He shivered convulsively, and his body broke out momentarily in heat-bumps. The headache thumped sickishly behind his eyes… how easy it would be to let go of the rope.
He looked over at Olson. Olson was there. His tongue was turning blackish. His face was dirty. His eyes stared blindly. I’m not like him. Dear God, not like him. Please, I don’t want to go out like Olson.
“This’ll take the starch out,” Baker said gloomily. “We won’t make it into New Hampshire. I’d bet money on it.”
“Two years ago they had sleet,” Abraham said. “They made it over the border. Four of ’em did, anyway.”
“Yeah, but the heat’s different,” Jensen said. “When you’re cold you can walk faster and get warmed up. When you’re hot you can walk slower… and get iced. What can you do?”
“No justice,” Collie Parker said angrily. “Why couldn’t they have the goddam Walk in Illinois, where the ground’s flat?”
“I like Baine,” Scramm said. “Why do you swear so buch, Parger?”
“Why do you have to wipe so much snot out of your nose?” Parker asked. “Because that’s the way I am, that’s why. Any objections?”
Garraty looked at his watch, but it was stopped at 10:16. He had forgotten to wind it. “Anybody got the time?” he asked.
“Lemme see.” Pearson squinted at his watch. “Just happast an asshole, Garraty.”
Everyone laughed. “Come on,” he said. “My watch stopped.”
Pearson looked again. “It’s two after two.” He looked up at the sky. “That sun isn’t going to set for a long time.”
The sun was poised malevolently over the fringe of woods. There was not enough angle on it yet to throw the road into the shade, and wouldn’t be for another hour or two. Far off to the south, Garraty thought he could see purple smudges that might be thunderheads or only wishful thinking.
Abraham and Collie Parker were lackadaisically discussing the merits of fourbarrel carbs. No one else seemed much disposed to talk, so Garraty wandered off by himself to the far side of the road, waving now and then to someone, but not bothering as a rule.
The Walkers were not spread out as much as they had been. The vanguard was in plain sight: two tall, tanned boys with black leather jackets tied around their waists. The word was that they were queer for each other, but Garraty believed that like he believed the moon was green cheese. They didn’t look effeminate, and they seemed like nice enough guys… not that either one of those things had much to do with whether or not they were queer, he supposed. And not that it was any of his business if they were. But…
Barkovitch was behind the leather boys and McVries was behind him, staring intently at Barkovitch’s back. The yellow rainhat still dangled out of Barkovitch’s back pocket, and he didn’t look like he was cracking to Garraty. In fact, he thought with a painful twinge, McVries was the one who looked bushed.
Behind McVries and Barkovitch was a loose knot of seven or eight boys, the kind of carelessly knit confederation that seemed to form and reform during the course of the Walk, new and old members constantly coming and going. Behind them was a smaller group, and behind that group was Scramm, Pearson, Baker, Abraham, Parker, and Jensen. His group. There had been others with it near the start, and now he could barely remember their names.
There were two groups behind his, and scattered through the whole raggle-taggle column like pepper through salt were the loners. A few of them, like Olson, were withdrawn and catatonic. Others, like Stebbins, seemed to genuinely prefer their own company. And almost all of them had that intent, frightened look stamped on their faces. Garraty had come to know that look so well.
The guns came down and bore on one of the loners he had been looking at, a short, stoutish boy who was wearing a battered green silk vest. It seemed to Garraty that he had collected his final warning about half an hour ago. He threw a short, terrified glance at the guns and stepped up his pace. The guns lost their dreadful interest in him, at least for the time being.
Garraty felt a sudden incomprehensible rise in spirits. They couldn’t be much more than forty miles from Oldtown and civilization now-if you wanted to call a mill, shoe, and canoe town civilization. They’d pull in there sometime late tonight, and get on the turnpike. The turnpike would be smooth sailing, compared to this. On the turnpike you could walk on the grassy median strip with your shoes off if you wanted. Feel the cold dew. Good Christ, that would be great. He mopped his brow with his forearm. Maybe things were going to turn out okay after all. The purple smudges were a little closer, and they were definitely thunderheads.
The guns went off and he didn’t even jump. The boy in the green silk vest had bought a ticket, and he was staring up at the sun. Not even death was that bad, maybe. Everybody, even the Major himself, had to face it sooner or later. So who was swindling who, when you came right down to it? He made a mental note to mention that to McVries the next time they spoke.
He picked up his heels a little and made up his mind to wave to the next pretty girl he saw. But before there was a pretty girl, there was the little Italian man.
He was a caricature Italian man, a small guy with a battered felt hat and a black mustache that curled up at the ends. He was beside an old station wagon with the back hatch standing open. He was waving and grinning with incredibly white, incredibly square teeth.
An insulating mat had been laid on the bottom of the station wagon’s cargo compartment. The mat had been piled high with crushed ice, and peeking through the ice in dozens of places, like wide pink peppermint grins, were wedges of watermelon.
Garraty felt his stomach flop over twice, exactly like a snap-rolling high diver. A sign on top of the station wagon read: DOM L'ANTIO LOVES ALL LONG WALKERS-FREE WATERMELON!!!
Several of the Walkers, Abraham and Collie Parker among them, broke for the shoulder at a dogtrot. All were warned. They were doing better than four an hour, but they were doing it in the wrong direction. Dom L'Antio saw them coming and laughed-a crystal, joyous, uncomplicated sound. He clapped his hands, dug into the ice, and came out with double handfuls of pink grinning watermelons. Garraty felt his mouth shrivel with want. But they won’t let him, he thought. Just like they wouldn’t let the storekeeper give the sodas. And then: But oh God, it’d taste good. Would it be too much, God, for them to be a little slow with the hook this time? Where did he get watermelon this time of year, anyway?
The Long Walkers milled outside the restraining ropes, the small crowd around Dom went mad with happiness, second warnings were parceled out, and three State Troopers appeared miraculously to restrain Dom, whose voice came loud and clear:
“Whatcha mean? Whatcha mean I can’t? These my wat'amelon, you dumb cop! I wanna give, I gonna give, hey! what you t'ink? Get offa my case, you hardass!”
One of the Troopers made a grab for the watermelons Dom held in his hands. Another buttonhooked around him and slammed the cargo door of the wagon shut.
“You bastards!” Garraty screamed with all his force. His shriek sped through the bright day like a glass spear, and one of the Troopers looked around, startled and… well, almost hangdog.
“Stinking sonsofbitches!” Garraty shrieked at them. “I wish your mothers had miscarried you stinking whoresons!”
“You tell ’em Garraty!” someone else yelled, and it was Barkovitch, grinning like a mouthful of tenpenny nails and shaking both of his fists at the State Troopers. “You tell-”
But they were all screaming now, and the Troopers were not handpicked Long Walk soldiers fresh off the National Squads. Their faces were red and embarrassed, but all the same they were hustling Dom and his double handfuls of cool pink grins away from the sidelines at double time.