San Diego bay sparkled magnificently in the late morning sun. Lazy stray clouds floated slowly along by on this gorgeous typical southern California day. Many yachts sailed the still azure waters like toy boats amongst flashing diamonds. Gulls, jets, horns and the hustle and bustle of the city penetrated even the thick glass windows of the luxury condominium. At least from way up from this vantage point that was how it all appeared; peaceful and elegant on the surface, but with a dark undercurrent running underneath.
The young man turned away from the sights and limped, no, shambled, toward his bed. He slept a lot nowadays. The nightmares were far more preferable to the daydreams. When awake, he would stare at nothing, his eyes glazed over and seeing somewhere else, some time else. The few times he ventured out into the public, people would give him oblong looks and steer clear. One glance and they were certain that they did not want to see what this man was seeing. Some sort of PTSD, they would whisper conspiratorily to each other. Look at that poor fuck's legs, Martha. Probably stepped on a damned mine in the Amazonian Desert, one of the many sites of America's current battlefields. Some well intentioned beach denizens would shake a dollar his way, but the young man ignored them. There was a movie playing inside his head and he was the sole audience member. It was an old, worn out film. Besides, he didn't need their money. He could have bought all of their belongings without it even putting a dent in his bank account.
The phantom pain in his feet hurt. Even after all these years that dull thudding pain never went away. He could envision them still; the purple, busted, splotchy veins like old spaghetti noodles. They resembled deflated footballs. The agony. Jesus, his poor feet. He no longer had feet. He no longer had legs beneath his knees. Advanced prosthetics conveyed him to wherever he needed to go. They were of a dull silver and looked robotic. That was the intention, after all. Anything, anything to help him forget the travails of the Long Walk. His own body parts had been amputated to avoid the memories. He chose that. America's best doctors said they could easily have repaired the damage and get him back to at least 90 percent of his previous capacity. One of them joked that the young man could go for a Repeat. He had stared at him flatly, almost listlessly. The doctor averted his gaze. Put me under, cut them off, and give me the best legs money can buy. And they did.
Sleep overtook him. No drugs or alcohol needed. He steered clear of those substances. Could cause him to lose more control. He didn't want to be completely pushed over the damned edge. Some sanity needed to remain intact, to remind him who he was. Sleep. Now the lucidity of bad years past roared out of the subconscious of his mind and to his ocular. His eyelids fluttered. He moaned softly. Something had been changing recently. The events of the Long Walk were not always exactly as they were. Different people won. Different contestants died, each death more gruesome than the last. The Crowd overran them. The soldiers were animated wooden marionettes, connected by strings to the hand of the Major. The Major's eyes were filled with blood as he danced the troops to carry out his demonic commands. His head filled the inky sky. Ray Garraty moaned louder.
Cold, freezing rain. Garraty could barely make out the bent over silhouettes shuffling forward in the inclement weather. The chill damp soaked into his bones and settled into the frozen recesses of the marrow. He was 16 but felt like an 80 year old with arthritis like crushed glass for joints. Moving forward was the only way to keep warm. To stay alive. He reached and pulled out a tube of beef concentrate. God, how he would always remember that taste. It was the sole reason for him being vegan now. He hugged himself and tried to get a closer look at his fellow walkers, to keep his mind off his troubles. This would end up making his situation worse.
Gary Barkovitch was grinning. Twice. A red garrote accompanied his strained rictus. The blood had congealed and frosted, like a stopped red waterfall. A dead man walking. An actual zombie. Some gummy substance covered the expanse of his eyeballs but if one looked closely, there would be muddy irises staring at nothing underneath all that crud. Garrety moved away quickly.
He caught up to the Moose, Scramm. As soon as he did, he heard a deep whooping cough and a ball of fluorescent green phlegm came flying out of his mouth. A loud splat! followed. His bright, fevered eyes regarded Garrety.
"That you, Cathy? Take care of my wife and kid, will ya Ray? Those two up there, up ahead. They ain't fags. They're Indian folk. Hopis," Scramm said confusingly.
Garrety said nothing. Because he was looking in horror and revulsion at who, no what, was next to Scramm. The unnamed kid who had been ran over by the halftrack. He was crawling at the required 4 mph speed. He didn't appear to be having difficulties doing it, either. The bottom half of his legs resembled wet, fleshy ground hamburger coming in strands fresh from the grinder. Bits and pieces of meat would be left behind as the kid crawled in his macabre way. Garrety remembered something about his own legs, something similar. He moved away. They were corpses.
He saw two figures just ahead with their heads conspiratorily together. He wanted to cry as he saw who they were. Please, he begged silently. Don't show him with blood gushing out of his nose and talking about lead-lined caskets. Please don't show my friends pockmarked with bullet holes. Not after what I've just seen.
"Hey Ray, what do ya say? I bet you heard that one a million times," Pete McVries said jovially.
Art Baker laughed. "We are gonna make it to Boston, I think. Maybe even down to Virginia Beach. Wouldn't that be something? To see the ocean and all? Gosh."
Ray Garraty allowed himself a small smile. No gore here, just a couple fellas cold, wet and miserable as he was. He fell in step with them. The only sounds were the heavy rain falling in sheets around them.
"You see some of the others? They're dead, Pete. They're still walking somehow," Ray remarked.
"The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain," McVries intoned.
"We've been walking an awful long time, Ray," Baker said. "Feels like forever, man. I think it's a loop. We go across the entire country, and then 'round again. But it always feels new."
""When I can finally rest, remember my lead-lined casket, Ray," he finished. Garraty felt like screaming. The cold rain quickly washed away his warm tears. Did they all just keep walking through the afterlife because they didn't think there was anything else? Not even the void, or sheets of everlasting whiteness. Just the eternal road ahead, putting one down in front of the other.
A hand rested on his shoulder. He glanced behind him and saw the garish green shirt and purple chinos.
"When you join us, I'll keep you walking. Follow the white rabbit, that's me," Stebbins whispered. Of course, he walked without injury, not even a limp. Just as fresh as when he first began.
Garraty's eyes snapped open. He groaned and checked his watch. He had slept four hours. The sun was still a dagger outside, leaving everything awash in dazzling light as it made its way west. In spite of his constant slumber, he always felt tired and run down. He'd chosen the palatial condo soon after winning the Long Walk 10 years ago. As far as away from Maine as possible. Anything he wanted and this was it….privacy, the ocean, anonymity. Barricades from the dystopian world abroad. The Major promised, and he hath delivered.
He could not escape entirely from the Long Walk
Jan and his mother were foggy, distant memories. They were financially secure now, so far as he knew. He had woken up at bedside to find them standing over him. Both were crying and asking why. Why, why, why. The cries were harder at the revealing of his fake lower legs. He could not face them. One time strength and motivation now transformed to shame and a vacuous sense of loss. There were no more tears. They had dried up forever over McVries, Baker, Abraham, Olson and even Stebbins. Stebbins's death had been the worst. It had predicated the arrivals of both the Major and the Dark Man. That Black Man, smiling and beckoning. His mind had utterly snapped at that point. His family lifelines were finished. Maybe they were Squaded. He never bothered to check their well being. Give them the money then run. What was he running from? The past, but there was nowhere to go. So he returned to that past in perpetuity.
The intercom buzzed. The voice of his assistant, Cathy, chimed through the speaker: "Mr. Garraty, I….I have a visitor insistent on seeing you."
Fuck, he thought. Every once in awhile, his celebrity would leak out and some curious asshole would find out the building he lived at in the hopes of meeting. For what? To shake his fucking hand or salute him? Piss off, Jack.
"Tell him or her to get the fuck out," he ordered.
"I'm very sorry, Ray, but he is on the way up. I had to. I had to, please understand," she was almost crying at the end.
What the fuck was this? he thought in alarm. The goddamned Squads were coming to scrag his ass for good. Maybe Pete had been right after all. They took the winner and shot his ass behind some wall. For him, it was just a ten year delay. He was ready. Let them come. Maybe his nightmares would end and he could either be in the Walk again, or oblivious to all. Either was preferable to his present tortured existence. It doesn't have to be, some thought unbidden bubbled forth. Garraty ignored it
A polite knock at the door. Garraty almost laughed, imagining a score of vacant-faced blonde soldiers standing outside the door armed to the teeth with the temerity to rap at the entrance like it was some corporate cocktail party. Maybe he might have time yet to put out a bowl of lemons like a proper host would. Clad in just his boxers (with cartoon hearts plastered all over them), he clink clanked to the door and opened it.
His stomach sank. His vision swam. It felt like someone had punched him in the solar plexus. This couldn't be real, but it was. It was worse than soldiers. It was him.
The first thing he noticed was that the moustache was now an iron gray rather than the deep brown it had been all those years ago. Garraty's own startled O face reflected in the Major's aviator sunglasses. A fistfull of ribbons draped from his chest like gaudy Christmas decorations. His uniform was pressed, crisp. A 1911 pistol hung from his trademark Sam Browne belt. He was impossibly leaner, tougher, harder. His masculinity was overpowering. But he spoke with a gentle and soft voice.
"Ray Garraty, it is an honor to see you again after all this time."
He then snapped off a smart salute. Garraty might have been imagining it as he was definitely suffering from a severe case of sensory overload, but was that a tear that dripped from the Major's concealed eye? Possibly, though Garraty attributed it likely to just moisture from this hot, humid day. Other than that, this was the same man in his infamous jeep. He wondered idly if that same Jeep was parked outside.
Garraty could not speak. What was there to say, really?
"May I come in?" He asked. As if he didn't have the authority to do so.
Garraty nodded dumbly. The Major stepped in, posture ram rod perfect. He took in a rapid assessment of the surroundings. A beautiful view of the Bay, but sparsely furnished. No artwork or anything signifying individuality, reflective of this grayed-out nation like the USSR of the 50's.
The Major turned to Garraty. Garraty shrank back. This was surreal. Was he having another nightmare, because this one was goddamned livid.
"You are surprised to see me here." An assertion, not a question.
"I am," he stammered.
The Major nodded. "You fear me. Perhaps a personification of your dreams, yes?"
Garraty just stared, then looked down at the floor.
He lowered his voice, "You know what time of year it is. The same place. Do you have an idea as to what I may be alluding to?"
Garraty shouted. A nerve had been struck. "Of course I fucking know! It's all I think about. What do you want, then, huh?! To go back in the Walk!? A real damned hootenanny."
The Major did not laugh. This was a man whose humor had been boiled out of him ages ago.
"Yes."
Ray Garraty collapsed. Blackness enveloped him. The dreams came.
Stebbins idly swung one leg from the crevice of the tree branch upon which he was perched. He munched on a peanut butter sandwich and appeared to not give one iota of the other contestants around him. Hammerin' Hank Olson was hamming it up with a group of non-Musketeers. His confidence was high, raring to rip. He winked then gave a thumbs up to Garraty. McVries was off to the side, aloof from the others. He wore a small smile that accentuated his facial scar. Most of the Long Walkers were seated Indian style or laid out on the grass as they awaited the Major. Conserve energy whenever possible. Everyone was ready as they were going to be. Even if contradictory on the surface, they knew the score. This was a collective Jonestown suicide pact.
Heavy Oxfords clumped next to Garraty.
"Abraham," the skinny young man in the Oxfords said, offering his hand to him. Garraty took it and proffered his own name.
"You look fit, man. That's good."
Garraty was well built. "It doesn't mean nothin'. Look at those Navy Frogmen Demo teams. I mean, they get Olympic athletes that try out and they end up not being able to cut the mustard and are the first ones to bow out in spite of being by far the most athletic. Then, some scrawny kid from the ghetto who doesn't know shit from Shinola makes it through somehow. I think it's anyone's game, really."
Abraham's eyes rolled up to the right side of his brain in consideration, "Yea, you might be right," he conceded. "What makes a person win it all? What does it take? I got here in a joke of an essay I'd written. Joke's on me."
Garraty answered his question without looking directly at him. He knew the answer. "The final ones will be the craziest fuckers in the head or the ones who find they have something to live for, after all. Everyone else will continue on from fear of death. We've all welcomed death by being here, but yet we are afraid of it."
Abraham turned away. "You have too much damn insight on this shit."
Garraty replied, "You asked, brother." Of course he wasn't going to tell him that he was destined to die shirtless with his ribs poking out in the freezing night,fever bright eyes staring listlessly as he fell into a rusted wire fence on the side of the road.
"Fuck you, Garraty," Abraham answered good-naturedly and walked smoothly away while shaking his head. Like, what the fuck had he just heard?
Garraty looked over at a guy with a blonde crewcut, a red face and thick coke bottles. He was engaged in conversation with a fella who was so black that he glowed a blueish hue. He walked up to them and sat down.
"Hey guys," he said. "Mind?"
"No prob. Name's Harkness, this here's Ewing. You're Garraty, right?"
He nodded. "You are writing a book, right?"
Harkness was startled. "Y-yea. How'd you figure?"
"I can tell by the way you're talking to the other Walkers like you're interviewing them for some smartass white collar gig."
Harkness laughed in relief. "Thought I could hide my intentions better. I doubt I will be scoring an interview with the winner, 'less its me of course. I need to pass the time somehow, though. Might as well put it to an academic one." He laughed heartily at this, his rosacea turning even more crimson.
Harkness continued, "Didja notice most of the guys here are white? I wonder if it has anything to do with the racial composition of all our troops overseas?"
"It's the new laws," Garraty said. "I think it has something to do with colonialism or something. Making up for past mistakes. Nowadays you can't even make a hint of a racially tinged joke."
"The Walk cancels all that. Here, you can be as racist as you want."
Ewing spoke up. His voice was a rich baritone. "Honkies go overseas to fight the rich man's wars. And play in the Games. Us darkies stay broke, poor and ignorant. Besides, who do you think works in Supply? We ain't got it any better than anybody else. Maybe worse. Besides, I'm here."
"There ain't any rich men left, remember?" Garraty countered.
"That's what we're made to think. There are lots of rich people but they work in government now."
"Guys," Harkness interrupted. "The Major." He rocketed to his feet. All the other contestants were beginning to do the same.
Garraty opened his eyes. He was lying down on his plush carpeted floor. He glanced up to see the Major's rigid back overlooking the Bay.
"See anything Green?"
Garraty got to his robotic feet with a groan. The Major had yet to turn around. He didn't need to. A broken Walker posed no threat to him.
"Can I continue without interruption, Mr. Garraty?"
"Yes, yes," Garraty waved magnanimously. "I promise I won't pass out again."
The Major began his address, still as a statue. Fading late afternoon light outlined him, making him seem akin to a rechristening God.
"Winners of the Prize do not last long. They are physically and mentally wasted afterwards and live an average of a mere 18 months. However, they are granted anything they want in accordance with the rules of the Prize, so long as it is humanly possible and in our capability to do. I have doled out riches, mansions, cars and beautiful women to winners. Enrichened loser's families. Set them up in important government positions. Executed, several times, the dutiful soldiers who service the Walk. They receive some of the harshest verbal diatribes from the contestants year after year but they do their duty as they are the best of the best. They know the score and face sometimes certain death at the end of the Walk from the Winner."
Garraty was not surprised. He himself had realised this and spared those soldado's lives. Even the blonde one. As for fellow Winners? That he was startled by, by their life expectancy. He felt his stomach knot in guilt. Why was he here and still breathing, living a hollowed out shell of a life? He didn't know now just as he hadn't known fully his rationale for competing in the Walk in the first place.
The Major continued: "There are, to this day, only two previous Winners still living and breathing. Last year's winner passed away last week of a heart attack. You. And me. Still with me?"
Garraty just looked at him. THAT was not in the textbooks. He nodded helplessly and hopelessly. What was this shit now? Was he trying to relate to him in some way?
"I, I…..am."
He swallowed hard. "If you are indeed a previous winner, then why are you in the business of murdering teens?" He ended the question angrily and forcefully. "And now you've come to finish me off!" He was beyond rage. Red clouded his vision, but his skinny body wouldn't do much of anything to the hard slab of granite in front of him. "Go ahead, I've been ready to die for years now," he resigned. He was emotionally spent.
The Major took off his mirror tinted glasses. The eyes underneath were a weak, watery blue. No wonder they were so light sensitive. He clapped his hand on Garraty's shoulder, fingers burying in like iron.
"I was the winner of the very first Walk. It is not referenced as it was a rather unofficial event. I did not travel the distance you did, but close to it. I took my prize as it was the same year after year. I wanted to make a difference, and I have. My responsibilities have increased exponentially since taking over the entirety Games operations after that horrific terrorist attack on their headquarters."
He shook his head slightly at that.
"Your duty, however, is going to be much more difficult than an easy death. That you will not get."
"Then what, then?"
This entire time the Major had not shown any emotion. It was at this moment that Garraty detected a hint of sadness. Maybe?
"I am taking you to see President Frye. You will be trained to replace me. One of your friends had been right. The REAL Walk is just beginning. And it is time for me to buy my ticket."
He flicked back on his glasses, countenance stone once more. He gestured toward the main entrance door, after you.
"Luck to you. I will wait here while you change. All you need are the clothes you wear. Your estate shall be preserved upon your return."
Garraty closed the bedroom door behind him, catching a last glimpse of the Major who was still taking in the view. He had to think here. He was sure that a refusal would mean his immediate death. That seemed to be a cheap way out and would dishonor all those fallen Walkers. Like it mattered anyway. What honor did he have? It died long ago along with any pretense of innocence. He was still Walking, but he didn't know it. Death was an escape, not something to be feared. However, he DID fear it, that great unknown of perpetual unawareness. Was it preferable to having to see a fresh crop of dead teens walking to die meaninglessness, gruesome ends? I don't know. He stared at the blank white wall of his bedroom.
A hand gripped his shoulder. He jumped. McVries laughed.
"Mind if I join you up here in the vanguard? It took me a bit to catch up to you."
"Sure," Garraty said.
"We're almost out of the state, ya know. Pretty soon you ain't gonna have homecourt advantage anymore," he grinned.
"I'm tired," Garraty stated. And he was. Sleeplessness was taking its toll.
"Cheer up, ole boy. You'll get plenty of rest soon, one way or another," McVries replied. "Dead by dawn! DEAD BY DAWN!"
Garraty shivered. "Dude, shut up."
McVries jerked a finger behind him, indicating Stebbins.
"There's your winner, there. He's like diamonds. Can't be wore down." His face tightened. "We can at least make a game of it. Make him lose his shoes at the very least."
"You still wanna jerk me off?" McVries said suddenly.
"No, Pete," Garraty remarked.
"Well, even if you wanted to, I can't get it up no more. All the blood has pooled in my feet. It's fucking cold out."
"Just keep walking," Garraty told him. "And no, I don't think Stebbins will win. It doesn't matter. We all lose. We lost as soon as our names came outta the pot."
McVries had nothing to say to that. He had dropped his head down with chin to chest and was muttering to himself.
Garraty dropped back to Stebbins, drawing a Warning in the process. The blonde soldier had the chronometer out and was looking at him intently. He flipped him the bird. Goddamn vulture, he thought. He saw Baker and Collie Parker talking almost conspiratorily together with their heads close. Abraham's shirt was off and his skin was fish belly white. Stebbins did not acknowledge him when he approached. He appeared to be weakening, but that might've been Garraty's imagination. He looked a lot more wane, his eyes more focused on the road head. A lot better off than the rest of us, he thought bitterly, looking down at his busted, splotched feet. His shoes and socks had been lost eons ago.
"Still think you are going to be taken into your father's house, Stebbins?" Garraty spat at him. He didn't know why he said that. Just being spiteful for the fuck of it, he guessed.
Stebbins's eyes widened slightly, but said nothing. Pick one up, put the other down.
"Got any words of wisdom for us, visions, foresight o' Shaman of Shamalama?" Garraty was staring right at him, trying to get a reaction. "Would you like to fuck my mother?"
"I'm sorry," he said quickly.
Still Stebbins said nothing. Instead, he pointed towards their left at the side of the road. Beyond the halftrack were small, unmarked gravestones. Most appeared to be mossed over with lichen.
Although the markers had nothing engraved upon them, he knew those belonged to all the past Walkers. A cold, unremarkable dirt hole was their final destination. No heralds, no fancy funerals, just unceremoniously dumped from the back of an Army truck, thudding like a rag doll as the bodies flailed and pinwheeled from the back. Maybe the Major salutes them when the first shovelful of dirt hits their faces. Over a glass of Chianti.
"No," Stebbins finally answered. "My place is not at my father's side. I'm a low rent bastard. Honored, though, to be here. My place is over there." He gestured to the side of the road.
He slowly looked at Garraty. "That person shall be you. I think, I think that…...that, it is preferable to be six feet deep rather than where you're going. You will be meeting HIM."
"The Major?" Garraty asked. His face was very pale and he felt utterly wasted, shriveled.
Stebbins clammed up again. Apparently, Garraty's question was not even worth answering.
He finished putting his clothes on. Jeans, specially designed footwear, light sweatshirt. Now or never, he thought and returned to his spacious living room where the Major was still standing. He nodded at Garraty. Garraty nodded back. They left together.
Ray Garraty never saw his condo again. And sure enough, the Major's Jeep gleamed in the parking lot.