The Long Walk

Garraty heard it and couldn’t believe it was true, but when he saw Travin he knew that it was. The boy was walking and holding his pants up at the same time. Every time he squatted he picked up a warning, and Garraty wondered sickly why Travin didn’t just let it roll down his legs. Better to be dirty than dead.
    Travin was bent over, walking like Stebbins with his sandwich, and every time he shuddered Garraty knew that another stomach cramp was ripping through him. Garraty felt disgusted. There was no fascination in this, no mystery. It was a boy with a bellyache, that was all, and it was impossible to feel anything but disgust and a kind of animal terror. His own stomach rolled queasily.
    The soldiers were watching Travin very carefully. Watching and waiting. Finally Travin half-squatted, half-fell, and the soldiers shot him with his pants down. Travin rolled over and grimaced at the sky, ugly and pitiful. Someone retched noisily and was warned. It sounded to Garraty as if he was spewing his belly up whole.
    “He’ll go next,” Harkness said in a business-like way.
    “Shut up,” Garraty choked thickly. “Can’t you just shut up?”
    No one replied. Harkness looked ashamed and began to polish his glasses again. The boy who vomited was not shot.
    They passed a group of cheering teenagers sitting on a blanket and drinking Cokes. They recognized Garraty and gave him a standing ovation. It made him feel uncomfortable. One of the girls had very large breasts. Her boyfriend was watching them jiggle as she jumped up and down. Garraty decided that he was turning in to a sex maniac.
    “Look at them jahoobies,” Pearson said. “Dear, dear me.”
    Garraty wondered if she was a virgin, like he was.
    They passed by a still, almost perfectly circular pond, faintly misted over. It looked like a gently clouded mirror, and in the mysterious tangle of water plants growing around the edge, a bullfrog croaked hoarsely. Garraty thought the pond was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.
    “This is one hell of a big state,” Barkovitch said someplace up ahead.
    “That guy gives me a royal pain in the ass,” McVries said solemnly. “Right now my one goal in life is to outlast him.”
    Olson was saying a Hail Mary.
    Garraty looked at him, alarmed.
    “How many warnings has he got?” Pearson asked.
    “None that I know of,” Baker said.
    “Yeah, but he don’t look so good.”
    “At this point, none of us do,” McVries said.
    Another silence fell. Garraty was aware for the first time that his feet hurt. Not just his legs, which had been troubling him for some time, but his feet. He noticed that he had been unconsciously walking on the outside of the soles, but every now and then he put a foot down flat and winced. He zipped his jacket all the way up and turned the collar against his neck. The air was still damp and raw.
    “Hey! Over there!” McVries said cheerfully.
    Garraty and the others looked to the left. They were passing a graveyard situated atop a small grassy knoll. A fieldstone wall surrounded it, and now the mist was creeping slowly around the leaning gravestones. An angel with a broken wing stared at them with empty eyes. A nuthatch perched atop a rust flaking flagholder left over from some patriotic holiday and looked them over perkily.
    “Our first boneyard,” McVries said. “It’s on your side. Ray, you lose all your points. Remember that game?”
    “You talk too goddam much,” Olson said suddenly.
    “What’s wrong with graveyards, Henry, old buddy? A fine and private place, as the poet said. A nice watertight casket—”
    “Just shut up!”
    “Oh, pickles,” McVries said. His scar flashed very white in the dying daylight. “You don’t really mind the thought of dying, do you, Olson? Like the poet also said, it ain’t the dying, it’s laying in the grave so long. Is that what’s bugging you, booby?” McVries began to trumpet. “Well, cheer up, Charlie! There’s a brighter day com—”
    “Leave him alone,” Baker said quietly.
    “Why should I? He’s busy convincing himself he can crap out any time he feels like it. That if he just lays down and dies, it won’t be as bad as everyone makes out. Well, I’m not going to let him get away with it.”
    “If he doesn’t die, you will,” Garraty said.
    “Yeah, I’m remembering,” McVries said, and gave Garraty his tight, slanted smile . . . only this time there was absolutely no humor in it at all. Suddenly McVries