road,” McVries said quietly. His hand had gone to the scar and was rubbing, rubbing, rubbing. “I’ll cheer when it happens, you murdering little bastard.”
Barkovitch muttered something else under his breath. The others had shied away from him as if he had the plague and he was walking by himself.
They hit sixty miles at about ten past eleven, with no sign of a bridge of any kind. Garraty was beginning to think the grapevine had been wrong this time when they cleared a small hill and looked down into a pool of light where a small crowd of hustling, bustling men moved.
The lights were the beams of several trucks, directed at a plank bridge spanning a fast-running rill of water. “Truly I love that bridge,” Olson said, and helped himself to one of McVries’s cigarettes. “Truly.”
But as they drew closer, Olson made a soft, ugly sound in his throat and pitched the cigarette away into the weeds. One of the bridge’s supports and two of the heavy butt planks had been washed away, but the Squad up ahead had been working diligently. A sawed-off telephone pole had been planted in the bed of the stream, anchored in what looked like a gigantic cement plug. They hadn’t had a chance to replace the butts, so they had put down a big convoy-truck tailgate in their place. Makeshift, but it would serve.
“The Bridge of San Loois Ray,” Abraham said. “Maybe if the ones up front stomp a little, it’ll collapse again.”
“Small chance,” Pearson said, and then added in a breaking, weepy voice, “Aw, shit! ”
The vanguard, down to three or four boys, was on the bridge now. Their feet clumped hollowly as they crossed. Then they were on the other side, walking without looking back. The halftrack stopped. Two soldiers jumped out and kept pace with the boys. On the other side of the bridge, two more fell in with the vanguard. The boards rumbled steadily now.
Two men in corduroy coats leaned against a big asphalt-spattered truck marked HIGHWAY REPAIR. They were smoking. They wore green gum-rubber boots. They watched the Walkers go by. As Davidson, McVries, Olson, Pearson, Harkness, Baker, and Garraty passed in a loose sort of group one of them flicked his cigarette end over end into the stream and said: “That’s him. That’s Garraty.”
“Keep goin’, boy!” the other yelled. “I got ten bucks on you at twelve-to-one!”
Garraty noticed a few sawdusty lengths of telephone pole in the back of the truck. They were the ones who had made sure he was going to keep going, whether he liked it or not. He raised one hand to them and crossed the bridge. The tailgate that had replaced the butt planks clunked under his shoes and then the bridge was behind them. The road doglegged, and the only reminder of the rest they’d almost had was a wedge-shaped swath of light on the trees at the side of the road. Soon that was gone, too.
“Has a Long Walk ever been stopped for anything?” Harkness asked.
“I don’t think so,” Garraty said. “More material for the book?”
“No,” Harkness said. He sounded tired. “Just personal information.”
“It stops every year,” Stebbins said from behind them. “Once.”
There was no reply to that.
About half an hour later, McVries came up beside Garraty and walked with him in silence for a little while. Then, very quietly, he said: “Do you think you’ll win, Ray?”
Garraty considered it for a long, long time.
“No,” he said finally. “No, I . . . no.”
The stark admission frightened him. He thought again about buying a ticket, no, buying a bullet, of the final frozen half-second of total knowledge, seeing the bottomless bores of the carbines swing toward him. Legs frozen. Guts crawling and clawing. Muscles, genitals, brain all cowering away from the oblivion a bloodbeat away.
He swallowed dryly. “How about yourself ?”
“I guess not,” McVries said. “I stopped thinking I had any real chance around nine tonight. You see, I . . .” He cleared his
Barkovitch muttered something else under his breath. The others had shied away from him as if he had the plague and he was walking by himself.
They hit sixty miles at about ten past eleven, with no sign of a bridge of any kind. Garraty was beginning to think the grapevine had been wrong this time when they cleared a small hill and looked down into a pool of light where a small crowd of hustling, bustling men moved.
The lights were the beams of several trucks, directed at a plank bridge spanning a fast-running rill of water. “Truly I love that bridge,” Olson said, and helped himself to one of McVries’s cigarettes. “Truly.”
But as they drew closer, Olson made a soft, ugly sound in his throat and pitched the cigarette away into the weeds. One of the bridge’s supports and two of the heavy butt planks had been washed away, but the Squad up ahead had been working diligently. A sawed-off telephone pole had been planted in the bed of the stream, anchored in what looked like a gigantic cement plug. They hadn’t had a chance to replace the butts, so they had put down a big convoy-truck tailgate in their place. Makeshift, but it would serve.
“The Bridge of San Loois Ray,” Abraham said. “Maybe if the ones up front stomp a little, it’ll collapse again.”
“Small chance,” Pearson said, and then added in a breaking, weepy voice, “Aw, shit! ”
The vanguard, down to three or four boys, was on the bridge now. Their feet clumped hollowly as they crossed. Then they were on the other side, walking without looking back. The halftrack stopped. Two soldiers jumped out and kept pace with the boys. On the other side of the bridge, two more fell in with the vanguard. The boards rumbled steadily now.
Two men in corduroy coats leaned against a big asphalt-spattered truck marked HIGHWAY REPAIR. They were smoking. They wore green gum-rubber boots. They watched the Walkers go by. As Davidson, McVries, Olson, Pearson, Harkness, Baker, and Garraty passed in a loose sort of group one of them flicked his cigarette end over end into the stream and said: “That’s him. That’s Garraty.”
“Keep goin’, boy!” the other yelled. “I got ten bucks on you at twelve-to-one!”
Garraty noticed a few sawdusty lengths of telephone pole in the back of the truck. They were the ones who had made sure he was going to keep going, whether he liked it or not. He raised one hand to them and crossed the bridge. The tailgate that had replaced the butt planks clunked under his shoes and then the bridge was behind them. The road doglegged, and the only reminder of the rest they’d almost had was a wedge-shaped swath of light on the trees at the side of the road. Soon that was gone, too.
“Has a Long Walk ever been stopped for anything?” Harkness asked.
“I don’t think so,” Garraty said. “More material for the book?”
“No,” Harkness said. He sounded tired. “Just personal information.”
“It stops every year,” Stebbins said from behind them. “Once.”
There was no reply to that.
About half an hour later, McVries came up beside Garraty and walked with him in silence for a little while. Then, very quietly, he said: “Do you think you’ll win, Ray?”
Garraty considered it for a long, long time.
“No,” he said finally. “No, I . . . no.”
The stark admission frightened him. He thought again about buying a ticket, no, buying a bullet, of the final frozen half-second of total knowledge, seeing the bottomless bores of the carbines swing toward him. Legs frozen. Guts crawling and clawing. Muscles, genitals, brain all cowering away from the oblivion a bloodbeat away.
He swallowed dryly. “How about yourself ?”
“I guess not,” McVries said. “I stopped thinking I had any real chance around nine tonight. You see, I . . .” He cleared his
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