The Long Walk

something . . . fiddled something, probably a stud. A moment later a large, dun-colored sun umbrella popped up. It shaded most of the halftrack’s metal surface. He and the other two soldiers currently on duty sat cross-legged in the army-drab parasol’s shade.
    “You rotten sonsabitches!” somebody screamed. “My Prize is gonna be your public castration!”
    The soldiers did not seem exactly struck to the heart with terror at the thought. They continued to scan the Walkers with their blank eyes, referring occasionally to their computerized console.
    “They probably take this out on their wives,” Garraty said. “When it’s over.”
    “Oh, I’m sure they do,” Stebbins said, and laughed.
    Garraty didn’t want to walk with Stebbins anymore, not right now. Stebbins made him uneasy. He could only take Stebbins in small doses. He walked faster, leaving Stebbins by himself again. 10:02. In twenty-three minutes he could drop a warning, but for now he was still walking with three. It didn’t scare him the way he had thought it would. There was still the unshakable, blind assurances that this organism Ray Garraty could not die. The others could die, they were extras in the movie of his life, but not Ray Garraty, star of that long-running hit film, The Ray Garraty Story . Maybe he would eventually come to understand the untruth of that emotionally as well as intellectually . . . maybe that was the final depth of which Stebbins had spoken. It was a shivery, unwelcome thought.
    Without realizing it, he had walked three quarters of the way through the pack. He was behind McVries again. There were three of them in a fatigue-ridden conga line: Barkovitch at the front, still trying to look cocky but flaking a bit around the edges; McVries with his head slumped, hands half-clenched, favoring his left foot a little now; and, bringing up the rear, the star of The Ray Garraty Story himself. And how do I look? he wondered.
    He rubbed a hand up the side of his cheek and listened to the rasp his hand made against his light beard-stubble. Probably he didn’t look all that snappy himself.
    He stepped up his pace a little more until he was walking abreast of McVries, who looked over briefly and then back at Barkovitch. His eyes were dark and hard to read.
    They climbed a short, steep, and savagely sunny rise and then crossed another small bridge. Fifteen minutes went by, then twenty. McVries didn’t say anything. Garraty cleared his throat twice but said nothing. He thought that the longer you went without speaking, the harder it gets to break the silence. Probably McVries was pissed that he had saved his ass now. Probably McVries had repented of it. That made Garraty’s stomach quiver emptily. It was all hopeless and stupid and pointless, most of all that, so goddam pointless it was really pitiful. He opened his mouth to tell McVries that, but before he could, McVries spoke.
    “Everything’s all right.” Barkovitch jumped at the sound of his voice and McVries added, “Not you, killer. Nothing’s ever going to be all right for you. Just keep striding.”
    “Eat my meat,” Barkovitch snarled.
    “I guess I caused you some trouble,” Garraty said in a low voice.
    “I told you, fair is fair, square is square, and quits are quits,” McVries said evenly. “I won’t do it again. I want you to know that.”
    “I understand that,” Garraty said. “I just—”
    “Don’t hurt me!” someone screamed. “Please don’t hurt me!”
    It was a redhead with a plaid shirt tied around his waist. He had stopped in the middle of the road and he was weeping. He was given first warning. And then he raced toward the halftrack, his tears cutting runnels through the sweaty dirt on his face, red hair glinting like a fire in the sun. “Don’t . . . I can’t . . . please . . . my mother . . . I can’t . . . don’t . . . no more . . . my feet . . .” He was trying to scale the side, and one of the soldiers brought the butt of his carbine down on his hands. The boy cried out and fell in a heap.
    He screamed again, a high, incredibly thin note that seemed sharp enough to shatter glass and what he was screaming was:
    “My feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—”
    “Jesus,” Garraty muttered. “Why doesn’t he stop that?” The screams went on and on.
    “I doubt if he can,” McVries said clinically. “The back treads of the halftrack ran over his legs.”
    Garraty looked and felt his stomach lurch into his throat. It was true.