“Olson,” he whispered. “Olson.”
Olson's eyes might have flickered a tiny bit. A spark of life like the single turn of an old starter in a junked automobile.
“Tell me how, Olson,” he whispered. “Tell me what to do.”
The high school girls and boys (did I once go to high school? Garraty wondered, was that a dream?) were behind them now, still cheering rapturously.
Olson's eyes moved jerkily in their sockets, as if long rusted and in need of oil. His mouth fell open with a nearly audible clunk.
“That's it,” Garraty whispered eagerly. “Talk. Talk to me, Olson. Tell me. Tell me.”
“Ah,” Olson said. “Ah. Ah.”
Garraty moved even closer. He put a hand on Olson's shoulder and leaned into an evil nimbus of sweat, halitosis, and urine.
“Please,” Garraty said. “Try hard.”
“Ga. Go. God. God's garden—”
“God's garden,” Garraty repeated doubtfully. “What about God's garden, Olson?”
“It's full. Of. Weeds,” Olson said sadly. His head bounced against his chest. “I…”
Garraty said nothing. He could not. They were going up another hill now and he was panting again. Olson did not seem to be out of breath at all.
“I don't. Want. To die,” Olson finished.
Garraty's eyes were soldered to the shadowed ruin that was Olson's face. Olson turned creakily toward him.
“Ah?” Olson raised his lolling head slowly. “Ga. Ga. Garraty?”
“Yes, it's me.”
“What time is it?”
Garraty had rewound and reset his watch earlier. God knew why. “It's quarter of nine.”
“No. No later. Than that?” Mild surprise washed over Olson's shattered old man's face.
“Olson—” He shook Olson's shoulder gently and Olson's whole frame seemed to tremble, like a gantry in a high wind. “What's it all about?” Suddenly Garraty cackled madly. “What's it all about, Alfie?”
Olson looked at Garraty with calculated shrewdness.
“Garraty,” he whispered. His breath was like a sewer-draught.
“What?”
“What time is it?”
“Dammit!” Garraty shouted at him. He turned his head quickly, but Stebbins was staring down at the road. If he was laughing at Garraty, it was too dark to see.
“Garraty?”
“What?” Garraty said more quietly.
“Je. Jesus will save you.”
Olson's head came up all the way. He began to walk off the road. He was walking at the halftrack.
“Warning. Warning 70!”
Olson never slowed. There was a ruinous dignity about him. The gabble of the crowd quieted. They watched, wide-eyed.
Olson never hesitated. He reached the soft shoulder. He put his hands over the side of the halftrack. He began to clamber painfully up the side.
“Olson!” Abraham yelled, startled. “Hey, that's Hank Olson!”
The soldiers brought their guns around in perfect four-part harmony. Olson grabbed the barrel of the closest and yanked it out of the hands that held it as if it had been an ice-cream stick. It clattered off into the crowd. They shrank from it, screaming, as if it had been a live adder.
Then one of the other three guns went off. Garraty saw the flash at the end of the barrel quite clearly. He saw the jerky ripple of Olson's shirt as the bullet entered his belly and then punched out the back.
Olson did not stop. He gained the top of the halftrack and grabbed the barrel of the gun that had just shot him. He levered it up into the air as it went off again.
“Get 'em!” McVries was screaming savagely up ahead. “Get'em, Olson! Kill 'em! Kill 'em!”
The other two guns roared in unison and the impact of the heavy-caliber slugs sent Olson flying off the halftrack. He landed spread-eagled on his back like a man nailed to a cross. One side of his belly was a black and shredded ruin. Three more bullets were pumped into him. The guard Olson had disarmed had produced another carbine (effortlessly) from inside the halftrack.
Olson sat up. He put his hands against his belly and stared calmly at the poised soldiers on the deck of the squat vehicle. The soldiers stared back.
“You bastards!” McVries sobbed. “You bloody bastards!”
Olson began to get up. Another volley of bullets drove him flat again.
Now there was a sound from behind Garraty. He didn't have to turn his head to know it was Stebbins. Stebbins was laughing softly.
Olson sat up again. The guns were still trained on him, but the soldiers did not shoot. Their silhouettes on the halftrack seemed almost to indicate curiosity.
Slowly, reflectively, Olson gained his feet, hands crossed on his belly. He seemed to sniff the air for direction, turned slowly in the direction of the Walk, and began to stagger along.
“Put him out of it!” a shocked voice screamed hoarsely. “For Christ's sake put him out of it!”
The blue snakes of Olson's intestines were slowly slipping through his fingers. They dropped like link sausages against his groin, where they flapped obscenely. He stopped, bent over as if to retrieve them (retrieve them, Garraty thought in a near ecstasy of wonder and horror), and threw up a huge glut of blood and bile. He began to walk again, bent over. His face was sweetly calm.
“Oh my God,” Abraham said, and turned to Garraty with his hands cupped over his mouth. Abraham's face was white and cheesy. His eyes were bulging. His eyes were frantic with terror. “Oh my God, Ray, what a fucking gross-out, oh Jesus!” Abraham vomited. Puke sprayed through his fingers.
Well, old Abe has tossed his cookies, Garraty thought remotely. That's no way to observe Hint 13, Abe.
“They gut-shot him,” Stebbins said from behind Garraty. “They'll do that. It's deliberate. To discourage anybody else from trying the old Charge of the Light Brigade number.”
“Get away from me,” Garraty hissed. “Or I'll knock your block off!”
Stebbins dropped back quickly.
“Warning! Warning 88!”
Stebbins's laugh drifted softly to him.
Olson went to his knees. His head hung between his arms, which were propped on the road.
One of the rifles roared, and a bullet clipped asphalt beside Olson's left hand and whined away. He began to climb slowly, wearily, to his feet again. They're playing with him, Garraty thought. All of this must be terribly boring for them, so they are playing with Olson. Is Olson fun, boys? Is Olson keeping you amused?
Garraty began to cry. He ran over to Olson and fell on his knees beside him and held the tired, hectically hot face against his chest. He sobbed into the dry, bad-smelling hair.
“Warning! Warning 47!”
“Warning! Warning 61!”
McVries was pulling at him. It was McVries again. “Get up, Ray, get up, you can't help him, for God's sake get up!”
“It's not fair!” Garraty wept. There was a sticky smear of Olson's blood on his cheekbone. “It's just not fair!”
“I know. Come on. Come on.”
Garraty stood up. He and McVries began walking backward rapidly, watching Olson, who was on his knees. Olson got to his feet. He stood astride the white line. He raised both hands up into the sky. The crowd sighed softly.
“I DID IT WRONG!” Olson shouted tremblingly, and then fell flat and dead.
The soldiers on the halftrack put another two bullets in him and then dragged him busily off the road.
“Yes, that's that.”
They walked quietly for ten minutes or so, Garraty drawing a low-key comfort just from McVries's presence. “I'm starting to see something in it, Pete,” he said at last. “There's a pattern. It isn't all senseless.”
“Yeah? Don't count on it.”
“He talked to me, Pete. He wasn't dead until they shot him. He was alive.” Now it seemed that was the most important thing about the Olson experience. He repeated it. “Alive.”