Buku The Long Walk by Stephen King (as Richard Bachman)

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The Long Walk by Stephen King (as Richard Bachman)

Author:Stephen King (as Richard Bachman) [King, Stephen]

Language: eng

Format: epub

Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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The Long Walk by Stephen King (as Richard Bachman)

Chapter 9

“Very good, Northwestern, now here is your ten-point tossup question.”

—Allen Ludden College Bowl

 

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The Long Walk by Stephen King (as Richard Bachman)

Author:Stephen King (as Richard Bachman) [King, Stephen] , Date: June 24, 2019

,Views: 63

Author:Stephen King (as Richard Bachman) [King, Stephen]

Language: eng

Format: epub

Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Chapter 9

“Very good, Northwestern, now here is your ten-point tossup question.”

—Allen Ludden College Bowl

At one o’clock, Garraty took inventory again.

One hundred and fifteen miles traveled. They were forty-five miles north of Oldtown, a hundred and twenty-five miles north of Augusta, the state capital, one hundred and fifty to Freeport (or more . . . he was terribly afraid there were more than twenty-five miles between Augusta and Freeport), probably two-thirty to the New Hampshire border. And the word was that this Walk was sure to go that far.

For a long while—ninety minutes or so—no one at all had been given a ticket. They walked, they half-listened to the cheers from the sidelines, and they stared at mile after monotonous mile of piney woods. Garraty discovered fresh twinges of pain in his left calf to go with the steady, wooden throbbing that lived in both of his legs, and the low-key agony that was his feet.

Then, around noon, as the day’s heat mounted toward its zenith, the guns began to make themselves heard again. A boy named Tressler, 92, had a sunstroke and was shot as he lay unconscious. Another boy suffered a convulsion and got a ticket as he crawdaddied on the road, making ugly noises around his swallowed tongue. Aaronson, I, cramped up in both feet and was shot on the white line, standing like a statue, his face turned up to the sun in neck-straining concentration. And at five minutes to one, another boy Garraty did not know had a sunstroke.

This is where I came in, Garraty thought, walking around the twitching, mumbling form on the road where the rifles sight in, seeing the jewels of sweat in the exhausted and soon-to-be-dead boy’s hair. This is where I came in, can’t I leave now?

The guns roared, and a covey of high school boys sitting in the scant shade of a Scout camper applauded briefly.

“I wish the Major would come through,” Baker said pettishly. “I want to see the Major.”

“What?” Abraham asked mechanically. He had grown gaunter in the last few hours. His eyes were sunk deeper in their sockets. The blue suggestion of a beard patched his face.

“So I can piss on him,” Baker said.

“Relax,” Garraty said. “Just relax.” All three of his warnings were gone now.

“You relax,” Baker said. “See what it gets you.”

“You’ve got no right to hate the Major. He didn’t force you.”

“Force me? FORCE me? He’s KILLING me, that’s all!”

“It’s still not—”

“Shut up,” Baker said curtly, and Garraty shut. He rubbed the back of his neck briefly and stared up into the whitish-blue sky. His shadow was a deformed huddle almost beneath his feet. He turned up his third canteen of the day and drained it.

Baker said: “I’m sorry. I surely didn’t mean to shout. My feet—”

“Sure,” Garraty said.

“We’re all getting this way,” Baker said. “I sometimes think that’s the worst part.”

Garraty closed his eyes. He was very sleepy.

“You know what I’d like to do?” Pearson said. He was walking between Garraty and Baker.

“Piss on the Major,” Garraty said.

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