McVries laughed. “That’s the first honest citizen we’ve seen since this clambake got started, Scramm. Man, do I love him!”
“Probably he’s loaded up with perishables headed for Montreal,” Garraty said. “All the way from Boston. We forced him off the road. He’s probably afraid he’ll lose his job-or his rig, if he’s an independent.”
“Isn’t that tough?” Collie Parker brayed. “Isn’t that too goddam tough? They only been tellin’ people what the route was gonna be for two months or more. Just another goddam hick, that’s all!”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” Abraham said to Garraty.
“A little,” Garraty said, staring at Parker. “My father drove a rig before he got… before he went away. It’s a hard job to make a buck in. Probably that guy back there thought he had time to make it to the next cutoff. He wouldn’t have come this way if there was a shorter route.”
“He didn’t have to give us the finger,” Scramm insisted. “He didn’t have to do that. By God, his rotten old tomatoes ain’t life and death, like this is.”
“Your father took off on your mother?” McVries asked Garraty.
“My dad was Squaded,” Garraty said shortly. Silently he dared Parker-or anyone else-to open his mouth, but no one said anything.
Stebbins was still walking last. He had no more than passed the truck stop before the burly driver was swinging back up into the cab of his jimmy. Up ahead, the guns cracked out their single word. A body spun, flipped over, and lay still. Two soldiers dragged it over to the side of the road. A third tossed them a bodybag from the halftrack.
“I had an uncle that was Squaded,” Wyman said hesitantly. Garraty noticed that the tongue of Wyman’s left shoe had worked out from beneath the facings and was flapping obscenely.
“No one but goddam fools get Squaded,” Collie Parker said clearly.
Garraty looked at him and wanted to feel angry, but he dropped his head and stared at the road. His father had been a goddam fool, all right. A goddam drunkard who could not keep two cents together in the same place for long no matter what he tried his hand at, a man without the sense to keep his political opinions to himself. Garraty felt old and sick.
“Shut your stinking trap,” McVries said coldly.
“You want to try and make me-”
“No, I don’t want to try and make you. Just shut up, you sonofabitch.
Collie Parker dropped back between Garraty and McVries. Pearson and Abraham moved away a little. Even the soldiers straightened, ready for trouble. Parker studied Garraty for a long moment. His face was broad and beaded with sweat, his eyes still arrogant. Then he clapped Garraty briefly on the arm.
“I got a loose lip sometimes. I didn’t mean nothing by it. Okay?” Garraty nodded wearily, and Parker shifted his glance to McVries. “Piss on you, Jack,” he said, and moved up again toward the vanguard.
“What an unreal bastard,” McVries said glumly.
“No worse than Barkovitch,” Abraham said. “Maybe even a little better.”
“Besides,” Pearson added, “what’s getting Squaded? It beats the hell out of getting dead, am I right?”
“How would you know?” Garraty asked. “How would any of us know?”
His father had been a sandy-haired giant with a booming voice and a bellowing laugh that had sounded to Garraty’s small ears like mountains cracking open. After he lost his own rig, he made a living driving Government trucks out of Brunswick. It would have been a good living if Jim Garraty could have kept his politics to himself. But when you work for the Government, the Government is twice as aware that you’re alive, twice as ready to call in a Squad if things seem a little dicky around the edges. And Jim Garraty had not been much of a Long Walk booster. So one day he got a telegram and the next day two soldiers turned up on the doorstep and Jim Garraty had gone with them, blustering, and his wife had closed the door and her cheeks had been pale as milk and when Garraty asked his mother where Daddy was going with the soldier mens, she had slapped him hard enough to make his mouth bleed and told him to shut up, shut up. Garraty had never seen his father since. It had been eleven years. It had been a neat removal. Odorless, sanitized, pasteurized, sanforized, and dandruff-free.
“I had a brother that was in law trouble,” Baker said. “Not the Government, just the law. He stole himself a car and drove all the way from our town to Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He got two years' suspended sentence. He’s dead now.”
“Dead?” The voice was a dried husk, wraithlike. Olson had joined them. His haggard face seemed to stick out a mile from his body.
“He had a heart attack,” Baker said. “He was only three years older than me. Ma used to say he was her cross, but he only got into bad trouble that once. I did worse. I was a night rider for three years.”
Garraty looked over at him. There was shame in Baker’s tired face, but there was also dignity there, outlined against a dusky shaft of sunlight poking through the trees. “That’s a Squading offense, but I didn’t care. I was only twelve when I got into it. Ain’t hardly nothing but kids who go night-riding now, you know. Older heads are wiser heads. They’d tell us to go to it and pat our heads, but they weren’t out to get Squaded, not them. I got out after we burnt a cross on some black man’s lawn. I was scairt green. And ashamed, too. Why does anybody want to go burning a cross on some black man’s lawn? Jesus Christ, that stuff’s history, ain’t it? Sure it is.” Baker shook his head vaguely. “It wasn’t right.”
At that moment the rifles went again.
“There goes one more,” Scramm said. His voice sounded clogged and nasal, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“Thirty-four,” Pearson said. He took a penny out of one pocket and put it in the other. “I brought along ninety-nine pennies. Every time someone buys a ticket, I put one of ’em in the other pocket. And when-”
“That’s gruesome!” Olson said. His haunted eyes stared balefully at Pearson. “Where’s your death watch? Where’s your voodoo dolls?”
Pearson didn’t say anything. He studied the fallow field they were passing with anxious embarrassment. Finally he muttered, “I didn’t mean to say anything about it. It was for good luck, that was all.”
“It’s dirty,” Olson croaked. “It’s filthy. It’s-”
“Oh, quit it,” Abraham said. “Quit getting on my nerves.”
Garraty looked at his watch. It was twenty past eight. Forty minutes to food. He thought how nice it would be to go into one of those little roadside diners that dotted the road, snuggle his fanny against one of the padded counter stools, put his feet up on the rail (oh God, the relief of just that!) and order steak and fried onions, with a side of French fries and a big dish of vanilla ice cream with strawberry sauce for dessert. Or maybe a big plate of spaghetti and meatballs, with Italian bread and peas swimming in butter on the side. And milk. A whole pitcher of milk. To hell with the tubes and the canteens of distilled water. Milk and solid food and a place to sit and eat it in. Would that be fine?
Just ahead a family of five-mother, father, boy, girl, and white-haired grandmother-were spread beneath a large elm, eating a picnic breakfast of sandwiches and what looked like hot cocoa. They waved cheerily at the Walkers.
“Freaks,” Garraty muttered.
“What was that?” McVries asked.
“I said I want to sit down and have something to eat. Look at those people. Fucking bunch of pigs.”
“You’d be doing the same thing,” McVries said. He waved and smiled, saving the biggest, flashiest part of the smile for the grandmother, who was waving back and chewing-well, gumming was closer to the truth-what looked like an egg salad sandwich.
“The hell I would. Sit there and eat while a bunch of starving-”
“Hardly starving, Ray. It just feels that way.”
“Hungry, then-”
“Mind over matter,” McVries incanted. “Mind over matter, my young friend.” The incantation had become a seamy imitation of W.C. Fields.