The Long Walk

a headache.”
Insulted once more, Barkovitch moved on up the line and grabbed Collie Parker. “Did he ask you what-”
“Get out of here before I pull your fucking nose off and make you eat it,” Collie Parker snarled. Barkovitch moved on quickly. The word on Collie Parker was that he was one mean son of a bitch.
“That guy drives me up the wall,” Pearson said.
“He’d be glad to hear it,” McVries said. “He likes it. He also told that reporter that he planned to dance on a lot of graves. He means it, too. That’s what keeps him going.”
“Next time he comes around I think I’ll trip him,” Olson said. His voice sounded dull and drained.
“Tut-tut,” McVries said. “Rule 8, no interference with your fellow Walkers.”
“You know what you can do with Rule 8,” Olson said with a pallid smile.
“Watch out,” McVries grinned, “you’re starting to sound pretty lively again.”
By 7 PM the pace, which had been lagging very close to the minimum limit, began to pick up a little. It was cool and if you walked faster you kept warmer. They passed beneath a turnpike overpass, and several people cheered them around mouthfuls of Dunkin’ Donuts from the glass-walled shop situated near the base of the exit ramp.
“We join up with the turnpike someplace, don’t we?” Baker asked.
“In Oldtown,” Garraty said. “Approximately one hundred and twenty miles.”
Harkness whistled through his teeth.
Not long after that, they walked into downtown Caribou. They were forty-four miles from their starting point.

Everyone was disappointed with Caribou.
It was just like Limestone.
The crowds were bigger, but otherwise it was just another mill-pulp-and-service town with a scattering of stores and gas stations, one shopping center that was having, according to the signs plastered everywhere, OUR ANNUAL WALK-IN FOR VALUES SALE!, and a park with a war memorial in it. A small, evil-sounding high school band struck up the National Anthem, then a medley of Sousa marches, and then, with taste so bad it was almost grisly, Marching to Pretoria.
The same woman who had made a fuss at the crossroads so far back turned up again. She was still looking for Percy. This time she made it through the police cordon and right onto the road. She pawed through the boys, unintentionally tripping one of them up. She was yelling for her Percy to come home now. The soldiers went for their guns, and for a moment it looked very much as if Percy’s mom was going to buy herself an interference ticket. Then a cop got an armlock on her and dragged her away. A small boy sat on a KEEP MAINE TIDY barrel and ate a hotdog and watched the cops put Percy’s mom in a police cruiser. Percy’s mom was the high point of going through Caribou.
“What comes after Oldtown, Ray?” McVries asked.
“I’m not a walking roadmap,” Garraty said irritably. “Bangor, I guess. Then Augusta. Then Kittery and the state line, about three hundred and thirty miles from here. Give or take. Okay? I’m picked clean.”
Somebody whistled. “Three hundred and thirty miles.”
“It’s unbelievable,” Harkness said gloomily.
“The whole damn thing is unbelievable,” McVries said. “I wonder where the Major is?”
“Shacked up in Augusta,” Olson said.
They all grinned, and Garraty reflected how strange it was about the Major, who had gone from God to Mammon in just ten hours.
Ninety-five left. But that wasn’t even the worst anymore. The worst was trying to visualize McVries buying it, or Baker. Or Harkness with his silly book idea. His mind shied away from the thought.
Once Caribou was behind them, the road became all but deserted. They walked through a country crossroads with a single lightpole rearing high above, spotlighting them and making crisp black shadows as they passed through the glare. Far away a train whistle hooted. The moon cast a dubious light on the groundfog, leaving it pearly and opalescent in the fields.
Garraty took a drink of water.
“Warning! Wanting 12! This is your final warning, 12!”
12 was a boy named Fenter who was wearing a souvenir T-shirt which read I RODE THE MT. WASHINGTON COG RAILWAY. Fenter was licking