his mobile perch like a dictator over his feared subjects, the abyss of his sunglasses reflecting the fearful faces of the children staring up at him for salvation and mercy. The creases of his face, leathery and brown-spotted by the sun, twist eerily as his lips curl into a wicked, bloodthirsty grin. He barely jolts as the truck stops, only raising his hands to the group in front of him.
“Ladies and Gentleman,” his voice is a booming growl, the husk of a human’s joy overpowered by the evil enthusiasm creeping over the deathmask of his face. “I am so happy to have the privilege of being your charge for this inaugural moment.”
“Like Satan over his demons,” someone whispers; Donovan turns to the tall girl smirking, but she doesn’t notice him, doesn’t notice the lewd artist of her admirer shrink back either, only stares down the fiend with a coldness that would make hell freeze over.
“I presume you’ve all read the rule book, those of you cretins who can read,” the Warden announces. He scans the crowd, and Alex shivers as his gaze passes over him. “Please,” he continues, and two Suits with clipboards flank him as he leans forward, a bundle of dogtags in hand, “come forward as they call your name.”
The Suits begin to shout names and numbers, and one by one, a teenager in the crowd rises to meet them. Alex watches closely, eyes darting back and forth like a tennis match as each kid walks up, preps their gear, accepts their speedometer.
“It takes a heavy sack for you boys and girls to own up for the crimes you committed,” the Warden continues, “to make the ultimate sacrifice in your penance.”
Number 5: Owens, Gary - tall and wide and eyes wild. A teardrop etched into his cheek.
Number 6: Hatcher, Zee - he pounces up, startled, almost like a cat.
“It was misguided children like you once were,” the Warden sneers, “that instigated the crime sprees that brought our nation into turmoil. That started the Summer of Slaughter, that painted our streets in blood and filled our prison cells.”
Number 7: Earl, Montgomery - the big kid, a birthmark shaped like a heart on his arm.
Number 18: Soledad, Catalina “Night” - the girl who had been bouncing her knee; petite with a runner’s build. A strong contender.
“But you’re not children, not anymore. When you signed up for the Long Walk - this very first Long Walk, you chose not to endure our epidemic of delinquency.”
Number 19: Arnold, Kevin - the gang punk who called Zee’s mother a whore.
Number 23: Donovan, Carl Eugene - someone laughs at the name.
Number 25: Rojo-Flores, Simon - “And who's laughing now?” Donovan gripes, as the kid who smirked at the rocketships walks up for his dogtag.
“You chose to be adults committed to our nation’s rehabilitation!”
Number 38: Green, Marlow - the Warden nods, smiles at him as the rocketship artist walks slowly, dazedly confused back to his spot on the ground.
Number 46: Brien, Daisy - the trembling little girl with the braids, who goes to stand by two bigger boys, Numbers 13 and 42.
“You are not only walking for your freedom, you are an inspiration for this country, a chance to restore both your innocence, and the national image of our once great empire!”
Number 47: Sawyer, Alex - his legs shake as he snatches the tag from the Suit.
Number 48: Twardowski, Amelia “Pan” - the girl, all lean muscle and mean snarl, who called the Warden a devil.
“I look at you, and don’t just see criminals,” the Warden smirks. Alex scoffs at what he says next, cruel and bitter in its libellous irony. “I see hope.”
Number 49: Bastion, Schiller - shy, fearful, running from the girl who had been whisper-yelling at him -
Number 50: Bastion, Rilke - siblings, Alex realizes, maybe twins? The awed girl follows behind the boy before linking arms with him, their faces mirrored masks of comedy and tragedy.
“You will walk until only one of you is left,” the Warden proclaims. He lifts his pistol to the air. A shuffling of feet, the group inhaling in anxious anticipation. The collective steeling of ambitious souls, willing to give anything. The Warden places his finger on the trigger, and the road stretches in front of them, unending. “And it will be that one winner, who earns their freedom.”
