The Long Walk

by Stephen King

  “Well?”

  “Save your breath for a minute,” Garraty said. “You’ll need it.”

  They came to the end of the bridge and the crowd was with them again as they swung left and started up the Brickyard Hill. It was long, steep, and banked. The river was dropping away below them on the left, and on their right was an almost perpendicular upslope. Spectators clung to trees, to bushes, to each other, and chanted Garraty’s name. Once he had dated a girl who lived on Brickyard Hill, a girl named Carolyn. She was married now. Had a kid. She might have let him, but he was young and pretty dumb.

  From up ahead Parker was giving a whispery, out-of-breath goddam! that was barely audible over the crowd. Garraty’s legs quivered and threatened to go to jelly, but this was the last big hill before Freeport. After that it didn’t matter. If he went to hell he went to hell. Finally they breasted it (Carolyn had nice breasts, she often wore cashmere sweaters) and Stebbins, panting just a little, repeated: “Well?”

  The guns roared. A boy named Charlie Field bowed out of the Walk.

  “Well, nothing,” Garraty said. “I was looking for Baker and found you instead. McVries says he thinks you’ll win.”

  “McVries is an idiot,” Stebbins said casually. “You really think you’ll see your girl, Garraty? In all these people?”

  “She’ll be in the front,” Garraty said. “She’s got a pass.”

  “The cops’ll be too busy holding everybody back to get her through to the front.”

  “That isn’t true,” Garraty said. He spoke sharply because Stebbins had articulated his own deep fear. “Why do you want to say a thing like that?”

  “It’s really your mother you want to see anyway.”

  Garraty recoiled sharply. “What?”

  “Aren’t you going to marry her when you grow up, Garraty? That’s what most little boys want.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes!”

  “What makes you think you deserve to win, Garraty? You’re a second-class intellect, a second-class physical specimen, and probably a second-class libido. Garraty, I’d bet my dog and lot you never slipped it to that girl of yours.”

  “Shut your goddam mouth!”

  “Virgin, aren’t you? Maybe a little bit queer in the bargain? Touch of the lavender? Don’t be afraid. You can talk to Papa Stebbins.”

  “I’ll walk you down if I have to walk to Virginia, you cheap fuck!” Garraty was shaking with anger. He could not remember being so angry in his whole life.

  “That’s okay,” Stebbins said soothingly. “I understand.”

  “Motherfucker! You!—”

  “Now there’s an interesting word. What made you use that word?”

  For a moment Garraty was sure he must throw himself on Stebbins or faint with rage, yet he did neither. “If I have to walk to Virginia,” he repeated. “If I have to walk all the way to Virginia.”

  Stebbins stretched up on his toes and grinned sleepily. “I feel like I could walk all the way to Florida, Garraty.”

  Garraty lunged away from him, hunting for Baker, feeling the anger and rage die into a throbbing kind of shame. He supposed Stebbins thought he was an easy mark. He supposed he was.

  Baker was walking beside a boy Garraty didn’t know. His head was down, his lips moving a little.

  “Hey, Baker,” Garraty said.

  Baker started, then seemed to shake himself all over, like a dog. “Garraty,” he said. “You.”

  “Yea, me.”

  “I was having a dream—an awful real one. What time?”

  Garraty checked. “Almost twenty to seven.”

  “Will it rain all day, you think?”

  “I . . . uh!” Garraty lurched forward, momentarily off balance. “My damn shoeheel came off,” he said.

  “Get rid of ’em both,” Baker advised. “The nails will get to pokin’ through. And you have to work harder when you’re off balance.”

  Garraty kicked off one shoe and it went end over end almost to the edge of the crowd, where it lay like a small crippled puppy. The hands of Crowd groped for it eagerly. One snared it, another took it away, and there was a violent, knotted struggle over it. His other shoe would not kick off; his foot had swelled tight inside it. He knelt, took his warning, untied it, and took it off. He considered throwing it to the crowd and then left it lying on the road instead. A great and irrational wave of despair suddenly washed over him and he thought: I have lost my shoes. I have lost my shoes.

  The pavement was cold against his feet. The ripped remains of his stockings were soon soaked. Both feet looked strange, oddly lumpish. Garraty felt despair turn to pity for his feet. He caught up quickly with Baker, who was also walking shoe-less. “I‘m about done in,” Baker said simply.

  “We all are.”

  “I get to remembering all the nice things that ever happened to me. The first time I took a girl to a dance and there was this big ole drunk fella that kep tryin’ to cut in and I took him outside and whipped his ass for him. I was only able to because he was so drunk. And that girl looked at me like I was the greatest thing since the internal combustion engine. My first bike. The first time I read The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins . . . that’s my favorite book, Garraty, should anyone ever ask you. Sittin’ half asleep by some mudhole with a fishin’ line and catchin’ crawdaddies by the thousands. Layin’ in the backyard and sleepin’ with a Popeye funnybook over my face. I think about those things, Garraty. Just lately. Like I was old and gettin’ senile.”

  The early morning rain fell silverly around them. Even the crowd seemed quieter, more withdrawn. Faces could be seen again, blurrily, like faces behind rainy panes of glass. They were pale, sloe-eyed faces with brooding expressions under dripping hats and umbrellas and spread newspaper tents. Garraty felt a deep ache inside him and it seemed it would be better if he could cry out, but he could not, any more than he could comfort Baker and tell him it was all right to die. It might be, but then again, it might not.

  “I hope it won’t be dark,” Baker said. “That’s all I hope. If there is an . . . an after, I hope it’s not dark. And I hope you can remember. I’d hate to wander around in the dark forever, not knowing who I was or what I was doin’ there, or not even knowing that I’d ever had anything different.”

  Garraty began to speak, and then the gunshots silenced him. Business was picking up again. The hiatus Parker had so accurately predicted was almost over. Baker’s lips drew up in a grimace.

  “That’s what I’m most afraid of. That sound. Why did we do it, Garraty? We must have been insane.”

  “I don’t think there was any good reason.”

  “All we are is mice in a trap.”

  The Walk went on. Rain fell. They walked past the places that Garraty knew—tumbledown shanties where no one lived, an abandoned one-room schoolhouse that had been replaced by the new Consolidated building, chicken houses, old trucks up on blocks, newly harrowed fields. He seemed to remember each field, each house. Now he tingled with excitement. The road seemed to fly by. His legs seemed to gain a new and spurious springiness. But maybe Stebbins was right—maybe she wouldn’t be there. It had to be considered and prepared for, at least.

  The word came back through the thinned ranks that there was a boy near the front who believed he had appendicitis.

  Garraty would have boggled at this earlier, but now he couldn’t seem to care about anything except Jan and Freeport. The hands on his watch were racing along with a devilish life of their own. Only five miles out now. They had passed the Freeport town line. Somewhere up ahead Jan and his mother were already standing in front of Wool-man’s Free Trade Center Market, as they had arranged it.

  The sky brightened somewhat but remained overcast. The rain turned to a stubborn drizzle. The road was now a dark mirror, black ice in which Garraty could almost see the twisted reflection of his own face. He passed a hand across his forehead. It felt hot and feverish. Jan, oh Jan. You must know I—

/>   The boy with the hurting side was 59, Klingerman. He began to scream. His screams quickly became monotonous. Garraty thought back to the one Long Walk he had seen—also in Freeport—and the boy who had been monotonously chanting I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

  Klingerman, he thought, shut ya trap.

  But Klingerman kept on walking, and he kept on screaming, hands laced over his side, and Garraty’s watch hands kept on racing. It was eight-fifteen now. You’ll be there, Jan, right? Right. Okay. I don’t know what you mean anymore, but I know I’m still alive and that I need you to be there, to give me a sign, maybe. Just be there. Be there.

  Eight-thirty.

  “We gettin’ close to this goddam town, Garraty?” Parker hollered.

  “What do you care?” McVries jeered. “You sure don’t have a girl waiting for you.”

  “I got girls everywhere, you dumb hump,” Parker said. “They take one look at this face and cream in their silks.” The face to which he referred was now haggard and gaunt, just a shadow of what it had been.

  Eighty forty-five.

  “Slow down, fella,” McVries said as Garraty caught up with him and started to pass by. “Save a little for tonight.”

  “I can’t. Stebbins said she wouldn’t be there. That they wouldn’t have a man to spare to help her through. I have to find out. I have to—”

  “Just take it easy is all I’m saying. Stebbins would get his own mother to drink a Lysol cocktail if it would help him win. Don’t listen to him. She’ll be there. It makes great PR, for one thing.”

  “But—”

  “But me no buts, Ray. Slow down and live.”

  “You can just cram your fucking platitudes!” Garraty shouted. He licked his lips and put a shaky hand to his face. “I . . . I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Stebbins also said I really only wanted to see my mother anyway.”

  “Don’t you want to see her?”

  “Of course I want to see her! What the hell do you think I—no—yes—I don’t know. I had a friend once. And he and I—we—we took off our clothes—and she—she—”

  “Garraty,” McVries said, and put a hand to touch his shoulder. Klingerman was screaming very loudly now. Somebody near the front lines asked him if he wanted an Alka-Seltzer. This sally brought general laughter. “You’re falling apart, Garraty. Settle down. Don’t blow it.”

  “Get off my back!” Garraty screamed. He crammed one fist against his lips and bit down on it. After a second he said, “Just get off me.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  McVries strode away. Garraty wanted to call him back but couldn’t.

  Then, for the fourth time, it was nine o’clock in the morning. They turned left and the crowd was again below the twenty-four of them as they crossed the 295 overpass and into the town of Freeport. Up ahead was the Dairy Joy where he and Jan sometimes used to stop after the movies. They turned right and were on U.S. 1, what somebody had called the big highway. Big or small, it was the last highway. The hands on Garraty’s watch seemed to jump out at him. Downtown was straight ahead. Woolman’s was on the right. He could just see it, a squat and ugly building hiding behind a false front. The tickertape was starting to fall again. The rain made it sodden and sticky, lifeless. The crowd was swelling. Someone turned on the town fire siren, and its wails mixed and blended with Klingerman’s. Klingerman and the Freeport fire siren sang a nightmarish duet.

  Tension filled Garraty’s veins, stuffed them full of copper wire. He could hear his heart thudding, now in his guts, now in his throat, now right between the eyes. Two hundred yards. They were screaming his name again (RAY-RAY-ALL-THE-WAY!) but he had not seen a familiar face in the crowd yet.

  He drifted over to the right until the clutching hands of Crowd were inches from him—one long and brawny arm actually twitched the cloth of his shirt, and he jumped back as if he had almost been drawn into a threshing machine—and the soldiers had their guns on him, ready to let fly if he tried to disappear into the surge of humanity. Only a hundred yards to go now. He could see the big brown Woolman’s sign, but no sign of his mother or of Jan. God, oh God God, Stebbins had been right . . . and even if they were here, how was he going to see them in this shifting, clutching mass?

  A shaky groan seeped out of him, like a disgorged strand of flesh. He stumbled and almost fell over his own loose legs. Stebbins had been right. He wanted to stop here, to not go any further. The disappointment, the sense of loss, was so staggering it was hollow. What was the point? What was the point now?

  Fire siren blasting, Crowd screaming, Klingerman shrieking, rain falling, and his own little tortured soul, flapping through his head and crashing blindly off its walls.

  I can’t go on. Can’t, can’t, can’t. But his feet stumbled on. Where am I? Jan? Jan? . . . JAN!

  He saw her. She was waving the blue silk scarf he had gotten her for her birthday, and the rain shimmered in her hair like gems. His mother was beside her, wearing her plain black coat. They had been jammed together by the mob and were being swayed helplessly back and forth. Over Jan’s shoulder a TV camera poked its idiot snout.

  A great sore somewhere in his body seemed to burst. The infection ran out of him in a green flood. He burst into a shambling, pigeon-toed run. His ripped socks flapped and slapped his swollen feet.

  “Jan! Jan!”

  He could hear the thought but not the words in his mouth. The TV camera tracked him enthusiastically. The din was tremendous. He could see her lips form his name, and he had to reach her, had to—

  An arm brought him up short. It was McVries. A soldier speaking through a sexless bullhorn was giving them both first warning.

  “Not into the crowd!” McVries’s lips were against Garraty’s ear and he was shouting. A lancet of pain pierced into Garraty’s head.

  “Let me go!”

  “I won’t let you kill yourself, Ray!”

  “Let me go goddammit!”

  “Do you want to die in her arms? Is that it?”

  The time was fleeting. She was crying. He could see the tears on her cheeks. He wrenched free of McVries. He started for her again. He felt hard, angry sobs coming up from inside him. He wanted sleep. He would find it in her arms. He loved her.

  Ray, I love you.

  He could see the words on her lips.

  McVries was still beside him. The TV camera glared down. Now, peripherally, he could see his high school class, and they were unfurling a huge banner and somehow it was his own face, his yearbook photo, blown up to Godzilla size, he was grinning down at himself as he cried and struggled to reach her.

  Second warning, blared from the loudhailer like the voice of God.

  Jan—

  She was reaching out to him. Hands touching. Her cool hand. Her tears—

  His mother. Her hands, reaching—

  He grasped them. In one hand he held Jan’s hand, in the other his mother’s hand. He touched them. It was done.

  It was done until McVries’s arm came down around his shoulder again, cruel McVries.

  “Let me go! Let me go!”

  “Man, you must really hate her!” McVries screamed in his ear. “What do you want? To die knowing they’re both stinking with your blood? Is that what you want? For Christ’s sake, come on!”

  He struggled, but McVries was strong. Maybe McVries was even right. He looked at Jan and now her eyes were wide with alarm. His mother made shooing gestures. And on Jan’s lips he could read the words like a damnation: Go on! Go on!

  Of course I must go on, he thought dully. I am Maine’s Own. And in that second he hated her, although if he had done anything, it was no more than to catch her—and his mother—in the snare he had laid for himself.

  Third warning for him and McVries, rolling majestically like thunder; the crowd hushed a little and looked on with wet-eyed eagerness. Now there was panic written on the faces of Jan and his mother. His mother’s hands flew to her face, and he thought of Barkovitch’s hands flying up to his neck and startled doves and
ripping out his own throat.

  “If you’ve got to do it, do it around the next corner, you cheap shit!” McVries cried.

  He began to whimper. McVries had beaten him again. McVries was very strong. “All right,” he said, not knowing if McVries could hear him or not. He began to walk. “All right, all right, let me loose before you break my collarbone.” He sobbed, hiccuped, wiped his nose.

  McVries let go of him warily, ready to grab him again.

  Almost as an afterthought, Garraty turned and looked back, but they were already lost in the crowd again. He thought he would never forget that look of panic rising in their eyes, that feeling of trust and sureness finally kicked brutally away. He got nothing but half a glimpse of a waving blue scarf.

  He turned around and faced forward again, not looking at McVries, and his stumbling, traitorous feet carried him on and they walked out of town.

  Chapter 16

  “The blood has begun to flow! Liston is staggering!

  Clay is rocking him with combinations! . . .

  boring in! Clay is killing him! Clay is killing him!

  Ladies and gentlemen, Liston is down!

  Sonny Liston is down! Clay is dancing . . .

  waving . . . yelling into the crowd!

  Oh, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t know how

  to describe this scene!”

  —Radio Commentator Second Clay-Liston Fight

  Tubbins had gone insane.

  Tubbins was a short boy with glasses and a face full of freckles. He wore hip-hanging bluejeans that he had been constantly hitching up. He hadn’t said much, but he had been a nice enough sort before he went insane.

  “WHORE!” Tubbins babbled to the rain. He had turned his face up into it, and the rain dripped off his specs onto his cheeks and over his lips and down off the end of his blunted chin. “THE WHORE OF BABYLON HAS COME AMONG US! SHE LIES IN THE STREETS AND SPREADS HER LEGS ON THE FILTH OF COBBLESTONES! VILE! VILE! BEWARE THE WHORE OF BABYLON! HER LIPS DRIP HONEY BUT HER HEART IS GALL AND WORMWOOD—”

  “And she’s got the clap,” Collie Parker added tiredly. “Jeezus, he’s worse than Klingerman.” He raised his voice. “Drop down dead, Tubby!”