The Long Walk

asked softly.
    “I could hear them coming before I could see them. We all could. It was one big soundwave, getting closer and closer. And it was still an hour before they got close enough to see. They weren’t looking at the crowd, either of the two that were left. It was like they didn’t even know the crowd was there. What they were looking at was the road. They were hobbling along, both of them. Like they had been crucified and then taken down and made to walk with the nails still through their feet.”
    They were all listening to Stebbins now. A horrified silence had fallen like a rubber sheet.
    “The crowd was yelling at them, almost as if they could still hear. Some were yelling one guy’s name, and some were yelling the other guy’s, but the only thing that really came through was this Go . . . Go . . . Go chant. I was getting shoved around like a beanbag. The guy next to me either pissed himself or jacked off in his pants, you couldn’t tell which.
    “They walked right past me. One of them was a big blond with his shirt open. One of his shoe soles had come unglued or unstitched or whatever, and it was flapping. The other guy wasn’t even wearing his shoes anymore. He was in his stocking feet. His socks ended at his ankles. The rest of them . . . why, he’d just walked them away, hadn’t he? His feet were purple. You could see the broken blood vessels in his feet. I don’t think he really felt it anymore. Maybe they were able to do something with his feet later, I don’t know. Maybe they were.”
    “Stop. For God’s sake, stop it.” It was McVries. He sounded dazed and sick.
    “You wanted to know,” Stebbins said, almost genially. “Didn’t you say that?”
    No answer. The halftrack whined and clattered and spurted along the shoulder, and somewhere farther up someone drew a warning.
    “It was the big blond that lost. I saw it all. They were just a little past me. He threw both of his arms up, like he was Superman. But instead of flying he just fell flat on his face and they gave him his ticket after thirty seconds because he was walking with three. They were both walking with three.
    “Then the crowd started to cheer. They cheered and they cheered and then they could see that the kid that won was trying to say something. So they shut up. He had fallen on his knees, you know, like he was going to pray, only he was just crying. And then he crawled over to the other boy and put his face in that big blond kid’s shirt. Then he started to say whatever it was he had to say, but we couldn’t hear it. He was talking into the dead kid’s shirt. He was telling the dead kid. Then the soldiers rushed out and told him he had won the Prize, and asked him how he wanted to start.”
    “What did he say?” Garraty asked. It seemed to him that with the question he had laid his whole life on the line.
    “He didn’t say anything to them, not then,” Stebbins said. “He was talking to the dead kid. He was telling the dead kid something, but we couldn’t hear it.”
    “What happened then?” Pearson asked.
    “I don’t remember,” Stebbins said remotely.
    No one said anything. Garraty felt a panicked, trapped sensation, as if someone had stuffed him into an underground pipe that was too small to get out of. Up ahead a third warning was given out and a boy made a croaking, despairing sound, like a dying crow. Please God, don’t let them shoot anyone now, Garraty thought. I’ll go crazy if I hear the guns now. Please God, please God.
    A few minutes later the guns rammed their steel-death sound into the night. This time it was a short boy in a flapping red and white football jersey. For a moment Garraty thought Percy’s mom would not have to wonder or worry anymore, but it wasn’t Percy—it was a boy named Quincy or Quentin or something like that.
    Garraty didn’t go crazy. He turned around to say angry words at Stebbins—to ask him, perhaps, how it felt to inflict a boy’s last minutes with such a horror—but Stebbins had dropped back to his usual position and Garraty was alone again.
    They walked on, the ninety of them.

Chapter 5
    “You did not tell the truth and so you will have to pay the consequences.”
    —Bob Barker Truth or Consequences
     
     
     
     
    At twenty minutes of ten on that endless May first, Garraty sluffed one of his two warnings. Two more Walkers had bought it since the boy in the football jersey. Garraty barely noticed. He was taking a careful inventory of