The Long Walk

starring—who? It had been Robert Mitchum, hadn’t it? He had been playing the role of an implacable Southern revival minister who had also been a compulsive murderer. In silhouette, Olson looked a little bit like him now. His form had seemed to elongate as the weight sloughed off him. His skin had gone scaly with dehydration. His eyes had sunk into hollowed sockets. His hair flew aimlessly on his skull like wind-driven cornsilk.
    Why, he’s nothing but a robot, nothing but an automation, really. Can there still be an Olson in there hiding? No. He’s gone. I am quite sure that the Olson who sat on the grass and joked and told about the kid who froze on the starting line and bought his ticket right there, that Olson is gone. This is a dead clay thing.
    “Olson?” he whispered.
    Olson walked on. He was a shambling haunted house on legs. Olson had fouled himself. Olson smelled bad.
    “Olson, can you talk?”
    Olson swept onward. His face was turned into the darkness, and he was moving, yes he was moving. Something was going on here, something was still ticking over, but—
    Something, yes, there was something, but what?
    They breasted another rise. The breath came shorter and shorter in Garraty’s lungs until he was panting like a dog. Tiny vapors of steam rose from his wet clothes. There was a river below them, lying in the dark like a silver snake. The Stillwater, he imagined. The Stillwater passed near Oldtown. A few halfhearted cheers went up, but not many. Further on, nestled against the far side of the river ’s dogleg (maybe it was the Penobscot, after all), was a nestle of lights. Oldtown. A smaller nestle of light on the other side would be Milford and Bradley. Oldtown. They had made it to Oldtown.
    “Olson,” he said. “That’s Oldtown. Those lights are Oldtown. We’re getting there, fellow.”
    Olson made no answer. And now he could remember what had been eluding him and it was nothing so vital after all. Just that Olson reminded him of the Flying Dutchman, sailing on and on after the whole crew had disappeared.
    They walked rapidly down a long hill, passed through an S-curve, and crossed a bridge that spanned, according to the sign, Meadow Brook. On the far side of this bridge was another STEEP HILL TRUCKS USE LOW GEAR sign. There were groans from some of the Walkers.
    It was indeed a steep hill. It seemed to rise above them like a toboggan slide. It was not long; even in the dark they could see the summit. But it was steep, all right. Plenty steep.
    They started up.
    Garraty leaned into the slope, feeling his grip on his respiration start to trickle away almost at once. Be panting like a dog at the top, he thought . . . and then thought, if I get to the top. There was a protesting clamor rising in both legs. It started in his thighs and worked its way down. His legs were screaming at him that they simply weren’t going to do this shit any longer.
    But you will, Garraty told them. You will or you’ll die.
    I don’t care, his legs answered back. Don’t care if I do die, do die, do die.
    The muscles seemed to be softening, melting like Jell-O left out in a hot sun. They trembled almost helplessly. They twitched like badly controlled puppets.
    Warnings cracked out right and left, and Garraty realized he would be getting one for his very own soon enough. He kept his eyes fixed on Olson, forcing himself to match his pace to Olson’s. They would make it together, up over the top of this killer hill, and then he would get Olson to tell him his secret. Then everything would be jake and he wouldn’t have to worry about Stebbins or McVries or Jan or his father, no, not even about Freaky D’Allessio, who had spread his head on a stone wall beside U.S. 1 like a dollop of glue.
    What was it, a hundred feet on? Fifty? What?
    Now he was panting.
    The first gunshots rang out. There was a loud, yipping scream that was drowned by more gunshots. And at the brow of the hill they got one more. Garraty could see nothing in the dark. His tortured pulse hammered in his temples. He found that he didn’t give a fuck who had bought it this time. It didn’t matter. Only the pain mattered, the tearing pain in his legs and lungs.
    The hill rounded, flattened, and rounded still more on the downslope. The far side was gently sloping, perfect for regaining wind. But that soft jelly feeling in his muscles didn’t want to leave. My legs are going to collapse, Garraty thought calmly. They’ll never take me as far as