The Long Walk

He thought now of the patterns of light and shadow on the nearly perfect oval of her face, the way she walked, the lift and fall of her voice, the easy, desirable swing of one hip, and he wondered in terror what he was doing here, walking down this dark road. He wanted her now. He wanted to do it all over again, but differently. Now, when he thought of the Major’s tanned face, the salt-and-pepper mustache, the mirrored sunglasses, he felt a horror so deep it made his legs feel rubbery and weak. Why am I here? he asked himself desperately, and there was no answer, so he asked the question again: Why am-

The guns crashed in the darkness, and there was the unmistakable mailsack thud of a body falling on the concrete. The fear was on him again, the hot, throat-choking fear that made him want to run blindly, to dive into the bushes and just keep on running until he found Jan and safety.

McVries had Barkovitch to keep him going. He would concentrate on Jan. He would walk to Jan. They reserved space for Long Walkers' relatives and loved ones in the front lines. He would see her.

He thought about kissing that other girl and was ashamed.

How do you know you’ll make it? A cramp… blisters… a bad cut or a nosebleed that just won’t quit… a big hill that was just too big and too long. How do you know you’ll make it?

I’ll make it, I’ll make it.

“Congratulations,” McVries said at his shoulder, making him jump.

“Huh?”

“It’s midnight. We live to fight another day, Garraty.”

“And many of ’em,” Abraham added. “For me, that is. Not that I begrudge you, you understand.”

“A hundred and five miles to Oldtown, if you care,” Olson put in tiredly.

“Who gives a shit about Oldtown?” McVries demanded. “You ever been there, Garraty?”

“No.-

“How about Augusta? Christ, I thought that was in Georgia.”

“Yeah, I’ve been in Augusta. It’s the state capital-”

“Regional,” Abraham said.

“And the Corporate Governor’s mansion, and a couple of traffic circles, and a couple of movies-”

“You have those in Maine?” McVries asked.

“Well, it’s a small state capital, okay?” Garraty said, smiling.

“Wait’ll we hit Boston,” McVries said.

There were groans.

From up ahead there came cheers, shouts, and catcalls. Garraty was alarmed to hear his own name called out. Up ahead, about half a mile away, was a ramshackle farmhouse, deserted and fallen down. But a battered Klieg light had been plugged in somewhere, and a huge sign, lettered with pine boughs across the front of the house read:

GARRATY’s OUR MAN!!!

Aroostook County Parents' Association

“Hey, Garraty, where’s the parents?” someone yelled.

“Back home making kids,” Garraty said, embarrassed. There could be no doubt that Maine was Garraty country, but he found the signs and cheers and the gibes of the others all a little mortifying. He had found-among other things-in the last fifteen hours that he didn’t much crave the limelight. The thought of a million people all over the state rooting for him and laying bets on him (at twelve-to-one, the highway worker had said… was that good or bad?) was a little scary.

“You’d think they would have left a few plump, juicy parents lying around somewhere,” Davidson said.

“Poontang from the PTA?” Abraham asked.

The ribbing was halfhearted and didn’t last very long. The road killed most ribbing very quickly. They crossed another bridge, this time a cement one that spanned a good-sized river. The water rippled below them like black silk. A few crickets chirred cautiously, and around fifteen past midnight, a spatter of light, cold rain fell.

Up ahead, someone began to play a harmonica. It didn’t last long (Hint 6: Conserve Wind), but it was pretty for the moment it lasted. It sounded a little like Old Black Joe, Garraty thought. Down in de cornflel', here dat mournful sour'. All de darkies am aweeping, Ewing’s in de cole, cole groun'.

No, that wasn’t Old Black Joe, that tune was some other Stephen Foster racist classic. Good old Stephen Foster. Drank himself to death. So did Poe, it had been reputed. Poe the necrophiliac, the one who had married his fourteen-year-old cousin. That made him a pedophile as well. All-around depraved fellows, he and Stephen Foster both. If only they could have lived to see the Long Walk, Garraty thought. They could have collaborated on the world’s first Morbid Musical. Massa’s on De Cold, Cold Road, or The Tell-Tale Stride, or-