moaning noise as he passed Larson, and shied away when Larson tried to touch his pants cuff.
Garraty felt his pulse beating warmly in his temples. Larson got his thins warning. now he’ll understand, Garraty thought, now he’ll get up and start flogging it.
And at the end, Larson did realize, apparently. Reality came crashing back in. “Hey!” Larson said behind them. His voice was high and alarmed. “Hey, just a second, don’t do that, I’ll get up. Hey, don’t! D-”
The shot. They walked on up the hill.
“Ninety-three bottles of beer left on the shelf,” McVries said softly.
Garraty made no reply. He stared at his feet and walked and focused all of his concentration on getting to the top without that third warning. It couldn’t go on much longer, this monster hill. Surely not.
Up ahead someone uttered a high, gobbling scream, and then the rifles crashed in unison.
“Barkovitch,” Baker said hoarsely. “That was Barkovitch, I’m sure it was.”
“Wrong, redneck!” Barkovitch yelled out of the darkness. “One hundred per cent dead wrong!”
They never did see the boy who had been shot after Larson. He had been part of the vanguard and he was dragged off the road before they got there. Garraty ventured a look up from the pavement, and was immediately sorry. He could see the top of the hill just barely. They still had the length of a football field to go. It looked like a hundred miles. No one said anything else. Each of them had retreated into his own private world of pain and effort. Seconds seemed to telescope into hours.
Near the top of the hill, a rutted dirt road branched off the main drag, and a farmer and his family stood there. They watched the Walkers go past-an old man with a deeply seamed brow, a hatchet-faced woman in a bulky cloth coat, three teenaged children who all looked half-wilted.
“All he needs… is a pitchfork,” McVries told Garraty breathlessly. Sweat was streaming down McVries’s face. “And… Grant Wood… to paint him.”
Someone called out: “Hiya, Daddy!”
The farmer and the farmer’s wife and the farmer’s children said nothing. The cheese stands alone, Garraty thought crazily. Hi-ho the dairy-o, the cheese stands alone. The farmer and his family did not smile. They did not frown. They held no signs. They did not wave. They watched. Garraty was reminded of the Western movies he had seen on all the Saturday afternoons of his youth, where the hero was left to die in the desert and the buzzards came and circled overhead. They were left behind, and Garraty was glad. He supposed the farmer and his wife and the three half-wilted children would be out there around nine o’clock next May first and the next… and the next. How many boys had they seen shot? A dozen? Two? Garraty didn’t like to think of it. He took a pull at his canteen, sloshed the water around in his mouth, trying to cut through the caked saliva. He spit the mouthful out.
The hill went on. Up ahead Toland fainted and was shot after the soldier left beside him had warned his unconscious body three times. It seemed to Garraty that they had been climbing the hill for at least a month now. Yes, it had to be a month at least, and that was a conservative estimate because they had been walking for just over three years. He giggled a little, took another mouthful of water, sloshed it around in his mouth, and then swallowed it. No cramps. A cramp would finish him now. But it could happen. It could happen because someone had dipped his shoes in liquid lead while he wasn’t looking.
Nine gone, and a third of them had gotten it right here on this hill. The Major had told Olson to give them hell, and if this wasn’t hell, it was a pretty good approximation. A pretty good…
Garraty was suddenly aware that he felt quite giddy, as if he might faint himself. He brought one hand up and slapped himself across the face, backward and forward, hard.
“You all right?” McVries asked.
“Feel faint.”
“Pour your…” Quick, whistling breath,”… canteen over your head.”
Garraty did it. I christen thee Raymond Davis Garraty, pax vobiscum. The water was very cold. He stopped feeling faint. Some of the water trickled down inside his shirt in freezing cold rivulets. “Canteen! 47!” he shouted. The effort of the shout left him feeling drained all over again. He wished he had waited awhile.
One of the soldiers jog-trotted over to him and handed him a fresh canteen. Garraty could feel the soldier’s expressionless marble eyes sizing him up. “Get away,” he said rudely, taking the canteen. “You get paid to shoot me, not to look at me.”
The soldier went away with no change of expression. Garraty made himself walk a little faster.
They kept climbing and no one else got it and then they were at the top. It was nine o’clock. They had been on the road twelve hours. It didn’t mean anything. The only thing that mattered was the cool breeze blowing over the top of the hill. And the sound of a bird. And the feel of his damp shirt against his skin. And the memories in his head. Those things mattered, and Garraty clung to them with desperate awareness. They were his things and he still had them.
“Pete?”
“Yeah.”
“Man, I’m glad to be alive.”
McVries didn’t answer. They were on the downslope now. Walking was easy.
“I’m going to try hard to stay alive,” Garraty said, almost apologetically.
The road curved gently downward. They were still a hundred and fifteen miles from Oldtown and the comparative levelness of the turnpike.
“That’s the idea, isn’t it?” McVries asked finally. His voice sounded cracked and cobwebby, as if it had issued from a dusty cellar.
Neither of them said anything for a while. No one was talking. Baker ambled steadily along-he hadn’t drawn a warning yet-with his hands in his pockets, his head nodding slightly with the flatfooted rhythm of his walk. Olson had gone back to Hail Mary, full of grace. His face was a white splotch in the darkness. Harkness was eating.
“Garraty,” McVries said.
“I’m here.”
“You ever see the end of a Long Walk?”
“No, you?”
“Hell, no. I just thought, you being close to it and all-”
“My father hated them. He took me to one as a what-do-you-call-it, object lesson. But that was the only time.”
“I saw.”
Garraty jumped at the sound of that voice. It was Stebbins. He had pulled almost even with them, his head still bent forward, his blond hair flapping around his ears like a sickly halo.
“What was it like?” McVries asked. His voice was younger somehow.
“You don’t want to know,” Stebbins said.
“I asked, didn’t I?”
Stebbins made no reply. Garraty’s curiosity about him was stronger than ever. Stebbins hadn’t folded up. He showed no signs of folding up. He went on without complaint and hadn’t been warned since the starting line.
“Yeah, what’s it like?” he heard himself asking.
“I saw the end four years ago,” Stebbins said. “I was thirteen. It ended about sixteen miles over the New Hampshire border. They had the National Guam out and sixteen Federal Squads to augment the State Police. They had to. The people were packed sixty deep on both sides of the road for fifty miles. Over twenty people were trampled to death before it was all over. It happened because people were trying to move with the Walkers, trying to see the end of it. I had a front-row seat. My dad got it for me.”
“What does your dad do?” Garraty asked.
“He’s in the Squads. And he had it figured just right. I didn’t even have to move. The Walk ended practically in front of me.”
“What happened?” Olson asked softly.
“I could hear them coming before I could see them. We all could. It was one big soundwave, getting closer and closer. And it was still an hour before they got close enough to see. They weren’t looking at the crowd, either of the two that were left. It was like they didn’t even know the crowd was there. What they were looking at was the mad. They were hobbling along, both of them. Like they had been crucified and then taken down and made to walk with the nails still through their feet.”
They were all listening to Stebbins now. A horrified silence had fallen like a rubber sheet.
“The crowd was yelling at them, almost as if they could still hear. Some were yelling one guy’s name, and some were yelling the other guy’s, but the only thing that really came through was this Go… Go… Go chant. I was getting shoved around like a beanbag. The guy next to me either pissed himself or jacked off in his pants, you couldn’t tell which.
“They walked right past me. One of them was a big blond with his shirt open. One of his shoe soles had come unglued or unstitched or whatever, and it was flapping. The other guy wasn’t even wearing his shoes anymore. He was in his stocking feet. His socks ended at his ankles. The rest of them… why, he’d just walked them away, hadn’t he? His feet were purple. You could see the broken blood vessels in his feet. I don’t think he really felt it anymore. Maybe they were able to do something with his feet later, I don’t know. Maybe they were.”
“Stop. For God’s sake, stop it.” It was McVries. He sounded dazed and sick.
“You wanted to know,” Stebbins said, almost genially. “Didn’t you say that?”
No answer. The halftrack whined and clattered and spurted along the shoulder, and somewhere farther up someone drew a warning.
“It was the big blond that lost. I saw it all. They were just a little past me. He threw both of his arms up, like he was Superman. But instead of flying he just fell flat on his face and they gave him his ticket after thirty seconds because he was walking with three. They were both walking with three.
“Then the crowd started to cheer. They cheered and they cheered and then they could see that the kid that won was trying to say something. So they shut up. He had fallen on his knees, you know, like he was going to pray, only he was just crying. And then he crawled over to the other boy and put his face in that big blond kid’s shirt. Then he started to say whatever it was he had to say, but we couldn’t hear it. He was talking into the dead kid’s shirt. He was telling the dead kid. Then the soldiers rushed out and told him he had won the Prize, and asked him how he wanted to start.”
“What did he say?” Garraty asked. It seemed to him that with the question he had laid his whole life on the line.
“He didn’t say anything to them, not then,” Stebbins said. “He was talking to the dead kid. He was telling the dead kid something, but we couldn’t hear it.”
“What happened then?” Pear-son asked.
“I don’t remember,” Stebbins said remotely.
No one said anything. Garraty felt a panicked, trapped sensation, as if someone had stuffed him into an underground pipe that was too small to get out of.
