The Long Walk

off the halftrack. He landed spread-eagled on his back like a man nailed to a cross. One side of his belly was a black and shredded ruin. Three more bullets were pumped into him. The guard Olson had disarmed had produced another carbine (effortlessly) from inside the halftrack.
    Olson sat up. He put his hands against his belly and stared calmly at the poised soldiers on the deck of the squat vehicle. The soldiers stared back.
    “You bastards!” McVries sobbed. “You bloody bastards!”
    Olson began to get up. Another volley of bullets drove him flat again.
    Now there was a sound from behind Garraty. He didn’t have to turn his head to know it was Stebbins. Stebbins was laughing softly.
    Olson sat up again. The guns were still trained on him, but the soldiers did not shoot. Their silhouettes on the halftrack seemed almost to indicate curiosity.
    Slowly, reflectively, Olson gained his feet, hands crossed on his belly. He seemed to sniff the air for direction, turned slowly in the direction of the Walk, and began to stagger along.
    “Put him out of it!” a shocked voice screamed hoarsely. “For Christ’s sake put him out of it!”
    The blue snakes of Olson’s intestines were slowly slipping through his fingers. They dropped like link sausages against his groin, where they flapped obscenely. He stopped, bent over as if to retrieve them ( retrieve them, Garraty thought in a near ecstasy of wonder and horror), and threw up a huge glut of blood and bile. He began to walk again, bent over. His face was sweetly calm.
    “Oh my God,” Abraham said, and turned to Garraty with his hands cupped over his mouth. Abraham’s face was white and cheesy. His eyes were bulging. His eyes were frantic with terror. “Oh my God, Ray, what a fucking gross-out, oh Je sus!” Abraham vomited. Puke sprayed through his fingers.
    Well, old Abe has tossed his cookies, Garraty thought remotely. That’s no way to observe Hint 13, Abe.
    “They gut-shot him,” Stebbins said from behind Garraty. “They’ll do that. It’s deliberate. To discourage anybody else from trying the old Charge of the Light Brigade number.”
    “Get away from me,” Garraty hissed. “Or I’ll knock your block off!”
    Stebbins dropped back quickly.
    “Warning! Warning 88!”
    Stebbins laugh drifted softly to him.
    Olson went to his knees. His head hung between his arms, which were propped on the road.
    One of the rifles roared, and a bullet clipped asphalt beside Olson’s left hand and whined away. He began to climb slowly, wearily, to his feet again. They’re playing with him, Garraty thought. All of this must be terribly boring for them, so they are playing with Olson. Is Olson fun, boys? Is Olson keeping you amused?
    Garraty began to cry. He ran over to Olson and fell on his knees beside him and held the tired, hectically hot face against his chest. He sobbed into the dry, bad-smelling hair.
    “Warning! Warning 47!”
    “Warning! Warning 61!”
    McVries was pulling at him. It was McVries again. “Get up, Ray, get up, you can’t help him, for God’s sake get up!”
    “Its not fair !” Garraty wept. There was a sticky smear of Olson’s blood on his cheekbone. “It’s just not fair!”
    “I know. Come on. Come on.”
    Garraty stood up. He and McVries began walking backward rapidly, watching Olson, who was on his knees. Olson got to his feet. He stood astride the white line. He raised both hands up into the sky. The crowd sighed softly.
    “I DID IT WRONG !” Olson shouted tremblingly, and then fell flat and dead.
    The soldiers on the halftrack put another two bullets in him and then dragged him busily off the road.
    “Yes, that’s that.”
    They walked quietly for ten minutes or so, Garraty drawing a low-key comfort just from McVries’s presence. “I’m starting to see something in it, Pete,” he said at last. “There’s a pattern. It isn’t all senseless.”
    “Yeah? Don’t count on it.”
    “He talked to me, Pete. He wasn’t dead until they shot him. He was alive .” Now it seemed that was the most important thing about the Olson experience. He repeated it. “Alive.”
    “I don’t think it makes any difference,” McVries said with a tired sigh. “He’s just a number. Part of the body count. Number fifty-three. It means we’re a little closer and that’s all it means.”
    “You don’t really think that.”
    “Don’t tell me what I think and what I don’t!” McVries said crossly. “Leave it alone, can’t