Garraty opened his mouth to reply when a hollow, poom-poom sound echoed back from far ahead. It was rifle fire. The word came back. Harkness had burnt out. There was an odd, elevatorish sensation in Garraty’s stomach as he passed the word on back. The magic circle was broken. Harkness would never write his book about the Long Walk. Harkness was being dragged off the road someplace up ahead like a grain bag or was being tossed into a truck, wrapped securely in a canvas bodybag. For Harkness, the Long Walk was over.
