“He’s almost there now,” McVries said at his elbow, startling him. “When they start half-hoping someone will shoot them so they can rest their feet, they’re not far away.”

“Is that right?” Garraty asked crossly. “How come everybody else around here knows so much more about it than me?”

“Because you’re so sweet,” McVries said tenderly, and then he sped up letting his legs catch the downgrade, and passed Garraty by.

Stebbins. He hadn’t thought about Stebbins in a long time. He turned his head to look for Stebbins. Stebbins was there. The pack had strung out coming down the long hill, and Stebbins was about a quarter of a mile back, but there was no mistaking those purple pants and that chambray workshirt. Stebbins was still tailing the pack like some thin vulture, just waiting for them to fall-

Garraty felt a wave of rage. He had a sudden urge to rash back and throttle Stebbins. There was no rhyme or reason to it, but he had to actively fight the compulsion down.

By the time they had reached the bottom of the grade, Garraty’s legs felt rubbery and unsteady. The state of numb weariness his flesh had more or less settled into was broken by unexpected darning-needles of pain that drove through his feet and legs, threatening to make his muscles knot and cramp. And Jesus, he thought, why not? They had been on the road for twenty-two hours. Twenty-two hour of nonstop walking, it was unbelievable.

“How do you feel now?” he asked Scramm, as if the last time he had asked him had been twelve hours ago.

“Fit and fine,” Scramm said. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose sniffed, and spat. “Just as fit and fine as can be.”

“You sound like you’re getting a cold.”

“Naw, it’s the pollen. Happens every spring. Hay fever. I even get it in Arizona. But I never catch colds.”

Garraty opened his mouth to reply when a hollow, poom poom sound echo back from far ahead. It was rifle fire. The word came back. Harkness had burnt out.

There was an odd, elevatorish sensation in Garraty’s stomach as he passed the word on back. The magic circle was broken. Harkness would never write his book about the Long Walk. Harkness was being dragged off the road someplace up ahead like a grain bag or was being tossed into a track, wrapped securely in a canvas bodybag. For Harkness, the Long Walk was over.

“Harkness,” McVries said. “Ol' Harkness bought a ticket to see the farm.”

“Why don’t you write him a poime?” Barkovitch called over.

“Shut up, killer,” McVries answered absently. He shook his head. “O1' 1ness, sonofabitch.”

“I ain’t no killer!” Barkovitch screamed. “I’ll dance on your grave,. scarface! I'll-”

A chorus of angry shouts silenced him. Muttering, Barkovitch glared at McVries. Then he began to stalk on a little faster, not looking around.

“You know what my uncle did?” Baker said suddenly. They were passing through a shady tunnel of overleafing trees, and Garraty was trying to forget about Harkness and Gribble and think only of the coolness.

“What?” Abraham asked.

“He was an undertaker,” Baker said.

“Good deal,” Abraham said disinterestedly.

“When I was a kid, I always used to wonder,” Baker said vaguely. He seemed to lose track of his thought, then glanced at Garraty and smiled. It was a peculiar smile. “Who’d embalm him, I mean. Like you wonder who cuts the barber’s hair or who operates on the doctor for gallstones. See?”

“It takes a lot of gall to be a doctor,” McVries said solemnly.

“You know what I mean.”

“So who got the call when the time came?” Abraham asked.

“Yeah,” Scramm added. “Who did?”

Baker looked up at the twining, heavy branches under which they were passing, and Garraty noticed again that Baker now looked exhausted. Not that we don’t all look that way, he added to himself.

“Come on,” McVries said. “Don’t keep us hanging. Who buried him?”

“This is the oldest joke in the world,” Abraham said. “Baker says, whatever made you think he was dead?”

“He is, though,” Baker said. “Lung cancer. Six years ago.”

“Did he smoke?” Abraham asked, waving at a family of four and their cat. The cat was on a leash. It was a Persian cat. It looked mean and pissed off.

“No, not even a pipe,” Baker said. “He was afraid it would give him cancer.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” McVries said, “who buried him? Tell us so we can discuss world problems, or baseball, or birth control or something.”

“I think birth control is a world problem,” Garraty said seriously. “My girlfriend is a Catholic and-”

“Come on!” McVries bellowed. “Who the fuck buried your grandfather, Baker?”

“My uncle. He was my uncle. My grandfather was a lawyer in Shreveport. “He-”

“I don’t give a shit,” McVries said. “I don’t give a shit if the old gentleman had three cocks, I just want to know who buried him so we can get on.”

“Actually, nobody buried him. He wanted to be cremated.”

“Oh my aching balls,” Abraham said, and then laughed a little.

“My aunt’s got his ashes in a ceramic vase. At her house in Baton Rouge. She tried to keep the business going-the undertaking business-but nobody much seemed to cotton to a lady undertaker.”

“I doubt if that was it,” McVries said.

“No?”

“No. I think your uncle jinxed her.”

“Jinx? How do you mean?” Baker was interested.

“Well, you have to admit it wasn’t a very good advertisement for the business.”

“What, dying?”

“No,” McVries said. “Getting cremated.”

Scramm chuckled stuffily through his plugged nose. “He’s got you there, old buddy.”

“I expect he might,” Baker said. He and McVries beamed at each other.

“Your uncle,” Abraham said heavily, “bores the tits off me. And might I also add that he-”

At that moment, Olson began begging one of the guards to let him rest.

He did not stop walking, or slow down enough to be warned, but his voice rose and fell in a begging, pleading, totally craven monotone that made Garraty crawl with embarrassment for him. Conversation lagged. Spectators watched Olson with horrified fascination. Garraty wished Olson would shut up before he gave the rest of them a black eye. He didn’t want to die either, but if he had to he wanted to go out without people thinking he was a coward. The soldiers stared over Olson, through him, around him, wooden-faced, deaf and dumb. They gave an occasional warning, though, so Garraty supposed you couldn’t call them dumb.

It got to be quarter to eight, and the word came back that they were just six miles short of one hundred miles. Garraty could remember reading that the largest number to ever complete the first hundred miles of a Long Walk was sixty-three. They looked a sure bet to crack that record; there were still sixty-nine in this group. Not that it mattered, one way or the other.

Olson’s pleas rose in a constant, garbled litany to Garraty’s left, somehow seeming to make the day hotter and more uncomfortable than it was. Several of the boys had shouted at Olson, but he seemed either not to hear or not to care.

They passed through a wooden covered bridge, the planks rumbling and bumping under their feet. Garraty could hear the secretive flap and swoop of the barn swallows that had made their homes among the rafters. It was refreshingly cool, and the sun seemed to drill down even hotter when they reached the other side. Wait till later if you think it’s hot now, he told himself. Wait until you get back into open country. Boy howdy.

He yelled for a canteen, and a soldier trotted over with one. He handed it to Garraty wordlessly, then trotted back. Garraty’s stomach was also growling for food. At nine o’clock, he thought. Have to keep walking until then. Be damned if I’m going to die on an empty stomach.

Baker cut past him suddenly, looked around for spectators, saw none, dropped his britches and squatted. He was warned. Garraty passed him, but heard the soldier warn him again. About twenty seconds after that he caught up with Garraty and McVries again, badly out of breath. He was cinching his pants.