The Long Walk

conservative estimate because they had been walking for just over three years. He giggled a little, took another mouthful of water, sloshed it around in his mouth, and then swallowed it. No cramps. A cramp would finish him now. But it could happen. It could happen because someone had dipped his shoes in liquid lead while he wasn’t looking.
    Nine gone, and a third of them had gotten it right here on this hill. The Major had told Olson to give them hell, and if this wasn’t hell, it was a pretty good approximation. A pretty good . . .
    Oh boy—
    Garraty was suddenly aware that he felt quite giddy, as if he might faint himself. He brought one hand up and slapped himself across the face, backward and forward, hard.
    “You all right?” McVries asked.
    “Feel faint.”
    “Pour your . . .” Quick, whistling breath, “. . . canteen over your head.”
    Garraty did it. I christen thee Raymond Davis Garraty, pax vobiscum. The water was very cold. He stopped feeling faint. Some of the water trickled down inside his shirt in freezing cold rivulets. “Canteen! 47!” he shouted. The effort of the shout left him feeling drained all over again. He wished he had waited awhile.
    One of the soldiers jog-trotted over to him and handed him a fresh canteen. Garraty could feel the soldier’s expressionless marble eyes sizing him up. “Get away,” he said rudely, taking the canteen. “You get paid to shoot me, not to look at me.”
    The soldier went away with no change of expression. Garraty made himself walk a little faster.
    They kept climbing and no one else got it and then they were at the top. It was nine o’clock. They had been on the road twelve hours. It didn’t mean anything. The only thing that mattered was the cool breeze blowing over the top of the hill. And the sound of a bird. And the feel of his damp shirt against his skin. And the memories in his head. Those things mattered, and Garraty clung to them with desperate awareness. They were his things and he still had them.
    “Pete?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Man, I’m glad to be alive.”
    McVries didn’t answer. They were on the downslope now. Walking was easy.
    “I’m going to try hard to stay alive,” Garraty said, almost apologetically.
    The road curved gently downward. They were still a hundred and fifteen miles from Oldtown and the comparative levelness of the turnpike.
    “That’s the idea, isn’t it?” McVries asked finally. His voice sounded cracked and cobwebby, as if it had issued from a dusty cellar.
    Neither of them said anything for a while. No one was talking. Baker ambled steadily along—he hadn’t drawn a warning yet—with his hands in his pockets, his head nodding slightly with the flat-footed rhythm of his walk. Olson had gone back to Hail Mary, full of grace. His face was a white splotch in the darkness. Harkness was eating.
    “Garraty,” McVries said.
    “I’m here.”
    “You ever see the end of a Long Walk?”
    “No, you?”
    “Hell, no. I just thought, you being close to it and all—”
    “My father hated them. He took me to one as a what-do-you-call-it, object lesson. But that was the only time.”
    “I saw.”
    Garraty jumped at the sound of that voice. It was Stebbins. He had pulled almost even with them, his head still bent forward, his blond hair flapping around his ears like a sickly halo.
    “What was it like?” McVries asked. His voice was younger somehow.
    “You don’t want to know,” Stebbins said.
    “I asked, didn’t I?”
    Stebbins made no reply, Garraty’s curiosity about him was stronger than ever. Stebbins hadn’t folded up. He showed no signs of folding up. He went on without complaint and hadn’t been warned since the starting line.
    “Yeah, what’s it like?” he heard himself asking.
    “I saw the end four years ago,” Stebbins said. “I was thirteen. It ended about sixteen miles over the New Hampshire border. They had the National Guard out and Sixteen Federal Squads to augment the State Police. They had to. The people were packed sixty deep on both sides of the road for fifty miles. Over twenty people were trampled to death before it was all over. It happened because people were trying to move with the Walkers, trying to see the end of it. I had a front-row seat. My dad got it for me.”
    “What does your dad do?” Garraty asked.
    “He’s in the Squads. And he had it figured just right. I didn’t even have to move. The Walk ended practically in front of me.”
    “What happened?” Olson