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Chapter 7






" I like to think I'm quite an engaging bloke, really. People I meet consider I'm schizophrenic just because I'm completely different offscreen than I am before the cameras... "

Nicholas Parsons

Sale of the Century (British version)

 

Scramm, 85, did not fascinate Garraty because of his flashing intelligence, be­cause Scramm wasn't all that bright. He didn't fascinate Garraty because of his moon face, his crew cut, or his build, which was mooselike. He fascinated Garraty because he was married.

" Really? " Garraty asked for the third time. He still wasn't convinced Scramm wasn't having him on. " You're really married? "

" Yeah." Scramm looked up at the early morning sun with real pleasure. " I dropped out of school when I was fourteen. There was no point to it, not for me. I wasn't no troublemaker, just not able to make grades. And our history teacher read us an article about how schools are overpopulated. So I figured why not let somebody who can learn sit in, and I'll get down to business. I wanted to marry Cathy anyway."

" How old were you? " Garraty asked, more fascinated than ever. They were passing through another small town, and the sidewalks were lined with signs and spectators, but he hardly noticed. Already the watchers were in another world, not related to him in any way. They might have been behind a thick plate‑ glass shield.

" Fifteen, " Scramm answered. He scratched his chin, which was blue with beard stubble.

" No one tried to talk you out of it? "

" There was a guidance counselor at school, he gave me a lot of shit about stick­ing with it and not being a ditch digger, but he had more important things to do besides keep me in school. I guess you could say he gave me the soft sell. Besides, somebody has to dig ditches, tight? "

He waved enthusiastically at a group of little girls who were going through a spastic cheerleader routine, pleated skirts and scabbed knees flying.

" Anyhow, I never did dig no ditch. Never dug a one in my whole career. Went to work for a bedsheet factory out in Phoenix, three dollars an hour. Me and Cathy, we're happy people." Scramm smiled. " Sometimes we'll be watching TV and Cath will grab me and say, 'We're happy people, honey.' She's a peach."

" You got any kids? " Garraty asked, feeling more and more that this was an insane discussion.

" Well, Cathy's pregnant right now. She said we should wait until we had enough in the bank to pay for the delivery. When we got up to seven hundred, she said go, and we went. She caught pregnant in no time at all. " Scramm looked sternly at Garraty. " My kid's going to college. They say dumb guys like me never have smart kids, but Cathy's smart enough for both of us. Cathy finished high school. I made her finish. Four night courses and then she took the H.S. E.T. My kid's going to as much college as he wants. "

Garraty didn't say anything. He couldn't think of anything to say. McVries was off to the side, in close conversation with Olson. Baker and Abraham were playing a word game called Ghost. He wondered where Harkness was. Far out of sight, anyway. That was Scramm, too. Really out of sight. Hey Scramm, I think you made a bad mistake. Your wife, she's pregnant, Scramm, but that doesn't win you any special favors around here. Seven hundred in the bank? You don't spell preg­nant with just three numbers, Scramm. And no insurance company in the world would touch a Long Walker.

Garraty stared at and through a man in a hound's tooth jacket who was deliri­ously waving a straw hat with a stringy brim.

" Scramm, what happens if you buy it? " he asked cautiously.

Scramm smiled gently. " Not me. I feel like I could walk forever. Say, I wanted to be in the Long Walk ever since I was old enough to want anything. I walked eighty miles just two weeks ago, no sweat. "

" But suppose something should happen‑ "

But Scramm only chuckled.

" How olds Cathy? "

" About a year older than me. Almost eighteen. Her folks are with her now, there in Phoenix."

It sounded to Garraty as if Cathy Scramm's folks knew something Scramm him­self did not.

" You must love her a lot, " he said, a little wistfully.

Scramm smiled, showing the stubborn last survivors of his teeth. " I ain't looked at anyone else since I married her. Cathy's a peach.'

" And you're doing this. "

Scramm laughed. " Ain't it fun? "

" Not for Harkness, " Garraty said sourly. " Go ask him if he thinks it's fun. "

" You don't have any grasp of the consequences, " Pearson said, falling in be­tween Garraty and Scramm. " You could lose. You have to admit you could lose. "

" Vegas odds made me the favorite just before the Walk started, " Scramm said. " Odds‑ on. "

" Sure, " Pearson said glumly. " And you're in shape, too, anyone can see that." Pearson himself looked pale and peaked after the long night on the mad. He glanced disinterestedly at the crowd gathered in a supermarket parking lot they were just passing. " Everyone who wasn't in shape is dead now, or almost dead. But there's still seventy‑ two of us left. "

" Yeah, but... " A thinking frown spread over the broad circle of Scramm's face. Garraty could almost hear the machinery up there working: slow, ponderous, but in the end as sure as death and as inescapable as taxes. It was somehow awe­some.

" I don't want to make you guys mad, " Scramm said. " You're good guys. But you didn't get into this thinking of winning out and getting the Prize. Most of these guys don't know why they got into it. Look at that Barkovitch. He ain't in it to get no Prize. He's just walkin' to see other people die. He lives on it. When someone gets a ticket, he gets a little more go‑ power. It ain't enough. He'll dry up just like a leaf on a tree. "

" And me? " Garraty asked.

Scramm looked troubled. " Aw, hell... "

" No, go on."

" Well, the way I see it, you don't know why you're walking, either. It's the same thing. You're going now because you're afraid, but... that's not enough. That wears out. " Scramm looked down at the road and rubbed his hands together. " And when it wears out, I guess you'll buy a ticket like all the rest, Ray."

Garraty thought about McVries saying, When I get tired... really tired... why, l guess I will sit down.

" You'll have to walk a long time to walk me down, " Garraty said, but Scramm's simple assessment of the situation had scared him badly.

" I, " Scramm said, " am ready to walk a long time."

Their feet rose and fell on the asphalt, carrying them forward, around a curve, down into a dip and then over a railroad track that was metal grooves in the mad. They passed a closed fried clam shack. Then they were out in the country again.

" I understand what it is to die, I think, " Pearson said abruptly. " Now I do, anyway. Not death itself, I still can't comprehend that. But dying. If I stop walk­ing, I'll come to an end. " He swallowed, and there was a click in his throat. " Just like a record after the last groove. " He looked at Scramm earnestly. " Maybe it's like you say. Maybe it's not enough. But... I don't want to die."

Scramm looked at him almost scornfully. " You think just knowing about death will keep you from dying? "

Pearson smiled a funny, sick little smile, like a businessman on a heaving boat trying to keep his dinner down. " Right now that's about all that's keeping me going." And Garraty felt a huge gratefulness, because his defenses had not been reduced to that. At least, not yet.

Up ahead, quite suddenly and as if to illustrate the subject they had been dis­cussing, a boy in a black turtleneck sweater suddenly had a convulsion. He fell on the mad and began to snap and sunfish and jackknife viciously. His limbs jerked and flopped. There was a funny gargling noise in his throat, aaa‑ aaa‑ aaa, a sheep­like sound that was entirely mindless. As Garraty hurried past, one of the fluttering hands bounced against his shoe and he felt a wave of frantic revulsion. The boy's eyes were rolled up to the whites. There were splotches of foam splattered on his lips and chin. He was being second‑ warned, but of course he was beyond hearing, and when his two minutes were up they shot him like a dog.

Not long after that they reached the top of a gentle grade and stared down into the green, unpopulated country ahead. Garraty was grateful for the cool morning breeze that slipped over his fast‑ perspiring body.

" That's some view, " Scramm said.

The road could be seen for perhaps twelve miles ahead. It slid down the long slope, ran in flat zigzags through the woods, a blackish‑ gray charcoal mark across a green swatch of crepe paper. Far ahead it began to climb again, and faded into the rosy‑ pink haze of early morning light.

" This might be what they call the Hainesville Woods, " Garraty said, not too sure. " Truckers' graveyard. Hell in the wintertime. "

" I never seen nothing like it, " Scramm said reverently. " There isn't this much green in the whole state of Arizona. "

" Enjoy it while you can, " Baker said, joining the group. " It's going to be a scorcher. It's hot already and it's only six‑ thirty in the morning."

" Think you'd get used to it, where you come from, " Pearson said, almost re­sentfully.

" You don't get used to it, " Baker said, slinging his light jacket over his arm. " You just learn to live with it. "

" I'd like to build a house up here, " Scramm said. He sneezed heartily, twice, sounding a little like a bull in heat. " Build it right up here with my own two hands, and look at the view every morning. Me and Cathy. Maybe I will someday, when this is all over. "

Nobody said anything.

By 6: 45 the ridge was above and behind them, the breeze mostly cut off, and the heat already walked among them. Garraty took off his own jacket, rolled it, and tied it securely about his waist. The road through the woods was no longer deserted. Here and there early risers had parked their cars off the road and stood or sat in clumps, cheering, waving, and holding signs.

Two girls stood beside a battered MG at the bottom of one dip. They were wear­ing tight summer shorts, middy blouses, and sandals. There were cheers and whis­tles. The faces of these girls were hot, flushed, and excited by something ancient, sinuous, and, to Garraty, erotic almost to the point of insanity. He felt animal lust rising in him, an aggressively alive thing that made his body shake with a palsied fever all its own.

It was Gribble, the radical among them, that suddenly dashed at them, his feet kicking up spurts of dust along the shoulder. One of them leaned back against the hood of the MG and spread her legs slightly, tilting her hips at him. Gribble put his hands over her breasts. She made no effort to stop him. He was warned, hes­itated, and then plunged against her, a jamming, hurtling, frustrated, angry, fright­ened figure in a sweaty white shirt and cord pants. The girl hooked her ankles around Gribble's calves and put her arms lightly around his neck. They kissed.

Gribble took a second warning, then a third, and then, with perhaps fifteen sec­onds of grace left, he stumbled away and broke into a frantic, shambling run. He fell down, picked himself up, clutched at his crotch and staggered back onto the road. His thin face was hectically flushed.

" Couldn't, " he was sobbing. " Wasn't enough time and she wanted me to and I couldn't... I... " He was weeping and staggering, his hands pressed against his crotch. His words were little more than indistinct wails.

" So you gave them their little thrill, " Barkovitch said. " Something for them to talk about in Show and Tell tomorrow. "

" You just shut up! " Gribble screamed. He dug at his crotch. " It hurts, I got a cramp—"

" Blue balls, " Pearson said. " That's what he's got."

Gribble looked at him through the stringy bangs of black hair that had fallen over his eyes. He looked like a stunned weasel. " It hurts, " he muttered again. He dropped slowly to his knees, hands pressed into his lower belly, head drooping, back bowed. He was shivering and snuffling and Garraty could see the beads of sweat on his neck, some of them caught in the fine hairs on the nape‑ what Gar­raty's own father had always called quackfuzz.

A moment later and he was dead.

Garraty turned his head to look at the girls, but they had retreated inside their MG. They were nothing but shadow‑ shapes.

He made a determined effort to push them from his mind, but they kept creeping back in. How must it have been, dry‑ humping that wane, willing flesh? Her thighs had twitched, my God, they had twitched, in a kind of spasm, orgasm, oh God, the uncontrollable urge to squeeze and caress... and most of all to feel that heat ... that heat

He felt himself go. That warm, shooting flow of sensation, warming him. Wet­ting him. Oh Christ, it would soak through his pants and someone would notice. Notice and point a finger and ask him how he'd like to walk around the neighborhood with no clothes on, walk naked, walk... and walk... and walk...

Oh Jan I love you really I love you, he thought, but it was confused, all mixed up in something else.

He retied his jacket about his waist and then went on walking as before, and the memory dulled and browned very quickly, like a Polaroid negative left out in the sun.

The pace stepped up. They were on a steep downhill grade now, and it was hard to walk slowly. Muscles worked and pistoned and squeezed against each other. The sweat rolled freely. Incredibly, Garraty found himself wishing for night again. He looked over at Olson curiously, wondering how he was making it.

Olson was staring at his feet again. The cords in his neck were knotted and ridged. His lips were drawn back in a frozen grin.

" He's almost there now, " McVries said at his elbow, startling him. " When they start half‑ hoping someone will shoot them so they can rest their feet, they're not far away. "

" Is that right? " Garraty asked crossly. " How come everybody else around here knows so much more about it than me? "

" Because you're so sweet, " McVries said tenderly, and then he sped up letting his legs catch the downgrade, and passed Garraty by.

Stebbins. He hadn't thought about Stebbins in a long time. He turned his head to look for Stebbins. Stebbins was there. The pack had strung out coming down the long hill, and Stebbins was about a quarter of a mile back, but there was no mistaking those purple pants and that chambray workshirt. Stebbins was still tail­ing the pack like some thin vulture, just waiting for them to fall‑ -

Garraty felt a wave of rage. He had a sudden urge to rash back and throttle Steb­bins. There was no rhyme or reason to it, but he had to actively fight the compul­sion down.

By the time they had reached the bottom of the grade, Garraty's legs felt rubbery and unsteady. The state of numb weariness his flesh had more or less settled into was broken by unexpected darning‑ needles of pain that drove through his feet and legs, threatening to make his muscles knot and cramp. And Jesus, he thought, why not? They had been on the road for twenty‑ two hours. Twenty‑ two hour of non­stop walking, it was unbelievable.

" How do you feel now? " he asked Scramm, as if the last time he had asked him had been twelve hours ago.

" Fit and fine, " Scramm said. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose sniffed, and spat. " Just as fit and fine as can be."

" You sound like you're getting a cold."

" Naw, it's the pollen. Happens every spring. Hay fever. I even get it in Arizona. But I never catch colds. "

Garraty opened his mouth to reply when a hollow, poom poom sound echo back from far ahead. It was rifle fire. The word came back. Harkness had burnt out.

There was an odd, elevatorish sensation in Garraty's stomach as he passed the word on back. The magic circle was broken. Harkness would never write his book about the Long Walk. Harkness was being dragged off the road someplace up ahead like a grain bag or was being tossed into a track, wrapped securely in a canvas bodybag. For Harkness, the Long Walk was over.

" Harkness, " McVries said. " Ol' Harkness bought a ticket to see the farm."

" Why don't you write him a poime? " Barkovitch called over.

" Shut up, killer, " McVries answered absently. He shook his head. " O1' 1­ness, sonofabitch."

" I ain't no killer! " Barkovitch screamed. " I'll dance on your grave,. scarface! I'll‑ "

A chorus of angry shouts silenced him. Muttering, Barkovitch glared at Mc­Vries. Then he began to stalk on a little faster, not looking around.

" You know what my uncle did? " Baker said suddenly. They were passing through a shady tunnel of overleafing trees, and Garraty was trying to forget about Harkness and Gribble and think only of the coolness.

" What? " Abraham asked.

" He was an undertaker, " Baker said.

" Good deal, " Abraham said disinterestedly.

" When I was a kid, I always used to wonder, " Baker said vaguely. He seemed to lose track of his thought, then glanced at Garraty and smiled. It was a peculiar smile. " Who'd embalm him, I mean. Like you wonder who cuts the barber's hair or who operates on the doctor for gallstones. See? "

" It takes a lot of gall to be a doctor, " McVries said solemnly.

" You know what I mean."

" So who got the call when the time came? " Abraham asked.

" Yeah, " Scramm added. " Who did? "

Baker looked up at the twining, heavy branches under which they were passing, and Garraty noticed again that Baker now looked exhausted. Not that we don't all look that way, he added to himself.

" Come on, " McVries said. " Don't keep us hanging. Who buried him? "

" This is the oldest joke in the world, " Abraham said. " Baker says, whatever made you think he was dead? "

" He is, though, " Baker said. " Lung cancer. Six years ago."

" Did he smoke? " Abraham asked, waving at a family of four and their cat. The cat was on a leash. It was a Persian cat. It looked mean and pissed off.

" No, not even a pipe, " Baker said. " He was afraid it would give him cancer. "

" Oh, for Christ's sake, " McVries said, " who buried him? Tell us so we can discuss world problems, or baseball, or birth control or something. "

" I think birth control is a world problem, " Garraty said seriously. " My girl­friend is a Catholic and‑ "

" Come on! " McVries bellowed. " Who the fuck buried your grandfather, Baker? "

" My uncle. He was my uncle. My grandfather was a lawyer in Shreveport. " He‑ "

" I don't give a shit, " McVries said. " I don't give a shit if the old gentleman had three cocks, I just want to know who buried him so we can get on."

" Actually, nobody buried him. He wanted to be cremated."

" Oh my aching balls, " Abraham said, and then laughed a little.

" My aunt's got his ashes in a ceramic vase. At her house in Baton Rouge. She tried to keep the business going‑ the undertaking business‑ but nobody much seemed to cotton to a lady undertaker. "

" I doubt if that was it, " McVries said.

" No? "

" No. I think your uncle jinxed her. "

" Jinx? How do you mean? " Baker was interested.

" Well, you have to admit it wasn't a very good advertisement for the business. "

" What, dying? "

" No, " McVries said. " Getting cremated."

Scramm chuckled stuffily through his plugged nose. " He's got you there, old buddy."

" I expect he might, " Baker said. He and McVries beamed at each other.

" Your uncle, " Abraham said heavily, " bores the tits off me. And might I also add that he‑ "

At that moment, Olson began begging one of the guards to let him rest.

He did not stop walking, or slow down enough to be warned, but his voice rose and fell in a begging, pleading, totally craven monotone that made Garraty crawl with embarrassment for him. Conversation lagged. Spectators watched Olson with horrified fascination. Garraty wished Olson would shut up before he gave the rest of them a black eye. He didn't want to die either, but if he had to he wanted to go out without people thinking he was a coward. The soldiers stared over Olson, through him, around him, wooden‑ faced, deaf and dumb. They gave an occa­sional warning, though, so Garraty supposed you couldn't call them dumb.

It got to be quarter to eight, and the word came back that they were just six miles short of one hundred miles. Garraty could remember reading that the largest num­ber to ever complete the first hundred miles of a Long Walk was sixty‑ three. They looked a sure bet to crack that record; there were still sixty‑ nine in this group. Not that it mattered, one way or the other.

Olson's pleas rose in a constant, garbled litany to Garraty's left, somehow seeming to make the day hotter and more uncomfortable than it was. Several of the boys had shouted at Olson, but he seemed either not to hear or not to care.

They passed through a wooden covered bridge, the planks rumbling and bump­ing under their feet. Garraty could hear the secretive flap and swoop of the barn swallows that had made their homes among the rafters. It was refreshingly cool, and the sun seemed to drill down even hotter when they reached the other side. Wait till later if you think it's hot now, he told himself. Wait until you get back into open country. Boy howdy.

He yelled for a canteen, and a soldier trotted over with one. He handed it to Garraty wordlessly, then trotted back. Garraty's stomach was also growling for food. At nine o'clock, he thought. Have to keep walking until then. Be damned if I'm going to die on an empty stomach.

Baker cut past him suddenly, looked around for spectators, saw none, dropped his britches and squatted. He was warned. Garraty passed him, but heard the sol­dier warn him again. About twenty seconds after that he caught up with Garraty and McVries again, badly out of breath. He was cinching his pants.

" Fastest crap I evah took! " he said, badly out of breath.

" You should have brought a catalogue along, " McVries said.

" I never could go very long without a crap, " Baker said. " Some guys, hell, they crap once a week. I'm a once‑ a‑ day man. If I don't crap once a day, I take a laxative. "

" Those laxatives will ruin your intestines, " Pearson said.

" Oh, shit, " Baker scoffed.

McVries threw back his head and laughed.

Abraham twisted his head around to join the conversation. " My grandfather never used a laxative in his life and he lived to be‑ "

" You kept records, I presume, " Pearson said.

" You wouldn't be doubting my grandfather's word, would you? "

" Heaven forbid." Pearson rolled his eyes.

" Okay. My grandfather‑ "

" Look, " Garraty said softly. Not interested in either side of the laxative ar­gument, he had been idly watching Percy What's‑ His‑ Name. Now he was watch­ing him closely, hardly believing what his eyes were seeing. Percy had been edging closer and closer to the side of the road. Now he was walking on the sandy shoul­der. Every now and then he snapped a tight, frightened glance at the soldiers on top of the halftrack, then to his right, at the thick screen of trees less than seven feet away.

" I think he's going to break for it, " Garraty said.

" They'll shoot him sure as hell, " Baker said. His voice had dropped to a whis­per.

" Doesn't look like anyone's watching him, " Pearson replied.

" Then for God's sake, don't tip them! " McVries said angrily. " You bunch of dummies! Christ! "

For the next ten minutes none of them said anything sensible. They aped con­versation and watched Percy watching the soldiers, watching and mentally gaug­ing the short distance to the thick woods.

" He hasn't got the guts, " Pearson muttered finally, and before any of them could answer, Percy began walking, slowly and unhurriedly, toward the woods. Two steps, then three. One more, two at the most, and he would be there. His jeans‑ clad legs moved unhurriedly. His sun‑ bleached blond hair ruffled just a little in a light puff of breeze. He might have been an Explorer Scout out for a day of bird‑ watching.

There were no warnings. Percy had forfeited his right to them when his right foot passed over the verge of the shoulder. Percy had left the road, and the soldiers had known all along. Old Percy What's‑ His‑ Name hadn't been fooling anybody. There was one sharp, clean report, and Garraty jerked his eyes from Percy to the soldier standing on the back deck of the halftrack. The soldier was a sculpture in clean, angular lines, the rifle nestled into the hollow of his shoulder, his head half­cocked along the barrel.

Then his head swiveled back to Percy again. Percy was the real show, wasn't he? Percy was standing with both his feet on the weedy border of the pine forest now. He was as frozen and as sculpted as the man who had shot him. The two of them together would have been a subject for Michelangelo, Garraty thought. Percy stood utterly still under a blue springtime sky. One hand was pressed to his chest, like a poet about to speak. His eyes were wide, and somehow ecstatic.

A bright seepage of blood ran through his fingers, shining in the sunlight. Old Percy What's‑ Your‑ Name. Hey Percy, your mother's calling. Hey Percy, does your mother know you're out? Hey Percy, what kind of silly sissy name is that,

Percy, Percy, aren't you cute? Percy transformed into a bright, sunlit Adonis counterpointed by the savage, duncolored huntsman. And one, two, three coin­ shaped splatters of blood fell on Percy's travel‑ dusty black shoes, and all of it hap­pened in a space of only three seconds. Garraty did not take even two full steps and he was not warned, and oh Percy, what is your mother going to say? Do you, tell me, do you really have the nerve to die?

Percy did. He pitched forward, struck a small, crooked sapling, rolled through a half‑ turn, and landed face‑ up to the sky. The grace, the frozen symmetry, they were gone now. Perry was just dead.

" Let this ground be seeded with salt, " McVries said suddenly, very rapidly. " So that no stalk of corn or stalk of wheat shall ever grow. Cursed be the children of this ground and cursed be their loins. Also cursed be their hams and hocks. Hail Mary full of grace, let us blow this goddam place."

McVries began to laugh.

" Shut up, " Abraham said hoarsely. " Stop talking like that."

" All the world is God, " McVries said, and giggled hysterically. " We're walk­ing on the Lord, and back there the flies are crawling on the Lord, in fact the flies are also the Lord, so blessed be the fruit of thy womb Percy. Amen, hallelujah, chunky peanut butter. Our father, which art in tinfoil, hallow'd be thy name."

" I'll hit you! " Abraham warned. His face was very pale. " I will, Pete! "

" A praaayin' man! " McVries gibed, and he giggled again. " Oh my suds and body! Oh my sainted hat! "

" I'll hit you if you don't shut up! " Abraham bellowed.

" Don't, " Garraty said, frightened. " Please don't fight. Let's... be nice."

" Want a party favor? " Baker asked crazily.

" Who asked you, you goddam redneck? "

" He was awful young to be on this hike, " Baker said sadly. " If he was four­teen, I'll smile 'n' kiss a pig."

" Mother spoiled him, " Abraham said in a trembling voice. " You could tell."

He looked around at Garraty and Pearson pleadingly. " You could tell,, couldn't you? "

" She won't spoil him anymore, " McVries said.

Olson suddenly began babbling at the soldiers again. The one who had shot Percy was now sitting down and eating a sandwich. They walked past eight o'clock. They passed a sunny gas station where a mechanic in greasy coveralls was hosing off the tarmac.

" Wish he'd spray us with some of that, " Scratnm said. " I'm as hot as a poker."

" We're all hot, " Garraty said.

" I thought it never got hot in Maine, " Pearson said. He sounded more tired than ever. " I thought Maine was s'posed to be cool."

" Well then, now you know different, " Garraty said shortly.

" You're a lot of fun, Garraty, " Pearson said. " You know that? You're really a lot of fun. Gee, I'm glad I met you."

McVries laughed.

" You know what? " Garraty replied.

" What'! "

" You got skidmarks in your underwear, " Garraty said. It was the wittiest thing he could think of at short notice.

They passed another truck stop. Two or three big rigs were pulled in, hauled off the highway no doubt to make room for the Long Walkers. One of the drivers was standing anxiously by his rig, a huge refrigerator truck, and feeling the side. Feel­ing the cold that was slipping away in the morning sun. Several of the waitresses cheered as the Walkers trudged by, and the trucker who had been feeling the side of his refrigerator compartment turned and gave them the finger. He was a huge man with a red neck bulling its way out of a dirty T‑ shirt.

" Now why'd he wanna do that? " Scramm cried. " Just a rotten old sport! "

McVries laughed. " That's the first honest citizen we've seen since this clam­bake got started, Scramm. Man, do I love him! "

" Probably he's loaded up with perishables headed for Montreal, " Garraty said. " All the way from Boston. We forced him off the road. He's probably afraid he'll lose his job‑ or his rig, if he's an independent. "

" Isn't that tough? " Collie Parker brayed. " Isn't that too goddam tough? They only been tellin' people what the route was gonna be for two months or more. Just another goddam hick, that's all! "

" You seem to know a lot about it, " Abraham said to Garraty.

" A little, " Garraty said, staring at Parker. " My father drove a rig before he got... before he went away. It's a hard job to make a buck in. Probably that guy back there thought he had time to make it to the next cutoff. He wouldn't have come this way if there was a shorter route."

" He didn't have to give us the finger, " Scramm insisted. " He didn't have to do that. By God, his rotten old tomatoes ain't life and death, like this is. "

" Your father took off on your mother? " McVries asked Garraty.

" My dad was Squaded, " Garraty said shortly. Silently he dared Parker‑ or anyone else‑ to open his mouth, but no one said anything.

Stebbins was still walking last. He had no more than passed the truck stop before the burly driver was swinging back up into the cab of his jimmy. Up ahead, the guns cracked out their single word. A body spun, flipped over, and lay still. Two soldiers dragged it over to the side of the road. A third tossed them a bodybag from the halftrack.

" I had an uncle that was Squaded, " Wyman said hesitantly. Garraty noticed that the tongue of Wyman's left shoe had worked out from beneath the facings and was flapping obscenely.

" No one but goddam fools get Squaded, " Collie Parker said clearly.

Garraty looked at him and wanted to feel angry, but he dropped his head and stared at the road. His father had been a goddam fool, all right. A goddam drun­kard who could not keep two cents together in the same place for long no matter what he tried his hand at, a man without the sense to keep his political opinions to himself. Garraty felt old and sick.

" Shut your stinking trap, " McVries said coldly.

" You want to try and make me‑ "

" No, I don't want to try and make you. Just shut up, you sonofabitch.

Collie Parker dropped back between Garraty and McVries. Pearson and Abra­ham moved away a little. Even the soldiers straightened, ready for trouble. Parker studied Garraty for a long moment. His face was broad and beaded with sweat, his eyes still arrogant. Then he clapped Garraty briefly on the arm.

" I got a loose lip sometimes. I didn't mean nothing by it. Okay? " Garraty nod­ded wearily, and Parker shifted his glance to McVries. " Piss on you, Jack, " he said, and moved up again toward the vanguard.

" What an unreal bastard, " McVries said glumly.

" No worse than Barkovitch, " Abraham said. " Maybe even a little better.'

" Besides, " Pearson added, " what's getting Squaded? It beats the hell out of getting dead, am I right? "

" How would you know? " Garraty asked. " How would any of us know? "

His father had been a sandy‑ haired giant with a booming voice and a bellowing laugh that had sounded to Garraty's small ears like mountains cracking open. After he lost his own rig, he made a living driving Government trucks out of Brunswick. It would have been a good living if Jim Garraty could have kept his politics to himself. But when you work for the Government, the Government is twice as aware that you're alive, twice as ready to call in a Squad if things seem a little dicky around the edges. And Jim Garraty had not been much of a Long Walk booster. So one day he got a telegram and the next day two soldiers turned up on the door­step and Jim Garraty had gone with them, blustering, and his wife had closed the door and her cheeks had been pale as milk and when Garraty asked his mother where Daddy was going with the soldier mens, she had slapped him hard enough to make his mouth bleed and told him to shut up, shut up. Garraty had never seen his father since. It had been eleven years. It had been a neat removal. Odorless, sanitized, pasteurized, sanforized, and dandruff‑ free.

" I had a brother that was in law trouble, " Baker said. " Not the Government, just the law. He stole himself a car and drove all the way from our town to Hat­tiesburg, Mississippi. He got two years' suspended sentence. He's dead now."

" Dead? " The voice was a dried husk, wraithlike. Olson had joined them. His haggard face seemed to stick out a mile from his body.

" He had a heart attack, " Baker said. " He was only three years older than me. Ma used to say he was her cross, but he only got into bad trouble that once. I did worse. I was a night rider for three years."

Garraty looked over at him. There was shame in Baker's tired face, but there was also dignity there, outlined against a dusky shaft of sunlight poking through the trees. " That's a Squading offense, but I didn't care. I was only twelve when I got into it. Ain't hardly nothing but kids who go night‑ riding now, you know. Older heads are wiser heads. They'd tell us to go to it and pat our heads, but they weren't out to get Squaded, not them. I got out after we burnt a cross on some black man's lawn. I was scairt green. And ashamed, too. Why does anybody want to go burn­ing a cross on some black man's lawn? Jesus Christ, that stuff's history, ain't it? Sure it is." Baker shook his head vaguely. " It wasn't right."

At that moment the rifles went again.

" There goes one more, " Scramm said. His voice sounded clogged and nasal, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

" Thirty‑ four, " Pearson said. He took a penny out of one pocket and put it in the other. " I brought along ninety‑ nine pennies. Every time someone buys a ticket, I put one of 'em in the other pocket. And when‑ "

" That's gruesome! " Olson said. His haunted eyes stared balefully at Pearson. " Where's your death watch? Where's your voodoo dolls? "

Pearson didn't say anything. He studied the fallow field they were passing with anxious embarrassment. Finally he muttered, " I didn't mean to say anything about it. It was for good luck, that was all."

" It's dirty, " Olson croaked. " It's filthy. It's‑ "

" Oh, quit it, " Abraham said. " Quit getting on my nerves."

Garraty looked at his watch. It was twenty past eight. Forty minutes to food. He thought how nice it would be to go into one of those little roadside diners that dotted the road, snuggle his fanny against one of the padded counter stools, put his feet up on the rail (oh God, the relief of just that!) and order steak and fried onions, with a side of French fries and a big dish of vanilla ice cream with straw­berry sauce for dessert. Or maybe a big plate of spaghetti and meatballs, with Ital­ian bread and peas swimming in butter on the side. And milk. A whole pitcher of milk. To hell with the tubes and the canteens of distilled water. Milk and solid food and a place to sit and eat it in. Would that be fine?

Just ahead a family of five‑ mother, father, boy, girl, and white‑ haired grand­mother‑ were spread beneath a large elm, eating a picnic breakfast of sandwiches and what looked like hot cocoa. They waved cheerily at the Walkers.

" Freaks, " Garraty muttered.

" What was that? " McVries asked.

" I said I want to sit down and have something to eat. Look at those people. Fucking bunch of pigs."

" You'd be doing the same thing, " McVries said. He waved and smiled, saving the biggest, flashiest part of the smile for the grandmother, who was waving back and chewing‑ well, gumming was closer to the truth‑ what looked like an egg salad sandwich.

" The hell I would. Sit there and eat while a bunch of starving‑ "

" Hardly starving, Ray. It just feels that way."

" Hungry, then‑ "

" Mind over matter, " McVries incanted. " Mind over matter, my young friend." The incantation had become a seamy imitation of W.C. Fields.

" To hell with you. You just don't want to admit it. Those people, they're an­imals. They want to see someone's brains on the road, that's why they turn out. They'd just as soon see yours."

" That isn't the point, " McVries said calmly. " Didn't you say you went to see the Long Walk when you were younger? "

" Yes, when I didn't know any better! "

" Well, that makes it okay, doesn't it? " McVries uttered a short, ugly‑ sounding laugh. " Sure they're animals. You think you just found out a new principle? Sometimes I wonder just how naive you really are. The French lords and ladies used to screw after the guillotinings. The old Romans used to stuff each other dur­ing the gladiatorial matches. That's entertainment, Garraty. It's nothing new." He laughed again. Garraty stared at him, fascinated.

" Go on, " someone said. " You're at second base, McVries. Want to try for third? "

Garraty didn't have to turn. It was Stebbins, of course. Stebbins the lean Bud­dha. His feet carried him along automatically, but he was dimly aware that they felt swollen and slippery, as if they were filling with pus.

" Death is great for the appetites, " McVries said. " How about those two girls and Gribble? They wanted to see what screwing a dead man felt like. Now for Something Completely New and Different. I don't know if Gribble got much out of it, but they sure as shit did. It's the same with anybody. It doesn't matter if they're eating or drinking or sitting on their cans. They like it better, they feel it and taste it better because they're watching dead men.

" But even that's not the real point of this little expedition, Garraty. The point is, they're the smart ones. They're not getting thrown to the lions. They're not staggering along and hoping they won't have to take a shit with two warnings against them. You're dumb, Garraty. You and me and Pearson and Barkovitch and Stebbins, we're all dumb. Scramm's dumb because he thinks he understands and he doesn't. Olson's dumb because he understood too much too late. They're an­ imals, all right. But why are you so goddam sure that makes us human beings? "

He paused, badly out of breath.

" There, " he said. " You went and got me going. Sermonette No. 342 in a series of six thousand, et cetera, et cetera. Probably cut my lifespan by five hours or more."

" Then why are you doing it? " Garraty asked him. " If you know that much, and if you're that sure, why are you doing it? "

" The same reason we're all doing it, " Stebbins said. He smiled gently, almost lovingly. His lips were a little sun-parched; otherwise, his face was still unlined and seemingly invincible. " We want to die, that's why we're doing it. Why else, Garraty? Why else? "

 

 






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