Stephen King - The Long Walk

Garraty looked at his watch and was surprised to find it was quarter of five. He showed McVries the dial.

“How many miles? Any idea?”

“About eighty, I make it. And twenty-seven down. We’re a quarter of the way home, Pete.”

“Yeah.” McVries smiled. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Damn right.”

“You feel better?” Garraty asked.

“About one thousand per cent.”

“So do I. I think it’s the daylight.”

“My God, I bet we see some people today. Did you read that article in World’s Week about the Long Walk?”

“Skimmed it,” Garraty said. “Mostly to see my name in print.”

“Said that over two billion dollars gets bet on the Long Walk every year. Two billion!”

Baker had awakened from his own doze and had joined them. “We used to have a pool in my high school,” he said. “Everybody’d kick in a quarter, and then we’d each pick a three-digit number out of a hat. And the guy holdin’ the number closest to the last mile of the Walk, he got the money.”

“Olson!” McVries yelled over cheerily. “Just think of all the cash riding on you, boy! Think of the people with a bundle resting right on your skinny ass!”

Olson told him in a tired, washed-out voice that the people with a bundle wagered on his skinny ass could perform two obscene acts upon themselves, the second proceeding directly from the first. McVries, Baker, and Garraty laughed.

“Be a lotta pretty girls on the road today,” Baker said, eyeing Garraty roguishly.

“I’m all done with that stuff,” Garraty said. “I got a girl up ahead. I’m going to be a good boy from now on.”

“Sinless in thought, word, and deed,” McVries said sententiously.

Garraty shrugged. “See it any way you like,” he said.

“Chances are a hundred to one against you ever having a chance to do more than wave to her again,” McVries said flatly.

“Seventy-three to one now.”

“Still pretty high.”

But Garraty’s good humor was solid. “I feel like I could walk forever,” he said blandly. A couple of the Walkers around him grimaced.

They passed an all-night gas station and the attendant came out to wave. Just about everyone waved back. The attendant was calling encouragement to Wayne, 94, in particular.

“Garraty,” McVries said quietly.

“What?”

“I couldn’t tell all the guys that bought it. Could you?”

'No.”

“Barkovitch?”

“No. Up ahead. In front of Scramm. See him?”

McVries looked. “Oh. Yeah, I think I do.”

“Stebbins is still back there, too.”

“Not surprised. Funny guy, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

There was silence between them. McVries sighed deeply, then unshouldered his knapsack and pulled out some macaroons. He offered one to Garraty, who took one. “I wish this was over,” he said. “One way or the other.”

They ate their macaroons in silence.

“We must be halfway to Oldtown, huh?” McVries said. “Eighty down, eighty to go?”

“I guess so,” Garraty said.

“Won’t get there until tonight, then.”

The mention of night made Garraty’s flesh crawl. “No,” he said. Then, abruptly: “How’d you get that scar, Pete?”

McVries’s hand went involuntarily to his cheek and the scar. “It’s a long story,” he said briefly.

Garraty took a closer look at him. His hair was rumpled and clotty with dust and sweat. His clothes were limp and wrinkled. His face was pallid and his eyes were deeply circled in their bloodshot orbs.

“You look like shit,” he said, and suddenly burst out laughing.

McVries grinned. “You don’t exactly look like a deodorant ad yourself, Ray.”

They both laughed then, long and hysterically, clutching each other and trying to keep walking at the same time. It was as good a way as any to put an end to the night once and for all. It went on until Garraty and McVries were both warned. They stopped laughing and talking then, and settled into the day’s business.

Thinking, Garraty thought. That’s the day’s business. Thinking. Thinking and isolation, because it doesn’t matter if you pass the time of day with someone or not; in the end, you’re alone. He seemed to have put in as many miles in his brain as he had with his feet. The thoughts kept coming and there was no way to deny them. It was enough to make you wonder what Socrates had thought about right after he had tossed off his hemlock cocktail.

At a little past five o’clock they passed their first clump of bona fide spectators, four little boys sitting cross-legged like Indians outside a pup tent in a dewy field. One was still wrapped up in his sleeping bag, as solemn as an Eskimo. Their hands went back and forth like timed metronomes. None of them smiled.

Shortly afterward, the road forked into another, larger road. This one was a smooth, wide expanse of asphalt, three lanes wide. They passed a truck-stop restaurant, and everyone whistled and waved at the three young waitresses sitting on the steps, just to show them they were still starchy. The only one who sounded halfway serious was Collie Parker.

“Friday night,” Collie yelled loudly. “Keep it in mind. You and me, Friday night.”

Garraty thought they were all acting a little immature, but he waved politely and the waitresses seemed not to mind. The Walkers spread out across the wider road as more of them came fully awake to the May 2nd morning sunshine. Garraty caught sight of Barkovitch again and wondered if Barkovitch wasn’t really one of the smart ones. With no friends you had no grief.

A few minutes later the word came back, and this time the word was a knock-knock joke. Bruce Pastor, the boy just in front of Garraty, turned around to Garraty and said, “Knock, knock, Garraty.”

“Who’s there?”

“Major.”

“Major who?”

“Major buggers his mother before breakfast,” Bruce Pastor said, and laughed uproariously. Garraty chuckled and passed it back to McVries, who passed it to Olson. When the joke came back the second time, the Major was buggering his grandmother before breakfast. The third time he was buggering Sheila, the Bedlington terrier that appeared with him in so many of his press releases.

Garraty was still laughing over that one when he noticed that McVries’s laughter had tapered off and disappeared. He was staring with an odd fixity at the wooden-faced soldiers atop the halftrack. They were staring back impassively.

“You think that’s funny?” he yelled suddenly. The sound of his shout cut cleanly through the laughter and silenced it. McVries’s face was dark with suffused blood. The scar stood out in dead white contrast, like a slashed exclamation mark, and for one fear-filled moment Garraty thought he was having a stroke.

“Major buggers himself, that’s what I think!” McVries cried hoarsely. “You guys, you probably bugger each other. Pretty funny, huh? Pretty funny, you bunch of motherfuckers, right? Pretty goddam FUNNY, am I right?”

Other Walkers stared uneasily at McVries and then eased away.

McVries suddenly ran at the halftrack. Two of the three soldiers raised their guns to high port, ready, but McVries halted, halted dead, and raised his fists at them, shaking them above his head like a mad conductor.

“ Come on down here! Put down those rifles and come on down here! I’ll show you what’s funny!”

“ Warning,” one of them said in a perfectly neutral voice. “Warning 61. Second warning.”

Oh my God, Garraty thought numbly. He’s going to get it and he’s so close… so close to them… he’ll fly through the air just like Freaky D'Allessio. McVries broke into a run, caught up with the halftrack, stopped, and spat on the side of it. The spittle cut a clean streak through the dust on the side of the halftrack.