Stephen King - The Long Walk

“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. Up ahead a third warning was given out and a boy made a croaking, despairing sound, like a dying crow. Please God, don’t let them shoot anyone now, Garraty thought. I’ll go crazy if I hear the guns now. Please God, please God.

A few minutes later the guns rammed their steel-death sound into the night. This time it was a short boy in a flapping red and white football jersey. For a moment Garraty thought Percy’s mom would not have to wonder or worry anymore, but it wasn’t Percy-it was a boy named Quincy or Quentin or something like that.

Garraty didn’t go crazy. He turned around to say angry words at Stebbins-to ask him, perhaps, how it felt to inflict a boy’s last minutes with such a horror-but Stebbins had dropped back to his usual position and Garraty was alone again.

They walked on, the ninety of them.

At twenty minutes of ten on that endless May first, Garraty stuffed one of his two warnings. Two more Walkers had bought it since the boy in the football jersey. Garraty barely noticed. He was taking a careful inventory of himself.

One head, a little confused and crazied up, but basically okay. Two eyes, grainy. One neck, pretty stiff. Two arms, no problem there. One torso, okay except for a gnawing in his gut that concentrates couldn’t satisfy. Two damn tired legs. Muscles aching. He wondered how far his legs would carry him on their own-how long before his brain took them over and began punishing them, making them work past any sane limit, to keep a bullet from crashing into its own bony cradle. How long before the legs began to kink and then to bind up, to protest and finally to seize up and stop.

His legs were tired, but so far as he could tell, still pretty much okay.

And two feet. Aching. They were tender, no use denying it. He was a big boy. Those feet were shifting a hundred and sixty pounds back and forth. The soles ached. There were occasional strange shooting pains in them. His left great toe had poked through his sock (he thought of Stebbins’s tale and felt a kind of creeping horror at that), and had begun to tub uncomfortably against his shoe. But his feet were working, there were still no blisters on them, and he felt his feet were still pretty much okay, too.

Garraty, he pep-talked himself, you’re in good shape. Twelve guys dead, twice that many maybe hurting bad by now, but you’re okay. You’re going good. You’re great. You’re alive.

Conversation, which had died violently at the end of Stebbins’s story, picked up again. Talking was what living people did. Yannick, 98, was discussing the ancestry of the soldiers on the halftrack in an overloud voice with Wyman, 97. Both agreed that it was mixed, colorful, hirsute, and bastardized.

Pearson, meanwhile, abruptly asked Garraty: “Ever have an enema?”

“Enema?” Garraty repeated. He thought about it. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Any of you guys?” Pearson asked. “Tell the truth, now.”

“I did,” Harkness said, and chuckled a little. “My mother gave me one after Halloween once when I was little. I ate pretty near a whole shopping bag of candy.”

“Did you like it?” Pearson pressed.

“Hell, no! Who in hell would like a half a quart of warm soapsuds up your-”

“My little brother,” Pearson said sadly. “I asked the little snot if he was sorry I was going and he said no because Ma said he could have an enema if he was good and didn’t cry. He loves ’em.”

“That’s sickening,” Harkness said loudly.

'Pearson looked glum. “I thought so, too.”

A few minutes later Davidson joined the group and told them about the times he got drunk at the Steubenville State Fair and crawled into the hoochie-kooch tent and got biffed in the head by a big fat momma wearing nothing but a G-string. When Davidson told her (so he said) that he was drunk and thought it was the tattooing tent he was crawling into, the red hot big fat momma let him feel her up for a while (so he said). He had told her he wanted to get a Stars and Bars tattooed on his stomach.

Art Baker told them about a contest they’d had back home, to see who could light the biggest fart, and this hairy-assed old boy named Davey Popham had managed to burn off almost all the hair on his ass and the small of his back as well. Smelled like a grassfire, Baker said. This got Harkness laughing so hard he drew a warning.