Art Baker had never been very noticeable. He hadn't particularly stood out in his horde of blond-haired, dirt-covered siblings, and he figured he liked the lack of attention. He had been able to slip away from family reunions and gatherings unnoticed, and sneak off to some low-hanging tree branch where he could read a book.
Now, he closed his eyes, remembering those days, lying back against the tree trunk, his arm dangling lazily by his side. It all seemed so distant, so faraway. The sounds of his little brothers and sisters calling for him that it was time for dinner were now a whisper, an echo.
And now, on the Walk, it was nothing but a distant memory, faraway, in the shadows of the Before. Everything since 9:00 on May 1st was the Now, everything else was the Before. And Baker very much doubted that there would be an After.
The Walk was the Now. Olson and Abraham and Collie Parker and Garraty and McVries and Barkovitch and the quiet, strange one in the purple pants were the Now.
Baker knew there had been others, but they were gone. There had been the boy with the notebook… what was his name again? Baker cursed himself for forgetting. Someone- a friend- was dead, and he could barely remember the boy's name. Baker thought that was sick. He thought the whole thing was sick.
He realized he never wanted to come out of this thing. He didn't want to come out of this and have everyone think of him as a hero, when really, he was just a robot that died slower than the rest.
From the moment people were born, they started dying. He guessed he was just a little bit more dead than the rest of his family. But not as dead as most of the people here. Not as dead as Barkovitch, with his whiney voice. Baker could tell he was hurting.
They all were, and it wasn't just in their feet.
That was one of the worst parts of the Walk. You had so much time to think. Too much time. It just upset him… thinking. About everything he had done, everything that had gone wrong, and everything that he would never do.
It was torturous. Of course, there were other kids to talk to, but he felt isolated. Isolated with just him and his thoughts.
But it was the same for everyone. Walking to nowhere with just their thoughts. He figured that it didn't matter how many friends you had or who you spent your time with, you always ended up alone.
Well, not completely alone. He still had his thoughts.
But damn, he wished they would go away, too.