The Long Walk

Here it was real and hard and tangible. But that early road, that nine in the morning road, was far back and meaningless.
    They were almost fifty miles into the Walk. The word came back that the Major would be by in his jeep to review them and make a short speech when they actually got to the fifty-mile point. Garraty thought that was most probably horseshit.
    They breasted a long, steep rise, and Garraty was tempted to take his jacket off again. He didn’t. He unzipped it, though, and then walked backward for a minute. The lights of Caribou twinkled at him, and he thought about Lot’s wife, who had looked back and turned into a pillar of salt.
    “Warning! Warning 47! Second warning, 47!”
    It took Garraty a moment to realize it was him. His second warning in ten minutes. He started to feel afraid again. He thought of the unnamed boy who had died because he had slowed down once too often. Was that what he was doing?
    He looked around. McVries, Harkness, Baker and Olson were all staring at him. Olson was having a particularly good look. He could make out the intent expression on Olson’s face even in the dark. Olson had outlasted six. He wanted to make Garraty lucky seven. He wanted Garraty to die.
    “See anything green?” Garraty asked irritably.
    “No,” Olson said, his eyes sliding away. “Course not.”
    Garraty walked with determination now, his arms swinging aggressively. It was twenty to nine. At twenty to eleven—eight miles down the road—he would be free again. He felt an hysterical urge to proclaim he could do it, they needn’t send the word back on him, they weren’t going to watch him get a ticket . . . at least not yet.
    The groundfog spread across the road in thin ribbons, like smoke. The shapes of the boys moved through it like dark islands somehow set adrift. At fifty miles into the Walk they passed a small, shut-up garage with a rusted-out gas pump in front. It was little more than an ominous, leaning shape in the fog. The clear fluorescent light from a telephone booth cast the only glow. The Major didn’t come. No one came.
    The road dipped gently around a curve, and then there was a yellow road sign ahead. The word came back, but before it got to Garraty he could read the sign for himself:
    STEEP GRADE TRUCKS USE LOW GEAR
    Groans and moans. Somewhere up ahead Barkovitch called out merrily: “Step into it, brothers! Who wants to race me to the top?”
    “Shut your goddam mouth, you little freak,” someone said quietly.
    “Make me, Dumbo!” Barkovitch shrilled. “Come on up here and make me!”
    “He’s crackin’,” Baker said.
    “No,” McVries replied. “He’s just stretching. Guys like him have an awful lot of stretch.”
    Olson’s voice was deadly quiet. “I don’t think I can climb that hill. Not at four miles an hour.”
    The hill stretched above them. They were almost to it now. With the fog it was impossible to see the top. For all we know, it might just go up forever, Garraty thought.
    They started up.
    It wasn’t as bad, Garraty discovered, if you stared down at your feet as you walked and leaned forward a little. You stared strictly down at the tiny patch of pavement between your feet and it gave you the impression that you were walking on level ground. Of course, you couldn’t kid yourself that your lungs and the breath in your throat weren’t heating up, because they were.
    Somehow, the word started coming back—some people still had breath to spare, apparently. The word was that this hill was a quarter of a mile long. The word was it was two miles long. The word was that no Walker had ever gotten a ticket on this hill. The word was that three boys had gotten tickets here just last year. And after that, the word stopped coming back.
    “I can’t do it,” Olson was saying monotonously. “I can’t do it anymore.” His breath was coming in doglike pants. But he kept on walking and they all kept on walking. Little grunting noises and soft, plosive breathing became audible. The only other sounds were Olson’s chant, the scuff of many feet, and the grinding, ratcheting sound of the halftrack’s engine as it chugged along beside them.
    Garraty felt the bewildered fear in his stomach grow. He could actually die here. It wouldn’t be hard at all. He had screwed around and had gotten two warnings on him already. He couldn’t be much over the limit right now. All he had to do was slip his pace a little and he’d have number three—final warning. And