The Long Walk

“I’d like to build a house up here,” Scramm said. He sneezed heartily, twice, sounding a little like a bull in heat. “Build it right up here with my own two hands, and look at the view every morning. Me and Cathy. Maybe I will someday, when this is all over.”

Nobody said anything.

By 6:45 the ridge was above and behind them, the breeze mostly cut off, and the heat already walked among them. Garraty took off his own jacket, rolled it, and tied it securely about his waist. The road through the woods was no longer deserted. Here and there early risers had parked their cars off the road and stood or sat in clumps, cheering, waving, and holding signs.

Two girls stood beside a battered MG at the bottom of one dip. They were wearing tight summer shorts, middy blouses, and sandals. There were cheers and whistles. The faces of these girls were hot, flushed, and excited by something ancient, sinuous, and, to Garraty, erotic almost to the point of insanity. He felt animal lust rising in him, an aggressively alive thing that made his body shake with a palsied fever all its own.

It was Gribble, the radical among them, that suddenly dashed at them, his feet kicking up spurts of dust along the shoulder. One of them leaned back against the hood of the MG and spread her legs slightly, tilting her hips at him. Gribble put his hands over her breasts. She made no effort to stop him. He was warned, hesitated, and then plunged against her, a jamming, hurtling, frustrated, angry, frightened figure in a sweaty white shirt and cord pants. The girl hooked her ankles around Gribble’s calves and put her arms lightly around his neck. They kissed.

Gribble took a second warning, then a third, and then, with perhaps fifteen seconds of grace left, he stumbled away and broke into a frantic, shambling run. He fell down, picked himself up, clutched at his crotch and staggered back onto the road. His thin face was hectically flushed.

“Couldn’t,” he was sobbing. “Wasn’t enough time and she wanted me to and I couldn’t… I…” He was weeping and staggering, his hands pressed against his crotch. His words were little more than indistinct wails.

“So you gave them their little thrill,” Barkovitch said. “Something for them to talk about in Show and Tell tomorrow.”

“You just shut up!” Gribble screamed. He dug at his crotch. “It hurts, I got a cramp-”

“Blue balls,” Pearson said. “That’s what he’s got.”

Gribble looked at him through the stringy bangs of black hair that had fallen over his eyes. He looked like a stunned weasel. “It hurts,” he muttered again. He dropped slowly to his knees, hands pressed into his lower belly, head drooping, back bowed. He was shivering and snuffling and Garraty could see the beads of sweat on his neck, some of them caught in the fine hairs on the nape-what Garraty’s own father had always called quackfuzz.

A moment later and he was dead.

Garraty turned his head to look at the girls, but they had retreated inside their MG. They were nothing but shadow-shapes.

He made a determined effort to push them from his mind, but they kept creeping back in. How must it have been, dry-humping that wane, willing flesh? Her thighs had twitched, my God, they had twitched, in a kind of spasm, orgasm, oh God, the uncontrollable urge to squeeze and caress… and most of all to feel that heat… that heat

He felt himself go. That warm, shooting flow of sensation, warming him. Wetting him. Oh Christ, it would soak through his pants and someone would notice. Notice and point a finger and ask him how he’d like to walk around the neighborhood with no clothes on, walk naked, walk… and walk… and walk…

Oh Jan I love you really I love you, he thought, but it was confused, all mixed up in something else.

He retied his jacket about his waist and then went on walking as before, and the memory dulled and browned very quickly, like a Polaroid negative left out in the sun.

The pace stepped up. They were on a steep downhill grade now, and it was hard to walk slowly. Muscles worked and pistoned and squeezed against each other. The sweat rolled freely. Incredibly, Garraty found himself wishing for night again. He looked over at Olson curiously, wondering how he was making it.

Olson was staring at his feet again. The cords in his neck were knotted and ridged. His lips were drawn back in a frozen grin.

“He’s almost there now,” McVries said at his elbow, startling him. “When they start half-hoping someone will shoot them so they can rest their feet, they’re not far away.”

“Is that right?” Garraty asked crossly. “How come everybody else around here knows so much more about it than me?”

“Because you’re so sweet,” McVries said tenderly, and then he sped up letting his legs catch the downgrade, and passed Garraty by.

Stebbins. He hadn’t thought about Stebbins in a long time. He turned his head to look for Stebbins. Stebbins was there. The pack had strung out coming down the long hill, and Stebbins was about a quarter of a mile back, but there was no mistaking those purple pants and that chambray workshirt. Stebbins was still tailing the pack like some thin vulture, just waiting for them to fall-

Garraty felt a wave of rage. He had a sudden urge to rash back and throttle Stebbins. There was no rhyme or reason to it, but he had to actively fight the compulsion down.

By the time they had reached the bottom of the grade, Garraty’s legs felt rubbery and unsteady. The state of numb weariness his flesh had more or less settled into was broken by unexpected darning-needles of pain that drove through his feet and legs, threatening to make his muscles knot and cramp. And Jesus, he thought, why not? They had been on the road for twenty-two hours. Twenty-two hour of nonstop walking, it was unbelievable.

“How do you feel now?” he asked Scramm, as if the last time he had asked him had been twelve hours ago.

“Fit and fine,” Scramm said. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose sniffed, and spat. “Just as fit and fine as can be.”

“You sound like you’re getting a cold.”

“Naw, it’s the pollen. Happens every spring. Hay fever. I even get it in Arizona. But I never catch colds.”

Garraty opened his mouth to reply when a hollow, poom poom sound echo back from far ahead. It was rifle fire. The word came back. Harkness had burnt out.

There was an odd, elevatorish sensation in Garraty’s stomach as he passed the word on back. The magic circle was broken. Harkness would never write his book about the Long Walk. Harkness was being dragged off the road someplace up ahead like a grain bag or was being tossed into a track, wrapped securely in a canvas bodybag. For Harkness, the Long Walk was over.

“Harkness,” McVries said. “Ol' Harkness bought a ticket to see the farm.”

“Why don’t you write him a poime?” Barkovitch called over.

“Shut up, killer,” McVries answered absently. He shook his head. “O1' 1ness, sonofabitch.”

“I ain’t no killer!” Barkovitch screamed. “I’ll dance on your grave,. scarface! I'll-”

A chorus of angry shouts silenced him. Muttering, Barkovitch glared at McVries. Then he began to stalk on a little faster, not looking around.

“You know what my uncle did?” Baker said suddenly. They were passing through a shady tunnel of overleafing trees, and Garraty was trying to forget about Harkness and Gribble and think only of the coolness.

“What?” Abraham asked.

“He was an undertaker,” Baker said.

“Good deal,” Abraham said disinterestedly.

“When I was a kid, I always used to wonder,” Baker said vaguely. He seemed to lose track of his thought, then glanced at Garraty and smiled. It was a peculiar smile. “Who’d embalm him, I mean. Like you wonder who cuts the barber’s hair or who operates on the doctor for gallstones. See?”

“It takes a lot of gall to be a doctor,” McVries said solemnly.

“You know what I mean.”

“So who got the call when the time came?” Abraham asked.

“Yeah,” Scramm added. “Who did?”

Baker looked up at the twining, heavy branches under which they were passing, and Garraty noticed again that Baker now looked exhausted. Not that we don’t all look that way, he added to himself.

“Come on,” McVries said. “Don’t keep us hanging. Who buried him?”

“This is the oldest joke in the world,” Abraham said. “Baker says, whatever made you think he was dead?”

“He is, though,” Baker said. “Lung cancer. Six years ago.”

“Did he smoke?” Abraham asked, waving at a family of four and their cat. The cat was on a leash. It was a Persian cat. It looked mean and pissed off.

“No, not even a pipe,” Baker said. “He was afraid it would give him cancer.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” McVries said, “who buried him? Tell us so we can discuss world problems, or baseball, or birth control or something.”

“I think birth control is a world problem,” Garraty said seriously. “My girlfriend is a Catholic and-”

“Come on!” McVries bellowed. “Who the fuck buried your grandfather, Baker?”

“My uncle. He was my uncle. My grandfather was a lawyer in Shreveport. “He-”

“I don’t give a shit,” McVries said. “I don’t give a shit if the old gentleman had three cocks, I just want to know who buried him so we can get on.”

“Actually, nobody buried him. He wanted to be cremated.”

“Oh my aching balls,” Abraham said, and then laughed a little.

“My aunt’s got his ashes in a ceramic vase. At her house in Baton Rouge. She tried to keep the business going-the undertaking business-but nobody much seemed to cotton to a lady undertaker.”

“I doubt if that was it,” McVries said.

“No?”

“No. I think your uncle jinxed her.”

“Jinx? How do you mean?” Baker was interested.

“Well, you have to admit it wasn’t a very good advertisement for the business.”

“What, dying?”

“No,” McVries said. “Getting cremated.”

Scramm chuckled stuffily through his plugged nose. “He’s got you there, old buddy.”