The Long Walk

by Richard Bachman

he just stood there with his arms at his sides, conscious of how fine and brave and alone he must look.

But of course it had hurt. It had hurt before, in the worst, rupturing way, knowing there would be no more you but the universe would roll on just the same, unharmed and unhampered.

McVries said, “Just go on dancing with me like this forever, Garraty, and I’ll never tire. We’ll scrape our shoe on the stars and hang upside down from the moon.” He blew Garraty a kiss and walked away.

“Get away,” he said rudely, taking the canteen. “You get paid to shoot me, not to look at me.”

“Has a Long Walk ever been stopped for anything?” Harkness asked. “I don’t think so,” Garraty said. “More material for the book?” “No,” Harkness said. He sounded tired. “Just personal information.” “It stops every year,” Stebbins said from behind them. “Once.”

They’re animals, all right. But why are you so goddam sure that makes us human beings?”

“Jesus,” Garraty muttered. “Why doesn’t he stop that?” The screams went on and on. “I doubt if he can,” McVries said clinically. “The back treads of the halftrack ran over his legs.”

In the old days, before the Change and the Squads, when there was still millionaires, they used to set up foundations and build libraries and all that good shit. Everyone wants a bulwark against mortality,

Only Crowd, a creature with no body, no head, no mind. Crowd was nothing but a Voice and an Eye, and it was not surprising that Crowd was both God and Mammon. Garraty felt it.

Crowd was to be pleased. Crowd was to be worshiped and feared. Ultimately, Crowd was to be made sacrifice unto.