by Stephen King
He began to cry a little bit. His vision blurred and his feet tangled up and he fell down. The pavement was hard and shockingly cold and unbelievably restful. He was warned twice before he managed to pick himself up, using a series of drunken, crab-like motions. He got his feet to work again. He broke wind—a long, sterile rattle that seemed to bear no relationship at all to an honest fart.
Baker was zigging and zagging drunkenly across the road and back. McVries and Stebbins had their heads together. Garraty was suddenly very sure they were plotting to kill him, the way someone named Barkovitch had once killed a faceless number named Rank.
He made himself walk fast and caught up with them. They made room for him wordlessly. (You’ve stopped talking about me, haven’t you? But you were. Do you think I don’t know? Do you think I am nuts?), but there was a comfort. He wanted to be with them, stay with them, until he died.
They passed a sign now which seemed to summarize to Garraty’s dumbly wondering eyes all the screaming insanity there might be in the universe, all the idiot whistling laughter of the spheres, and this sign read: 49 MILES TO BOSTON! WALKERS YOU CAN MAKE IT! He would have shrieked with laughter if he had been able. Boston! The very sound was mythic, rich with unbelievability.
Baker was beside him again. “Garraty?”
“What?”
“Are we in?”
“Huh?”
“In, are we in? Garraty, please.”
Baker’s eyes pleaded. He was an abattoir, a raw-blood machine.
“Yeah. We’re in. We’re in, Art.” He had no idea what Baker was talking about.
“I’m going to die now, Garraty.”
“All right.”
“If you win, will you do something for me? I’m scairt to ask anyone else.” And Baker made a sweeping gesture at the deserted road as if the Walk was still rich with its dozens. For a chilling moment Garraty wondered if maybe they were all there still, walking ghosts that Baker could now see in his moment of extremis.
“Anything.”
Baker put a hand on Garraty’s shoulder, and Garraty began weeping uncontrollably. It seemed that his heart would burst out of his chest and weep its own tears.
Baker said, “Lead-lined.”
“Walk a little bit longer,” Garraty said through his tears. “Walk a little longer, Art.”
“No—I can’t.”
“All right.”
“Maybe I’ll see you, man,” Baker said, and wiped slick blood from his face absently.
Garraty lowered his head and wept.
“Don’t watch ’em do it,” Baker said. “Promise me that, too.”
Garraty nodded, beyond speech.
“Thanks. You’ve been my friend, Garraty.” Baker tried to smile. He stuck his hand blindly out, and Garraty shook it with both of his.
“Another time, another place,” Baker said.
Garraty put his hands over his face and had to bend over to keep walking. The sobs ripped out of him and made him ache with a pain that was far beyond anything the Walk had been able to inflict.
He hoped he wouldn’t hear the shots. But he did.
Chapter 18
“I proclaim this year’s Long Walk at an end. Ladies and gentlemen—citizens—behold your winner!”
—The Major
They were forty miles from Boston.
“Tell us a story, Garraty,” Stebbins said abruptly. “Tell us a story that will take our minds off our troubles.” He had aged unbelievably; Stebbins was an old man.
“Yeah,” McVries said. He also looked ancient and wizened. “A story, Garraty.”
Garraty looked from one to the other dully, but he could see no duplicity in their faces, only the bone-weariness. He was falling off his own peak now; all the ugly, dragging pains were rushing back in.
He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, the world had doubled and came only reluctantly back into focus. “All right,” he said.
McVries clapped his hands solemnly, three times. He was walking with three warnings; Garraty had one; Stebbins, none.
“Once upon a time—”
“Oh, who wants to hear a fucking fairy story?” Stebbins asked.
McVries giggled a little.
“You’ll hear what I want to tell you!” Garraty said shrewishly. “You want to hear it or not?”
Stebbins stumbled against Garraty. Both he and Stebbins were warned. “I s’pose a fairy story’s better than no story at all.”
“It’s not a fairy story, anyway. Just because it’s in a world that never was doesn’t mean it’s a fairy story. It doesn’t mean—”
“Are you gonna tell it or not?” McVries asked pettishly.
“Once upon a time,” Garraty began, “there was a white knight that went out into the world on a Sacred Quest. He left his castle and walked through the Enchanted Forest—”
“Knights ride,” Stebbins objected.
“Rode through the Enchanted Forest, then. Rode. And he had many strange adventures. He fought off thousands of trolls and goblins and a whole shitload of wolves. All right? And he finally got to the king’s castle and asked permission to take Gwendolyn, the famous Lady Fair, out walking.”
McVries cackled.
“The king wasn’t digging it, thinking no one was good enough for his daughter Gwen, the world-famous Lady Fair, but the Lady Fair loved the White Knight so much that she threatened to run away into the Wildwoods if . . . if . . .” A wave of dizziness rode over him darkly, making him feel as if he were floating. The roar of the crowd came to him like the boom of the sea down a long, cone-shaped tunnel. Then it passed, but slowly.
He looked around. McVries’s head had dropped, and he was walking at the crowd, fast asleep.
“Hey!” Garraty shouted. “Hey, Pete! Pete!”
“Let him alone,” Stebbins said. “You made the promise like the rest of us.”
“Fuck you,” Garraty said distinctly, and darted to McVries’s side. He touched McVries’s shoulders, setting him straight again. McVries looked up at him sleepily and smiled. “No, Ray. It’s time to sit down.”
Terror pounded Garraty’s chest. “No! No way!”
McVries looked at him for a moment, then smiled again and shook his head. He sat down, cross legged on the pavement. He looked like a world-beaten monk. The scar on his cheek was a white slash in the rainy gloom.
“No!” Garraty screamed.
He tried to pick McVries up, but, thin as he was, McVries was much too heavy. McVries wouldn’t even look at him. His eyes were shut. And suddenly two of the soldiers were wrenching McVries away from him. They were putting their guns to McVries’s head.
“No!” Garraty screamed again. “Me! Me! Shoot me!”
But instead, they gave him his third warning.
McVries opened his eyes and smiled again. The next instant, he was gone.
Garraty walked unknowingly now. He stared blankly at Stebbins, who stared back at him curiously. Garraty was filled with a strange, roaring emptiness.
“Finish the story,” Stebbins said. “Finish the story, Garraty.”
“No,” Garraty said. “I don’t think so.”
“Let it go, then,” Stebbins said, and smiled winningly. “If there are such things as souls, his is still close. You could catch up.”
Garraty looked at Stebbins and said, “I’m going to walk you into the ground.”
Oh, Pete, he thought. He didn’t even have any tears left to cry.
“Are you?” Stebbins said. “We’ll see.”
By eight that evening they were walking through Danvers, and Garraty finally knew. It was almost done, because Stebbins could not be beaten.
I spent too much time thinking about it. McVries, Baker, Abraham . . . they didn’t think about it, they just did it. As if it were natural. And it is natural. In a way, it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He shambled along, bulge-eyed, jaw hanging agape, rain swishing in. For a misty, shutterlike moment he thought he saw so
meone he knew, knew as well as himself, weeping and beckoning in the dark ahead, but it was no use. He couldn’t go on.
He would just tell Stebbins. He was up ahead a little, limping quite a bit now, and looking emaciated. Garraty was very tired, but he was no longer afraid. He felt calm. He felt okay. He made himself go faster until he could put a hand on Stebbins’s shoulder. “Stebbins,” he said.
Stebbins turned and looked at Garraty with huge, floating eyes that saw nothing for a moment. Then recognition came and he reached out and clawed at Garraty’s shirt, pulling it open. The crowd screamed its anger at this interference, but only Garraty was close enough to see the horror in Stebbins’s eyes, the horror, the darkness, and only Garraty knew that Stebbins’s grip was a last despairing reach for rescue.
“Oh Garraty!” he cried, and fell down.
Now the sound of the crowd was apocalyptic. It was the sound of mountains falling and breaking, the earth shattering. The sound crushed Garraty easily beneath it. It would have killed him if he had heard it. But he heard nothing but his own voice.
“Stebbins?” he said curiously. He bent and somehow managed to turn Stebbins over. Stebbins still stared at him, but the despair had already skimmed over. His head rolled bonelessly on his neck.
He put a cupped hand in front of Stebbins’s mouth. “Stebbins?” he said again.
But Stebbins was dead.
Garraty lost interest. He got to his feet and began to walk. Now the cheers filled the earth and fireworks filled the sky. Up ahead, a jeep roared toward him.
No vehicles on the road, you damn fool. That’s a capital offense, they can shoot you for that.
The Major stood in the jeep. He held a stiff salute. Ready to grant first wish, every wish, any wish, death wish. The Prize.
Behind him, they finished by shooting the already-dead Stebbins, and now there was only him, alone on the road, walking toward where the Major’s jeep had stopped diagonally across the white line, and the Major was getting out, coming to him, his face kind and unreadable behind the mirror sunglasses.
Garraty stepped aside. He was not alone. The dark figure was back, up ahead, not far, beckoning. He knew that figure. If he could get a little closer, he could make out the features. Which one hadn’t he walked down? Was it Barkovitch? Collie Parker? Percy What’shisname? Who was it?
“GARRATY!” the crowd screamed deliriously. “GARRATY, GARRATY, GARRATY!”
Was it Scramm? Gribble? Davidson?
A hand on his shoulder. Garraty shook it off impatiently. The dark figure beckoned, beckoned in the rain, beckoned for him to come and walk, to come and play the game. And it was time to get started. There was still so far to walk.
Eyes blind, supplicating hands held out before him as if for alms, Garraty walked toward the dark figure.
And when the hand touched his shoulder again, he somehow found the strength to run.
