The long walk

The sound of the halftrack was quiet, almost soothing. Garraty let his head drop forward and semi-dozed as he walked. Somewhere up ahead was Freeport. Not tonight or tomorrow, though. Lot of steps. Long way to go. He found himself still with too many questions and not enough answers. The whole Walk seemed nothing but one looming question mark. He told himself that a thing like this must have some deep meaning. Surely it was so. A thing like this must provide an answer to every question; it was just a matter of keeping your foot on the throttle. Now if he could only—

He put his foot down in a puddle of water and started fully awake again. Pearson looked at him quizzically and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “You know that guy that fell down and cut himself when we were crossing the tracks?”

“Yeah. It was Zuck, wasn't it?”

“Yeah. I just heard he's still bleeding.”

“How far to Caribou, Maniac?” somebody asked him. Garraty looked around. It was Barkovitch. He had tucked his rainhat into his back pocket where it flapped obscenely.

“How the hell should I know?”

“You live here, don't you?”

“It's about seventeen miles,” McVries told him. “Now go peddle your papers, little man.”

Barkovitch put on his insulted look and moved away.

“He's some hot ticket,” Garraty said.

“Don't let him get under your skin,” McVries replied. “Just concentrate on walking him into the ground.”

“Okay, coach.”

McVries patted Garraty on the shoulder. “You're going to win this one for the Gipper, my boy.”

“It seems like we've been walking forever, doesn't it?”

“Yeah.”

Garraty licked his lips, wanting to express himself and not knowing just how. “Did you ever hear that bit about a drowning man's life passing before his eyes?”

“I think I read it once. Or heard someone say it in a movie.”

“Have you ever thought that might happen to us? On the Walk?”

McVries pretended to shudder. “Christ, I hope not.”

Garraty was silent for a moment and then said, “Do you think . . never mind. The hell with it.”

“No, go on. Do I think what?”

“Do you think we could live the rest of our lives on this road? That's what I meant. The part we would have had if we hadn't... you know.”

McVries fumbled in his pocket and came up with a package of Mellow cigarettes. “Smoke?”

“I don't.”

“Neither do I,” McVries said, and then put a cigarette into his mouth. He found a book of matches with a tomato sauce recipe on it. He lit the cigarette, drew smoke in, and coughed it out. Garraty thought of Hint 10: Save your wind. If you smoke ordinarily, try not to smoke on the Long Walk.

“I thought I'd learn,” McVries said defiantly.

“It's crap, isn't it?” Garraty said sadly.

McVries looked at him, surprised, and then threw the cigarette away. “Yeah,” he said. “I think it is.”

The rainbow was gone by four o'clock. Davidson, 8, dropped back with them. He was a good-looking boy except for the rash of acne on his forehead. “That guy Zuck's really hurting,” Davidson said. He had had a packsack the last time Garraty saw him, but he noticed that at some point Davidson had cast it away.

“Still bleeding?” McVries asked.

“Like a stuck pig.” Davidson shook his head. “It's funny the way things turn out, isn't it? You fall down any other time, you get a little scrape. He needs stitches.” He pointed to the road. “Look at that.”

Garraty looked and saw tiny dark spots on the drying hardtop. “Blood?”

“It ain't molasses,” Davidson said grimly.

“Is he scared?” Olson asked in a dry voice.

“He says he doesn't give a damn,” Davidson said. “But I'm scared.” His eyes were wide and gray. “I'm scared for all of us.”

They kept on walking. Baker pointed out another Garraty sign.

“Hot shit,” Garraty said without looking up. He was following the trail of Zuck's blood, like Dan's bone tracking a wounded Indian. It weaved slowly back and forth across the white line.

“McVries,” Olson said. His voice had gotten softer in the last couple of hours. Garraty had decided he liked Olson in spite of Olson's brass-balls outer face. He didn't like to see Olson getting scared, but there could be no doubt that he was.

“What?” McVries said.

“It isn't going away. That baggy feeling I told you about. It isn't going away.”

McVries didn't say anything. The scar on his face looked very white in the light of the setting sun.

“It feels like my legs could just collapse. Like a bad foundation. That won't happen, will it? Will it?” Olson's voice had gotten a little shrill.

McVries didn't say anything.

“Could I have a cigarette?” Olson asked. His voice was low again.

“Yeah. You can keep the pack.”

Olson lit one of the Mellows with practiced ease, cupping the match, and thumbed his nose at one of the soldiers watching him from the halftrack. “They've been giving me the old hairy eyeball for the last hour or so. They've got a sixth sense about it.” He raised his voice again. “You like it, don't you, fellas? You like it, right? That goddam right, is it?”