The Long Walk

by Richard Bachman

The guns roared again and another figure collapsed gracelessly, like a tired jack-in-the-box. “Fordy fibe,” Scramm said, joining them. “I don’t thing we’ll even get to Pordland ad this rade.” “You don’t sound so good,” Pearson said, and there might have been careful optimism in his voice. “Luggy for me I god a good codstitution,” Scramm said cheerfully. “I thing I’be rudding a fever now.” “Jesus, how do you keep going?” Abraham asked, and there was a kind of religious fear in his voice. “Me? Talk about me?” Scramm said. “Look at hib! How does he keep going? Thad’s what I’d like to know!” And he cocked his thumb at Olson. Olson had not spoken for two hours. He had not touched his newest canteen. Greedy glances were shot at his foodbelt, which was also almost untouched. His eyes, darkly obsidian, were fixed straight ahead. His face was speckled by two days of beard and it looked sickly vulpine. Even his hair, frizzed up in back and hanging across his forehead in front, added to the overall impression of ghoulishness. His lips were parched dry and blistering. His tongue hung over his bottom lip like a dead serpent on the lip of a cave. Its healthy pinkness had disappeared. It was dirty-gray now. Road-dust clung to it.