Stephen King: The Long Walk

Shortly after, the aqueous symphony of dawn began. The last day of the Walk came up wet and overcast. The wind howled down the almost-empty alley of the road like a lost dog being whipped through a strange and terrible place.

The concentrates were being passed out for the fifth and last time. It took only one of the soldiers to pass them out now. There were only nine Walkers left. Some of them looked at the belts dully, as if they had never seen such things, and let them slide out of their hands like slippery snakes. It took Garraty what seemed like hours to make his hands go through the complicated ritual of snapping the belt closed around his waist, and the thought of eating made his cramped and shriveled stomach feel ugly and nauseated.

Stebbins was now walking beside him. My guardian angel, Garraty thought wryly. As Garraty watched, Stebbins smiled widely and crammed two crackers smeared with peanut butter into his mouth. He ate noisily. Garraty felt sick.

“Wassa matter?” Stebbins asked around his sticky mouthful. “Can’t take it?”

“What business is it of yours?”

Stebbins swallowed with what looked to Garraty like real effort. “None. If you faint from malnutrition, all the better for me.”

“We’re going to make it into Massachusetts, I think,” McVries said sickly.

Stebbins nodded. “The first Walk to do it in seventeen years. They’ll go crazy.”

“How do you know so much about the Long Walk?” Garraty asked abruptly.

Stebbins shrugged. “It’s all on record. They don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Now do they?”

“What’ll you do if you win, Stebbins?” McVries asked.

Stebbins laughed. In the rain, his thin, fuzzed face, lined with fatigue, looked lionlike. “What do you think? Get a big yella Cadillac with a purple top and a color TV with stereo speakers for every room of the house?”

“I’d expect,” McVries said, “that you’d donate two or three hundred grand to the Society for Intensifying Cruelty to Animals.”

“Abraham looked like a sheep,” Garraty said abruptly. “Like a sheep caught on barbed wire. That’s what I thought.”

They passed under a huge banner that proclaimed they were now only fifteen miles from the Massachusetts border-there was really not much of New Hampshire along U.S. 1, only a narrow neck of land separating Maine and Massachusetts.

“ Garraty,” Stebbins said amiably, “why don’t you go have sex with your mother?”

“Sorry, you’re not pushing the right button anymore.” He deliberately selected a bar of chocolate from his belt and crammed it whole into his mouth. His stomach knotted furiously, but he swallowed the chocolate. And after a short, tense struggle with his own insides, he knew he was going to keep it down. “I figure I can walk another full day if I have to,” he said casually, “and another two if I need to. Resign yourself to it, Stebbins. Give up the old psy-war. It doesn’t work. Have some more crackers and peanut butter.”

Stebbins’s mouth pursed tightly-just for a moment, but Garraty saw it. He had gotten under Stebbins’s skin. He felt an incredible surge of elation. The mother lode at last.

“Come on, Stebbins,” he said. “Tell us why you’re here. Seeing as how we won’t be together much longer. Tell us. Just between the three of us, now that we know you’re not Superman.”

Stebbins opened his mouth and with shocking abruptness he threw up the crackers and peanut butter he had eaten, almost whole and seemingly untouched by digestive juices. He staggered, anti for only the second time since the Walk began, he was warned.

Garraty felt hard blood drumming in his head. “Come on, Stebbins. You’ve thrown up. Now own up. Tell us.”

Stebbins’s face had gone the color of old cheesecloth, but he had his composure back. “Why am I here? You want to know?”

McVries was looking at him curiously. No one was near; the closest was Baker, who was wandering along the edge of the crowd, looking intently into its mass face.

“Why am I here or why do I walk? Which do you want to know?”

“I want to know everything,” Garraty said. It was only the truth.

“I’m the rabbit,” Stebbins said. The rain fell steadily, dripping off their noses, hanging in droplets on their earlobes like earrings. Up ahead a barefoot boy, his feet purple patchworks of burst veins, went to his knees, crawled along with his head bobbing madly up and down, tried to get up, fell, and finally made it. He plunged onward. It was Pastor, Garraty noted with some amazement. Still with us.

“I’m the rabbit,” Stebbins repeated. “You’ve seen them, Garraty. The little gray mechanical rabbits that the greyhounds chase at the dog races. No matter how fast the dogs run, they can never quite catch the rabbit. Because the rabbit isn’t flesh and blood and they are. The rabbit, he’s just a cutout on a stick attached to a bunch of cogs and wheels. In the old days, in England, they used to use a real rabbit, but sometimes the dogs caught it. More reliable the new way.”

“He fooled me.”

Stebbins’s pale blue eyes stared into the falling rain.

“Maybe you could even say… he conjured me. He changed me into a rabbit. Remember the one in Alice in Wonderland? But maybe you’re right, Garraty. Time to stop being rabbits and grunting pigs and sheep and to be people… even if we can only rise to the level of whore-masters and the perverts in the balconies of the theaters on 42nd Street.” Stebbins’s eyes grew wild and gleeful, and now he looked at Garraty and McVries-and they flinched away from that stare. Stebbins was crazy. In that instant there could be no doubt of it. Stebbins was totally mad.

His low-pitched voice rose to a pulpit shout.

“How come I know so much about the Long Walk? I know all about the Long Walk! I ought to! The Major is my father, Garraty! He’s my father!”

The crowd’s voice rose in a mindless cheer that was mountainous and mindless in its intensity; they might have been cheering what Stebbins had said, if they could have heard it. The guns blasted. That was what the crowd was cheering. The guns blasted and Pastor rolled over dead.

Garraty felt a crawling in his guts and scrotum.

“Oh my God,” McVries said. “Is it true?” He ran his tongue over his cracked lips.

“It’s true,” Stebbins said, almost genially, “I’m his bastard. You see… I didn’t think he knew. I didn’t think he knew I was his son. That was where I made my mistake. He’s a randy old sonofabitch, is the Major. I understand he’s got dozens of little bastards. What I wanted was to spring it on him-spring it on the world. Surprise, surprise. And when I won, the Prize I was going to ask for was to be taken into my father’s house.”

“But he knew everything?” McVries whispered.

“He made me his rabbit. A little gray rabbit to make the rest of the dogs run faster… and further. And I guess it worked. We’re going to make it into Massachusetts.”

“And now?” Garraty asked.

Stebbins shrugged. “The rabbit turns out to be flesh and blood after all. I walk. I talk. And I suppose if all this doesn’t end soon, I’ll be crawling on my belly like a reptile.”

They passed under a heavy brace of power lines. A number of men in climbing boots clung to the support posts, above the crowd, like grotesque praying mantises.

“What time is it?” Stebbins asked. His face seemed to have melted in the rain. It had become Olson’s face, Abraham’s face, Barkovitch’s face… then, terribly, Garraty’s own face, hopeless and drained, sunken and crenellated in on itself, the face of a rotten scarecrow in a long-since-harvested field.