The Long Walk

by Stephen King

  Chapter 12

  “I went down the road, the road was muddy.

  I stubbed my toe, my toe was bloody.

  You all here?”

  —Child’s hide-and-seek rhyme

  Somehow it had got around to nine in the morning again.

  Ray Garraty turned his canteen over his head, leaning back until his neck popped. It had only just warmed up enough so you could no longer see your breath, and the water was frigid, driving back the constant drowsiness a little.

  He looked his traveling companions over. McVries had a heavy scrub of beard now, as black as his hair. Collie Parker looked haggard but tougher than ever. Baker seemed almost ethereal. Scramm was not so flushed, but he was coughing steadily—a deep, thundering cough that reminded Garraty of himself, long ago. He had had pneumonia when he was five.

  The night had passed in a dream-sequence of odd names on the reflectorized overhead signs. Veazie. Bangor. Hermon. Jampden. Winterport. The soldiers had made only two kills, and Garraty was beginning to accept the truth of Parker’s cracker analogy.

  And now bright daylight had come again. The little protective groups had re-formed, Walkers joking about beards but not about feet . . . never about feet. Garraty had felt several small blisters break on his right heel during the night, but the soft, absorbent sock had buffered the raw flesh somewhat. Now they had just passed a sign that read AUGUSTA 48 PORTLAND 117.

  “It’s further than you said,” Pearson told him reproachfully. He was horribly haggard, his hair hanging lifelessly about his cheeks.

  “I’m not a walking roadmap,” Garraty said.

  “Still . . . it’s your state.”

  “Tough.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.” There was no rancor in Pearson’s tired voice. “Boy, I’d never do this again in a hundred thousand years.”

  “You should live so long.”

  “Yeah.” Pearson’s voice dropped. “I’ve made up my mind, though. If I get so tired and I can’t go on, I’m gonna run over there and dive into the crowd. They won’t dare shoot. Maybe I can get away.”

  “It’d be like hitting a trampoline,” Garraty said. “They’ll bounce you right back onto the pavement so they can watch you bleed. Don’t you remember Percy?”

  “Percy wasn’t thinkin’. Just trying to walk off into the woods. They beat the dog out of Percy, all right.” He looked curiously at Garraty. “Aren’t you tired, Ray?”

  “Shit, no.” Garraty flapped his thin arms with mock grandeur. “I’m coasting, couldn’t you tell?”

  “I’m in bad shape,” Pearson said, and licked his lips. “I’m havin’ a hard job just thinking straight. And my legs feel like they got harpoons in them all the way up to—”

  McVries came up behind them. “Scramm’s dying,” he said bluntly.

  Garraty and Pearson said “Huh?” in unison.

  “He’s got pneumonia,” McVries said.

  Garraty nodded. “I was afraid it might be that.”

  “You can hear his lungs five feet away. It sounds like somebody pumped the Gulf Stream through them. If it gets hot again today, he’ll just burn up.”

  “Poor bastard,” Pearson said, and the tone of relief in his voice was both unconscious and unmistakable. “He could have taken us all, I think. And he’s married. What’s his wife gonna do?”

  “What can she do?” Garraty asked.

  They were walking fairly close to the crowd, no longer noticing the outstretched hands that strove to touch them—you got to know your distance after fingernails had taken skin off your arm once or twice. A small boy whined that he wanted to go home.

  “I’ve been talking to everybody,” McVries said. “Well, just about everybody. I think the winner should do something for her.”

  “Like what?” Garraty asked.

  “That’ll have to be between the winner and Scramm’s wife. And if the bastard welshes, we can all come back and haunt him.”

  “Okay,” Pearson said. “What’s to lose?”

  “Ray?”

  “All right. Sure. Have you talked to Gary Barkovitch?”

  “That prick? He wouldn’t give his mother artificial respiration if she was drowning.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Garraty said.

  “You won’t get anywhere.”

  “Just the same. I’ll do it now.”

  “Ray, why don’t you talk to Stebbins, too? You seem to be the only one he talks to.”

  Garraty snorted. “I can tell you what he’ll say in advance.”

  “No?”

  “He’ll say why. And by the time he gets done, I won’t have any idea.”

  “Skip him then.”

  “Can’t.” Garraty began angling toward the small, slumped figure of Barkovitch. “He’s the only guy that still thinks he’s going to win.”

  Barkovitch was in a doze. With his eyes nearly closed and the faint peachfuzz that coated his olive cheeks, he looked like a put-upon and badly used teddy bear. He had either lost his rainhat or thrown it away.

  “Barkovitch.”

  Barkovitch snapped awake. “Wassamatter? Whozat? Garraty?”

  “Yes. Listen, Scramm’s dying.”

  “Who? Oh, right. Beaver-brains over there. Good for him.”

  “He’s got pneumonia. He probably won’t last until noon.”

  Barkovitch looked slowly around at Garraty with his bright black shoebutton eyes. Yes, he looked remarkably like some destructive child’s teddy bear this morning.

  “Look at you there with your big earnest face hanging out, Garraty. What’s your pitch?”

  “Well, if you didn’t know, he’s married, and—”

  Barkovitch’s eyes widened until it seemed they were in danger of falling out. “Married! MARRIED? ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT NUMBSKULL IS—”

  “Shut up, you asshole! He’ll hear you!”

  “I don’t give a sweet fuck! He’s crazy!” Barkovitch looked over at Scramm, outraged. “WHAT DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING, NUMBNUTS, PLAYING GIN RUMMY?” he screamed at the top of his lungs. Scramm looked around blearily at Barkovitch, and then raised his hand in a halfhearted wave. He apparently thought Barkovitch was a spectator. Abraham, who was walking near Scramm, gave Barkovitch the finger. Barkovitch gave it right back, and then turned to Garraty. Suddenly he smiled.

  “Aw, goodness,” he said. “It shines from your dumb hick face, Garraty. Passing the hat for the dying guy’s wifey, right? Ain’t that cute.”

  “Count you out, huh?” Garraty said stiffly. “Okay.” He started to walk away.

  Barkovitch’s smile wobbled at the edges. He grabbed Garraty’s sleeve. “Hold on, hold on. I didn’t say no, did I? Did you hear me say no?”

  “No—”

  “No, course I didn’t.” Barkovitch’s smile reappeared, but now there was something desperate in it. The cockiness was gone. “Listen, I got off on the wrong foot with you guys. I didn’t mean to. Shit, I’m a good enough guy when you get to know me, I’m always gettin’ off on the wrong foot, I never had much of a crowd back home. In my school, I mean. Christ, I don’t know why. I’m a good enough guy when you get to know me, as good as anyone else, but I always just, you know, seem to get off on the wrong foot. I mean a guy’s got to have a couple of friends on a thing like this. It’s no good to be alone, right? Jesus Christ, Garraty, you know that. That Rank. He started it, Garraty. He wanted to tear my ass. Guys, they always want to tear my ass. I used to carry a switchblade back at my high school on account of guys wanting to tear my ass. That Rank. I didn’t mean for him to croak, that wasn’t the idea at all. I mean, it wasn’t my fault. You guys just saw the end of it, not the way he was . . . ripping my ass, you know . . .” Barkovitch trailed off.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Garraty said, feeling like a hypocrite. Maybe Barkovitch could rewrite history for himself, but Garraty remembered the Rank incident too clearly. “Well, what do you want to do, anyway? You want to go along with the deal?”

  “Sure, sure.” Barkovitch�
��s hand tightened convulsively on Garraty’s sleeve, pulling it like the emergency-stop cord on a bus. “I’ll send her enough bread to keep her in clover the rest of her life. I just wanted to tell you . . . make you see . . . a guy’s got to have some friends . . . a guy’s got to have a crowd, you know? Who wants to die hated, if you got to die, that’s the way I look at it. I . . . I . . .”

  “Sure, right.” Garraty began to drop back, feeling like a coward, still hating Barkovitch but somehow feeling sorry for him at the same time. “Thanks a lot.” It was the touch of human in Barkovitch that scared him. For some reason it scared him. He didn’t know why.

  He dropped back too fast, got a warning, and spent the next ten minutes working back to where Stebbins was ambling along.

  “Ray Garraty,” Stebbins said. “Happy May 3rd, Garraty.”

  Garraty nodded cautiously. “Same goes both ways.”

  “I was counting my toes,” Stebbins said companionably. “They are fabulously good company because they always add up the same way. What’s on your mind?”

  So Garraty went through the business about Scramm and Scramm’s wife for the second time, and halfway through another boy got his ticket (HELL’S ANGELS ON WHEELS stenciled on the back of his battered jeans jacket) and made it all seem rather meaningless and trite. Finished, he waited tensely for Stebbins to start anatomizing the idea.

  “Why not?” Stebbins said amiably. He looked up at Garraty and smiled. Garraty could see that fatigue was finally making its inroads, even in Stebbins.

  “You sound like you’ve got nothing to lose,” he said.

  “That’s right,” Stebbins said jovially. “None of us really has anything to lose. That makes it easier to give away.”

  Garraty looked at Stebbins, depressed. There was too much truth in what he said. It made their gesture toward Scramm look small.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Garraty old chum. I’m a bit weird, but I’m no old meanie. If I could make Scramm croak any faster by withholding my promise, I would. But I can’t. I don’t know for sure, but I’ll bet every Long Walk finds some poor dog like Scramm and makes a gesture like this, Garraty, and I’ll further bet it always comes at just about this time in the Walk, when the old realities and mortalities are starting to sink in. In the old days, before the Change and the Squads, when there was still millionaires, they used to set up foundations and build libraries and all that good shit. Everyone wants a bulwark against mortality, Garraty. Some people can kid themselves that it’s their kids. But none of those poor lost children”—Stebbins swung one thin arm to indicate the other Walkers and laughed, but Garraty thought he sounded sad—“they’re never even going to leave any bastards.” He winked at Garrity. “Shock you?”

  “I . . . I guess not.”

  “You and your friend McVries stand out in this motley crew, Garraty. I don’t understand how either of you got here. I’m willing to bet it runs deeper than you think, though. You took me seriously last night, didn’t you? About Olson.”

  “I suppose so,” Garraty said slowly.

  Stebbins laughed delightedly. “You’re the bee’s knees, Ray. Olson had no secrets.”

  “I don’t think you were ribbing last night.”

  “Oh, yes. I was.”

  Garraty smiled tightly. “You know what I think? I think you had some sort of insight and now you want to deny it. Maybe it scared you.”

  Stebbins’s eyes went gray. “Have it how you like it, Garraty. It’s your funeral. Now what say you flake off? You got your promise.”

  “You want to cheat it. Maybe that’s your trouble. You like to think the game is rigged. But maybe it’s a straight game. That scare you, Stebbins?”

  “Take off.”

  “Go on, admit it.”

  “I admit nothing, except your own basic foolishness. Go ahead and tell yourself it’s a straight game.” Thin color had come into Stebbins’s cheeks. “Any game looks straight if everyone is being cheated at once.”

  “You’re all wet,” Garraty said, but now his voice lacked conviction. Stebbins smiled briefly and looked back down at his feet.

  They were climbing out of a long, swaybacked dip, and Garraty felt sweat pop out on him as he hurried back up through the line to where McVries, Pearson, Abraham, Baker, and Scramm were bundled up together—or, more exactly, the others were bundled around Scramm. They looked like worried seconds around a punchy fighter.

  “How is he?” Garraty asked.

  “Why ask them?” Scramm demanded. His former husky voice had been reduced to a mere whisper. The fever had broken, leaving his face pallid and waxy.

  “Okay, I’ll ask you.”

  “Aw, not bad,” Scramm said. He coughed. It was a raspy, bubbling sound that seemed to come from underwater. “I’m not so bad. It’s nice, what you guys are doing for Cathy. A man likes to take care of his own, but I guess I wouldn’t be doing right to stand on my pride. Not the way things are now.”

  “Don’t talk so much,” Pearson said, “you’ll wear yourself out.”

  “What’s the difference? Now or later, what’s the difference?” Scramm looked at them dumbly, then shook his head slowly from side to side. “Why’d I have to get sick? I was going good, I really was. Odds-on favorite. Even when I’m tired I like to walk. Look at folks, smell the air . . . why? Is it God? Did God do it to me?”

  “I don’t know,” Abraham said.

  Garraty felt the death-fascination coming over him again, and was repulsed. He tried to shake it off. It wasn’t fair. Not when it was a friend.

  “What time is it?” Scramm asked suddenly, and Garraty was eerily reminded of Olson.

  “Ten past ten,” Baker said.

  “Just about two hundred miles down the road,” McVries added.

  “My feet ain’t tired,” Scramm said. “That’s something.”

  A little boy was screaming lustily on the sidelines. His voice rose above the low crowd rumble by virtue of pure shrillness. “Hey Ma! Look at the big guy! Look at that moose, Ma! Hey Ma! Look!”

  Garraty’s eyes swept the crowd briefly and picked out the boy in the first row. He was wearing a Randy the Robot T-shirt and goggling around a half-eaten jam sandwich. Scramm waved at him.

  “Kids’re nice,” he said. “Yeah. I hope Cathy has a boy. We both wanted a boy. A girl would be all right, but you guys know . . . a boy . . . he keeps your name and passes it on. Not that Scramm’s such a great name.” He laughed, and Garraty thought of what Stebbins had said, about bulwarks against mortality.

  An apple-cheeked Walker in a droopy blue sweater dropped through them, bringing the word back. Mike, of Mike and Joe, the leather boys, had been struck suddenly with gut cramps.

  Scramm passed a hand across his forehead. His chest rose and fell in a spasm of heavy coughing that he somehow walked through. “Those boys are from my neck of the woods,” he said. “We all coulda come together if I’d known. They’re Hopis.”

  “Yeah,” Pearson said. “You told us.”

  Scramm looked puzzled. “Did I? Well, it don’t matter. Seems like I won’t be making the trip alone, anyway. I wonder—”

  An expression of determination settled over Scramm’s face. He began to step up his pace. Then he slowed again for a moment and turned around to face them. It seemed calm now, settled. Garraty looked at him, fascinated in spite of himself.

  “I don’t guess I’ll be seeing you guys again.” There was nothing in Scramm’s voice but simple dignity. “Goodbye.”

  McVries was the first to respond. “Goodbye, man,” he said hoarsely. “Good trip.”

  “Yeah, good luck,” Pearson said, and then looked away.

  Abraham tried to speak and couldn’t. He turned away, pale, his lips writhing.

  “Take it easy,” Baker said. His face was solemn.

  “Goodbye,” Garraty said through frozen lips. “Goodbye, Scramm, good trip, good rest.”

  “Good rest?” Scramm smiled a little. “The real Walk may still be coming.”

&n
bsp; He sped up until he had caught up with Mike and Joe, with their impassive faces and their worn leather jackets. Mike had not allowed the cramps to bow him over. He was walking with both hands pressed against his lower belly. His speed was constant.

  Scramm talked with them.

  They all watched. It seemed that the three of them conferred for a very long time.

  “Now what the hell are they up to?” Pearson whispered fearfully to himself.

  Suddenly the conference was over. Scramm walked a ways distant from Mike and Joe. Even from back here Garraty could hear the ragged bite of his cough. The soldiers were watching all three of them carefully. Joe put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. They looked at each other. Garraty could discern no emotion on their bronzed faces. Then Mike hurried a little and caught up with Scramm.

  A moment later Mike and Scramm did an abrupt about-face and began to walk toward the crowd, which, sensing the sharp tang of fatality about them, shrieked, unclotted, and backed away from them as if they had the plague.

  Garraty looked at Pearson and saw his lips tighten.

  The two boys were warned, and as they reached the guardrails that bordered the road, they about-faced smartly and faced the oncoming halftrack. Two middle fingers stabbed the air in unison.

  “I fucked your mother and she sure was fine!” Scramm cried.

  Mike said something in his own language.

  A tremendous cheer went up from the Walkers, and Garraty felt weak tears beneath his eyelids. The crowd was silent. The spot behind Mike and Scramm was barren and empty. They took second warning, then sat down together, crosslegged, and began to talk together calmly. And that was pretty goddamned strange, Garraty thought as they passed by, because Scramm and Mike did not seem to be talking in the same language.

  He did not look back. None of them looked back, not even after it was over.

  “Whoever wins better keep his word,” McVries said suddenly. “He just better.”

  No one said anything.