The Long Walk

The sidewalks were lined with people, but thinly lined. On the whole, Garraty was disappointed. He knew the real crowds would come further down the line, but it was still something of a wet firecracker. And poor old Curley had missed even this.

The Major’s jeep suddenly spurted out of a sidestreet and began pacing the main group. The vanguard was still some distance ahead.

A tremendous cheer went up. The Major nodded and smiled and waved to the crowd. Then he made a neat left-face and saluted the boys. Garraty felt a thrill go straight up his back. The Major’s sunglasses glinted in the early afternoon sunlight.

The Major raised the battery-powered loudhailer to his lips. “I’m proud of you, boys. Proud!”

From somewhere behind Garraty a voice said softly but clearly: “Diddly shit.”

Garraty turned his head, but there was no one back there but four or five boys watching the Major intently (one of them realized he was saluting and dropped his hand sheepishly), and Stebbins. Stebbins did not even seem to be looking at the Major.

The jeep roared ahead. A moment later the Major was gone again.

They reached downtown Limestone around twelve-thirty. Garraty was disappointed. It was pretty much of a one-hydrant town. There was a business section and three used-car lots and a McDonalds and a Burger King and a Pizza Hut and an industrial park and that was Limestone.

“It isn’t very big, is it?” Baker said.

Olson laughed.

“It’s probably a nice place to live,” Garraty said defensively.

“God spare me from nice places to live,” McVries said, but he was smiling.

“Well, what turns you on,” Garraty said lamely.

By one o’clock, Limestone was a memory. A small swaggering boy in patched denim overalls walked along with them for almost a mile, then sat down and watched them go by.

The country grew hillier. Garraty felt the first real sweat of the day coming out on him. His shirt was patched to his back. On his right, thunderheads were forming, but they were still far away. There was a light, circulating breeze, and that helped a little.

“What’s the next big town, Garraty?” McVries asked.

“Caribou, I guess.” He was wondering if Stebbins had eaten his last sandwich yet. Stebbins had gotten into his head like a snatch of pop music that goes around and around until you think you’re going to go crazy with it. It was one-thirty. The Long Walk had progressed through eighteen miles.

“How far’s that?” Garraty wondered what the record was for miles walked with only one Walker punched out. Eighteen miles seemed pretty good to him. Eighteen miles was a figure a man could be proud of. I walked eighteen miles. Eighteen.

“I said-” McVries began patiently.

“Maybe thirty miles from here.”

“Thirty,” Pearson said. “Jesus.”

“It’s a bigger town than Limestone,” Garraty said. He was still feeling defensive, God knew why. Maybe because so many of these boys would die here, maybe all of them. Probably all of them. Only six Long Walks in history had ended over the state line in New Hampshire, and only one had gotten into Massachusetts, and the experts said that was like Hank Aaron hitting seven hundred and thirty home runs, or whatever it was… a record that would never be equaled. Maybe he would die here, too. Maybe he would. But that was different. Native soil. He had an idea the Major would like that. “He died on his native soil.”

He tipped his canteen up and found it was empty. “Canteen!” he called. “47 calling for a canteen!”

One of the soldiers jumped off the halftrack and brought over a fresh canteen. When he turned away, Garraty touched the carbine slung over the soldier’s back. He did it furtively. But McVries saw him.

“Why’d you do that?”

Garraty grinned and felt confused. “I don’t know. Like knocking on wood, maybe.”

“You’re a dear boy, Ray,” McVries said, and then put on some speed and caught up with Olson, leaving Garraty to walk alone, feeling more confused than ever.

Number 93-Garraty didn’t know his name-walked past him on Garraty’s right. He was staring down at his feet and his lips moved soundlessly as he counted his paces. He was weaving slightly.

“Hi,” Garraty said.

93 cringed. There was a blankness in his eyes, the same blankness that had been in Curley’s eyes while he was losing his fight with the charley horse. He’s tired, Garraty thought. He knows it, and he’s scared. Garraty suddenly felt his stomach tip over and right itself slowly.

Their shadows walked alongside them now. It was quarter of two. Nine in the morning, cool, sitting on the grass in the shade, was a month back.