A fat newspaperman in a three-piece suit trotted along with them, poking his long-reach microphone at different Walkers. Behind him, two technicians busily unreeled a drum of electric cable.
“How do you feel?”
“Okay. I guess I feel okay.”
“Feeling tired?”
“Yeah, well, you know. Yeah. But I’m still okay.”
“What do you think your chances are now?”
“I dunno… okay, I guess. I still feel pretty strong.”
He asked a big bull of a fellow, Scramm, what he thought of the Long Walk. Scramm grinned, said he thought it was the biggest fucking thing he’d ever seen, and the reporter made snipping motions with his fingers at the two technicians. One of them nodded back wearily.
Shortly afterward he ran out of microphone cable and began wending his way back toward the mobile unit, trying to avoid the tangles of unreeled cord. The crowd, drawn as much by the TV crew as by the Long Walkers themselves, cheered enthusiastically. Posters of the Major were raised and lowered rhythmically on sticks so raw and new they were still bleeding sap. When the cameras panned over them, they cheered more frantically than ever and waved to Aunt Betty and Uncle Fred.
They rounded a bend and passed a small shop where the owner, a little man wearing stained whites, had set up a soft drink cooler with a sign over it which read: ON THE HOUSE FOR THE LONG WALKERS!! COURTESY OF “EV’s” MARKET! A police cruiser was parked close by, and two policemen were patiently explaining to Ev, as they undoubtedly did every year, that it was against the rules for spectators to offer any kind of aid or assistance-including soft drinks-to the Walkers.
They passed by the Caribou Paper Mills, Inc., a huge, soot-blackened building on a dirty river. The workers were lined up against the cyclone fences, cheering good-naturedly and waving. A whistle blew as the last of the Walkers-Stebbins passed by, and Garraty, looking back over his shoulder, saw them trooping inside again.
“Did he ask you?” a strident voice inquired of Garraty. With a feeling of great weariness, Garraty looked down at Gary Barkovitch.
“Did who ask me what?”
“The reporter, Dumbo. Did he ask you how you felt?”
“No, he didn’t get to me.” He wished Barkovitch would go away. He wished the throbbing pain in the soles of his feet would go away.
“They asked me,” Barkovitch said. “You know what I told them?”
“Huh-uh.”
“I told them I felt great,” Barkovitch said aggressively. The rainhat was still flopping in his back pocket. “I told them I felt real strong. I told them I felt prepared to go on forever. And do you know what else I told them?”
“Oh, shut up,” Pearson said.
“Who asked you, long, tall and ugly?” Barkovitch said.
“Go away,” McVries said. “You give me 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.
CHAPTER 4
“The ultimate game show would be one where the losing contestant was killed.”
Game show creator
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 his lips. The word was that his foot had stiffened up on him badly. When he was shot ten minutes later, Garraty didn’t feel much. He was too tired. He walked around Fenter. Looking down he saw something glittering in Fenter’s hand. A St. Christopher’s medal.
“If I get out of this,” McVries said abruptly, “you know what I’m going to do?”
“What?” Baker asked.
“Fornicate until my cock turns blue. I’ve never been so horny in my life as I am right this minute, at quarter of eight on May first.”
“You mean it?” Garraty asked.
“I do,” McVries assured. “I could even get horny for you, Ray, if you didn’t need a shave.”