Stephen King - The Long Walk

“If he doesn’t die, you will,” Garraty said.

“Yeah, I’m remembering,” McVries said, and gave Garraty his tight, slanted smile… only this time there was absolutely no humor in it at all. Suddenly McVries looked furious, and Garraty was almost afraid of him. “He’s the one that’s forgetting. This turkey here.”

“I don’t want to do it anymore,” Olson said hollowly. “I’m sick of it.”

“Raring to rip,” McVries said, turning on him. “Isn’t that what you said? Fuck it, then. Why don’t you just fall down and die then?”

“Leave him alone,” Garraty said.

“Listen, Ray-”

“No, you listen. One Barkovitch is enough. Let him do it his own way. No musketeers, remember.”

McVries smiled again. “Okay, Garraty. You win.”

Olson didn’t say anything. He just kept picking them up and laying them down.

Full dark had come by six-thirty. Caribou, now only six miles away, could be seen on the horizon as a dim glow. There were few people along the road to see them into town. They seemed to have all gone home to supper. The mist was chilly around Ray Garraty’s feet. It hung over the hills in ghostly limp banners. The stars were coming brighter overhead, Venus glowing steadily, the Dipper in its accustomed place. He had always been good at the constellations. He pointed out Cassiopeia to Pear-son, who only grunted.

He thought about Jan, his girl, and felt a twinge of guilt about the girl he had kissed earlier. He couldn’t remember exactly what that girl had looked like anymore, but she had excited him. Putting his hand on her ass like that had excited him-what would have happened if he had tried to put his hand between her legs? He felt a clockspring of pressure in his groin that made him wince a little as he walked.

Jan had long hair, almost to her waist. She was sixteen. Her breasts were not as big as those of the girl who had kissed him. He had played with her breasts a lot. It drove him crazy. She wouldn’t let him make love to her, and he didn’t know how to make her. She wanted to, but she wouldn’t. Garraty knew that some boys could do that, could get a girl to go along, but he didn’t seem to have quite enough personality-or maybe not quite enough will-to convince her. He wondered how many of the others here were virgins. Gribble had called the Major a murderer. He wondered if Gribble was a virgin. He decided Gribble probably was.

They passed the Caribou city limits. There was a large crowd there, and a news snick from one of the networks. A battery of lights bathed the road in a warm white glare. It was like walking into a sudden warm lagoon of sunlight, wading through it, and then emerging again.

A fat newspaperman in a three-piece suit trotted along with them, poking his long-reach microphone at different Walkers. Behind him, two technicians busily unreeled a drum of electric cable.

“How do you feel?”

“Okay. I guess I feel okay.”

“Feeling tired?”

“Yeah, well, you know. Yeah. But I’m still okay.”

“What do you think your chances are now?”

“I dunno… okay, I guess. I still feel pretty strong.”

He asked a big bull of a fellow, Scramm, what he thought of the Long Walk. Scramm grinned, said he thought it was the biggest fucking thing he’d ever seen, and the reporter made snipping motions with his fingers at the two technicians. One of them nodded back wearily.

Shortly afterward he ran out of microphone cable and began wending his way back toward the mobile unit, trying to avoid the tangles of unreeled cord. The crowd, drawn as much by the TV crew as by the Long Walkers themselves, cheered enthusiastically. Posters of the Major were raised and lowered rhythmically on sticks so raw and new they were still bleeding sap. When the cameras panned over them, they cheered more frantically than ever and waved to Aunt Betty and Uncle Fred.

They rounded a bend and passed a small shop where the owner, a little man wearing stained whites, had set up a soft drink cooler with a sign over it which read: ON THE HOUSE FOR THE LONG WALKERS!! COURTESY OF “EV’s” MARKET! A police cruiser was parked close by, and two policemen were patiently explaining to Ev, as they undoubtedly did every year, that it was against the rules for spectators to offer any kind of aid or assistance-including soft drinks-to the Walkers.

They passed by the Caribou Paper Mills, Inc., a huge, soot-blackened building on a dirty river. The workers were lined up against the cyclone fences, cheering good-naturedly and waving. A whistle blew as the last of the Walkers-Stebbins passed by, and Garraty, looking back over his shoulder, saw them trooping inside again.

“Did he ask you?” a strident voice inquired of Garraty. With a feeling of great weariness, Garraty looked down at Gary Barkovitch.

“Did who ask me what?”

“The reporter, Dumbo. Did he ask you how you felt?”

“No, he didn’t get to me.” He wished Barkovitch would go away. He wished the throbbing pain in the soles of his feet would go away.

“They asked me,” Barkovitch said. “You know what I told them?”

“Huh-uh.”

“I told them I felt great,” Barkovitch said aggressively. The rainhat was still flopping in his back pocket. “I told them I felt real strong. I told them I felt prepared to go on forever. And do you know what else I told them?”

“Oh, shut up,” Pearson said.

“Who asked you, long, tall and ugly?” Barkovitch said.

“Go away,” McVries said. “You give me a headache.”

Insulted once more, Barkovitch moved on up the line and grabbed Collie Parker. “Did he ask you what-”

“Get out of here before I pull your fucking nose off and make you eat it,” Collie Parker snarled. Barkovitch moved on quickly. The word on Collie Parker was that he was one mean son of a bitch.

“That guy drives me up the wall,” Pearson said.

“He’d be glad to hear it,” McVries said. “He likes it. He also told that reporter that he planned to dance on a lot of graves. He means it, too. That’s what keeps him going.”

“Next time he comes around I think I’ll trip him,” Olson said. His voice sounded dull and drained.

“Tut-tut,” McVries said. “Rule 8, no interference with your fellow Walkers.”

“You know what you can do with Rule 8,” Olson said with a pallid smile.

“Watch out,” McVries grinned, “you’re starting to sound pretty lively again.”

By 7 PM the pace, which had been lagging very close to the minimum limit, began to pick up a little. It was cool and if you walked faster you kept warmer. They passed beneath a turnpike overpass, and several people cheered them around mouthfuls of Dunkin’ Donuts from the glass-walled shop situated near the base of the exit ramp.

“We join up with the turnpike someplace, don’t we?” Baker asked.

“In Oldtown,” Garraty said. “Approximately one hundred and twenty miles.”

Harkness whistled through his teeth.

Not long after that, they walked into downtown Caribou. They were forty-four miles from their starting point.

Everyone was disappointed with Caribou.

It was just like Limestone.

The crowds were bigger, but otherwise it was just another mill-pulp-and-service town with a scattering of stores and gas stations, one shopping center that was having, according to the signs plastered everywhere, OUR ANNUAL WALK-IN FOR VALUES SALE!, and a park with a war memorial in it. A small, evil-sounding high school band struck up the National Anthem, then a medley of Sousa marches, and then, with taste so bad it was almost grisly, Marching to Pretoria.