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    The Long Walk
    The Long Walk
    The Long Walk
    Ebook350 pages5 hours

    The Long Walk

    By Stephen King

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    In this #1 national bestseller, master storyteller Stephen King, writing as Richard Bachman, tells the tale of the contestants of a grueling walking competition where there can only be one winner—the one that survives.

    Against the wishes of his mother, sixteen-year-old Ray Garraty is about to compete in the annual grueling match of stamina and wits known as the Long Walk. One hundred boys must keep a steady pace of four miles per hour without ever stopping...with the winner being awarded “The Prize”—anything he wants for the rest of his life. But, as part of this national tournament that sweeps through a dystopian America year after year, there are some harsh rules that Garraty and ninety-nine others must adhere to in order to beat out the rest. There is no finish line—the winner is the last man standing. Contestants cannot receive any outside aid whatsoever. Slow down under the speed limit and you’re given a warning. Three warnings and you’re out of the game—permanently...
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScribner
    Release dateJan 1, 2016
    ISBN9781501141324
    Author

    Stephen King

    Stephen King is the author of more than sixty books, all of them worldwide bestsellers. His recent work includes Never Flinch (May 2025), the short story collection You Like It Darker (a New York Times Book Review top ten horror book of 2024), Holly (a New York Times Notable Book of 2023), Fairy Tale, Billy Summers, If It Bleeds, The Institute, Elevation, The Outsider, Sleeping Beauties (cowritten with his son Owen King), and the Bill Hodges trilogy: End of Watch, Finders Keepers, and Mr. Mercedes (an Edgar Award winner for Best Novel and a television series streaming on Peacock). His novel 11/22/63 was named a top ten book of 2011 by The New York Times Book Review and won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Mystery/Thriller. His epic works The Dark Tower, It, Pet Sematary, Doctor Sleep, and Firestarter are the basis for major motion pictures, with It now the highest-grossing horror film of all time. He is the recipient of the 2020 Audio Publishers Association Lifetime Achievement Award, the 2018 PEN America Literary Service Award, the 2014 National Medal of Arts, and the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. He lives in Bangor, Maine, with his wife, novelist Tabitha King. 

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    Reviews for The Long Walk

    4/5

    2,117 ratings85 reviews

    What our readers think

    Readers find this title to be an engaging story about the limits of human endurance and will. It is clear and concise, written more simply like The Green Mile. Some readers wish for a different ending and found it sad and depressing. However, many readers couldn't put the book down and found it exciting from beginning to end. Overall, it is a great read with simple yet interesting conversations.

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 5/5
      entwickelt einen starken Sog und raubt gleichzeitig den Atem.
    • 4/5
      Didn't like how it ended, but I enjoyed the rest. I feel like we need more background (what is the time period? What has happened in America that this is taking place? etc
    • 5/5
      Fantastic story. Originally a short story included in The Bachman Books, this story has a great premise. Times are hard, and 100 boys begin a marathon in hopes of being the one remaining that wins a fortune that will enable them to take care of their families. This story has great character development, and you wind up feeling gut-wrenching empathy for the boys as they are "eliminated" from the race one-by-one. This would be one of my favorite Stephen King stories.
    • 4/5
      A Stephen King I hadn't read. It reminds me a tiny bit of The Lottery and The Hunger Games. Very intersting.. what would you do in that situation kind of book.
    • 3/5
      It's pretty unbelievable that one can write about walking for a couple hundred pages. Leave it to the horror/ gross out master himself.

      This is an older book, it doesn't flow as well as his newer ones, I can see the tactics he's using, and it really helps.
    • 4/5
      Walking. It's not so difficult. But for these 100 boys who have to keep at a pace of 4 miles an hour, endlessly, it becomes near torture.

      This simple seeming premise was executed in such a chilling way because it just revolved around boys walking. No more, no less. But in the span of their time, we see a corrupt world, an eerie spectator game that involves death, casual shootings, and musings on what it means to dig deep.

      There is not much plot, as mentioned, but still. This book was entirely captivating from beginning to end.
      Each character is unique, but at the base of it all, there's only the last sounds of the gun.

      I was biting my lips at the end of every chapter.
      This is a horror story, but not in the typical monster-in-the-dark, scare-me type novel. It's a slow horror that creeps in after the hundredth mile. It builds up on you because you're starting to realize that you want all of these characters to survive, even the angry Barkovitch. The miles keep going, the descriptions of the pain and the fear and the numbness... you almost imagine you can feel it too.

      The worst was watching McVries die. Especially because Garraty ignored their pact to try to get him to live. But the simple response, "No Ray, it's time to sit down."

      That is just chilling. And heart-breaking.

      I am not certain I appreciate the ending (especially as it seemed to end a little too abruptly), but this is definitely a book worth reading.

      3.5 stars rounded up. Recommended for anyone who likes Stephen King. And for anyone who wants to read a bit of a dark book.
    • 5/5
      This is one of Stephen Kings best. EVER. Written when he was quite young it is a raw and fast paced despite being a story that is about kids walking. Thats it. Walk and walk and dont stop. Dont fall below a certain speed or you'll get a warning. 3 warnings earns you a ticket and you are out of the game...and by that I mean you get your head blown off.

      I cannot recommend this highly enough. It has all the hallmarks of classic Stephen King and perfectly illustrates a dystopian future that is entirely possible. It is dark and mesmerising and will leave you asking what just happened, what did I do, what did I participate in?? You will feel dirty for having watched this and let it happen without doing anything.

      JUST FRIGGING LOVED IT!
    • 5/5
      I don't have any negatives for this book. I started reading yesterday and didn't stop until I finished. It's a harrowing, horrific tale of survival, friendship and human endurance. Recommended to everyone; a favourite book of mine.
    • 4/5
      A somewhat lesser-known King book, but one I found very enjoyable. I read it in the span of three days, simply because I couldn't put it down.
    • 4/5
      Imagine a lottery style system that doesn't just pick a number, but gives the person who holds the ticket a chance to compete for the prize. Well, that is in a nutshell what the "Long Walk" is. Whoever can walk the longest wins, only problem is, if you stop walking, your dead.
    • 5/5
      I have to say this is one of my favorite stories of stephen King it is a short story but it is different and you just can't put it down. I really would recommend this one.
    • 4/5
      An under-rated Bachman/King classic. I appreciate it for its social criticism (more relevant today than when it was written, in my opinion) and, as an endurance athlete, for its depiction of an endurance event taken to its extreme.
    • 2/5
      this is a very, very looooong walk indeed. there are two stephen kings. One wants to be known as the author of some fairly and really good books, and the other wants to crank out "B" novels. Richard Bachman should have been published by Gold Medal originals in mass market paperback. All of Bachman's books (with the possible exception of "The Regulators") deal with one subject and the plot and story is linear. There is no subplot to speak of, and the characters are forgettable as you flip the last page. The only thing the Bachman books do is keep you turning the page, mostly through description. I read them because I love Gold Medal originals!
    • 4/5
      Possibly King's most pessimistic work, which might have something to do with it being one of his best (and my favorite Bachman book).
    • 4/5
      Every year, 100 teenage boys are accepted into the Long Walk. The object? To walk farther than all the other boys. They walk constantly, not allowed to slow down or stop. If a boy does slow down below 4 miles an hour, he is warned three times and then shot. At first this book was like a car wreck... it was gruesome and terrible, but I couldn't seem to look away. But once I looked past the gore, I was fascinated with the boys' motivation for being in the Walk. And, of course, I wanted to know who would end up winning. Pick this one up if you like psychological thrillers and don't mind blood and guts.
    • 5/5
      This little gem is one of King's finest works. A group of boys representing every state in the country vie for fame and fortune in cruel contest of endurance and attrition. Behind a riveting story is a larger brilliant metaphor subtly drawn.
    • 3/5
      This nice piece of King juvenilia presents a fairly cohesive alternate history setting and strong characters. Unfortunately, the prose is a bit jerky and repetitive and it hasn't aged too well--the vision of the future here is definitely dated. I'm impressed that King was able to stretch what could easily seem to be a somewhat flimsy concept into such a fairly thorough novel--though I do think it could have been trimmed down by about fifty pages.
    • 5/5
      This is one of the most disturbing stories that I have ever read. The horror of these young men walking for the Prize and becoming friends and watching each other get their "tickets", well, it is just nauseau inducing. A well written horror story that should be read by everyone who enjoys horror and likes to think. Every aspect of this story is scary to a bone deep level. The crowds, the possbility that this is (or could be) our world, the boys themselves....So good!
    • 3/5
      I read an article about the book you didn't know Stephen King wrote, or something along those lines. So I had to check it out. I used to be a huge fan of Stephen King. The Dark Tower Series is one of my favorite series. I had high hopes for this book, the idea sounded pretty interesting. It was OK. I liked the characters he created. It got a little tedious and monotonous towards the end. I also still have some unanswered questions...like Why do they do this every year? All in all, it was alright, not sure I'd recommend it or have written an article about how this is THE Stephen King book to read....
    • 4/5
      What a strange and unexpected topic. Walking. One hundred boys walking. That's it. How do you make a story out of that? Well Stephen King does it, and - even after having read it - I can't begin to fathom how he not only managed it, but made it amazing. This was a great story with incredible characters, stories, settings, and emotion. I read an hour or two of it on the treadmill which made it all the better.
    • 5/5
      Kings bestes Buch. Konnte ich nicht zur Seite legen und habe es in einer Nacht durchgelesen.
    • 3/5
      The First of May... Right now I'm having mixed feelings about this book. I like the premise and the characters and I did enjoy the story but while they kept walking and walking, I kept waiting and waiting for all these questions in my head to get answered and they really never did. I just personally don't care for ambiguous stories and endings. I wanted to know more about the reason and purpose of the race and what they got out of it in the end but unfortunately it looks like I'll be waiting for as long as they walked.
    • 4/5
      I've only read a handful of King's works. This one piqued my curiosity for some reason. I wasn't disappointed. The story got it's claws into me and didn't let go. Pretty disturbing stuff and a very intense read.In this day and age of over-the-top "reality" television, I could almost imagine something like this being televised in the not-too-distant future (Pay-Per-View). What a crazy world we live in.
    • 5/5
      One of the few books that I actually threw across the room because I was so engaged in the story and I couldn't bear what was coming. Such an emotional response is rare, and I only had this happen one other time. Not surprising it was also a Stephen King novel; "The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon". Both were gut wrenching reads that literally had my heart in my throat and my stomach tied in knots. Both of these books were so psychologically intense that I really did physically throw the books across the room. To get a reader that invested is rare, and after a few more years healing time I'll go back and read them both again.
    • 5/5
      best best best, short story. i loved it. soooo intense.
    • 5/5
      This was one of the most terrifying books I've read in a while.
    • 5/5
      Speechless doesn't really cut it.
      I didn't really know what I was getting myself into reading this book but oh my.
      What a roller coaster ride!
      I almost fell off my bed when I realised what a ticket was at the beginning of the book. Then there were moments when it felt too real and my heart was beating simultaneously with Garraty's.
      It was only four days but it wasn't just four days. They all grew old; dying together.
      The Musketeers, they were wonderful and heartbreaking. Just Oh MY.

      "It's time to sit down"

      ^^This broke my heart

      I love this book and I'm dreadfully glad I own it so I can re-read it anytime.
    • 4/5
      This novel is remarkable because it's one of the first Stephen King ever wrote though it wasn't publish until after Carrie. it's also remarkable because it's an darn good, eerie story.
    • 4/5
      The Long Walk

      By Stephen King (writing as Richard Bachman)

      (4/5 stars)

      This was the first Stephen King book I'd ever read. Some "friends" recommended that it was one of his best, so I thought I'd give it a try. Before this my only real exposure to the horror genre was reading Poe in high school. Overall I found this to be a good reading experience, though it was a little long and the end was disappointing.

      Every year, 100 teenage boys go through The Long Walk, a competition of endurance and survival. They start near the Canadian border in Maine (being a King book, where else would it start?) and go through New Hampshire, possibly into Massachusetts if anyone survives. The winner receives a Prize, wherein supposedly they receive everything they could ever want. The only drawback is that if you don't win, you die. Get three warnings in a row and you get executed.

      So the rules are simple: keep walking or die. There are no stops to use the bathroom or sleep or eat or get a foot massage. You walk all day and all night until you stop walking and die. It's sort of like the Tour de France then if the bikers had to keep riding 24 hours a day and the losers were all killed. The contest is broadcast on TV and is a huge thing in Vegas. Throngs of people show up on the sidelines to cheer on the Walkers, showing little concern even as the losers are shot on live TV. (A similar premise to another King story, "The Running Man." With reality TV the way it is today, is such a thing really so implausible? I think not.)

      In the current year's competition is young Ray Garrarty, a local boy from a small town in Maine. His father was abducted years ago by "the Squads", some kind of fascist secret police. (The story takes place in an alternate history where either the US lost WWII or otherwise turned into a fascist state. It's not entirely clear what happened, but there is mention of Germans bombing the US east coast and a raid on a German nuclear plant in Santiago in the '50s.) Ray has since lived with his mother and has a girlfriend named Jan. But for whatever reason he signs up for the Long Walk along with 99 other boys from around the country. He bonds with some of them like the cynical McVries and the weirdly prophetic Stebbins even as they are ostensibly trying to kill each other. They face a variety of physical challenges like steep hills, cramps, and fever but the real challenge is the mental fatigue from pushing on while watching all the people around you drop and die. Can Ray make it to the end? And what then?

      I thought this book probably would have worked better as a short story or novella. At 370 pages it's a little too long. It sort of sets into this pattern of they walk for a while, someone gets shot, they talk to each other, some more people get shot. Yadda, yadda, yadda. What saves it though is the bonding between Ray, McVries, and the other characters as they become well-fleshed characters. You really do want to see who's going to make it and who isn't.

      The end was disappointing, ending with a whimper instead of a bang. After going so far, I was really hoping for something a little more epic when it gets down to the last handful of people, but instead King/Bachman wraps up the last stage in just a couple of pages. So it seems like a lot of buildup for little payoff.

      Still, it was a good book and makes me want to get my copy of "The Green Mile" off the shelf.

      That is all.
    • 5/5
      This is my favourite of all the books written by Stephen King.

      A man is made to enter a race. The rules are simple you keep walking. If you stray off the road or pause for too long you are shot. Just keep walking until hopefully you are the last one left alive.

    Book preview

    The Long Walk - Stephen King

    PART ONE

    STARTING OUT

    Chapter 1

    "Say the secret word and win a hundred dollars.

    George, who are our first contestants?

    George…? Are you there, George?"

    —Groucho Marx

    You Bet Your Life

    An old blue Ford pulled into the guarded parking lot that morning, looking like a small, tired dog after a hard run. One of the guards, an expressionless young man in a khaki uniform and a Sam Browne belt, asked to see the blue plastic ID card. The boy in the back seat handed it to his mother. His mother handed it to the guard. The guard took it to a computer terminal that looked strange and out of place in the rural stillness. The computer terminal ate the card and flashed this on its screen:

    GARRATY RAYMOND DAVIS

    RD 1 POWNAL MAINE

    ANDROSCOGGIN COUNTY

    ID NUMBER 49-801-89

    OK-OK-OK

    The guard punched another button and all of this disappeared, leaving the terminal screen smooth and green and blank again. He waved them forward.

    Don’t they give the card back? Mrs. Garraty asked. Don’t they—

    No, Mom, Garraty said patiently.

    Well, I don’t like it, she said, pulling forward into an empty space. She had been saying it ever since they set out in the dark of two in the morning. She had been moaning it, actually.

    Don’t worry, he said without hearing himself. He was occupied with looking and with his own confusion of anticipation and fear. He was out of the car almost before the engine’s last asthmatic wheeze—a tall, well-built boy wearing a faded army fatigue jacket against the eight o’clock spring chill.

    His mother was also tall, but too thin. Her breasts were almost nonexistent: token nubs. Her eyes were wandering and unsure, somehow shocked. Her face was an invalid’s face. Her iron-colored hair had gone awry under the complication of clips that was supposed to hold it in place. Her dress hung badly on her body as if she had recently lost a lot of weight.

    Ray, she said in that whispery conspirator’s voice that he had come to dread. Ray, listen—

    He ducked his head and pretended to tuck in his shirt. One of the guards was eating C rations from a can and reading a comic book. Garraty watched the guard eating and reading and thought for the ten thousandth time: It’s all real. And now, at last, the thought began to swing some weight.

    There’s still time to change your mind—

    The fear and anticipation cranked up a notch.

    No, there’s no time for that, he said. The backout date was yesterday.

    Still in that low conspirator’s voice that he hated: They’d understand, I know they would. The Major—

    The Major would— Garraty began, and saw his mother wince. You know what the Major would do, Mom.

    Another car had finished the small ritual at the gate and had parked. A boy with dark hair got out. His parents followed and for a moment the three of them stood in conference like worried baseball players. He, like some of the other boys, was wearing a light packsack. Garraty wondered if he hadn’t been a little stupid not to bring one himself.

    You won’t change your mind?

    It was guilt, guilt taking the face of anxiety. Although he was only sixteen, Ray Garraty knew something about guilt. She felt that she had been too dry, too tired, or maybe just too taken up with her older sorrows to halt her son’s madness in its seedling stage—to halt it before the cumbersome machinery of the State with its guards in khaki and its computer terminals had taken over, binding himself more tightly to its insensate self with each passing day, until yesterday, when the lid had come down with a final bang.

    He put a hand on her shoulder. This is my idea, Mom. I know it wasn’t yours. I— He glanced around. No one was paying the slightest attention to them. I love you, but this way is best, one way or the other.

    It’s not, she said, now verging on tears. Ray, it’s not, if your father was here, he’d put a stop to—

    Well, he’s not, is he? He was brutal, hoping to stave off her tears… what if they had to drag her off? He had heard that sometimes that happened. The thought made him feel cold. In a softer voice he said, Let it go now, Mom. Okay? He forced a grin. Okay, he answered for her.

    Her chin was still trembling, but she nodded. Not all right, but too late. There was nothing anyone could do.

    A light wind sighed through the pines. The sky was pure blue. The road was just ahead and the simple stone post that marked the border between America and Canada. Suddenly his anticipation was greater than his fear, and he wanted to get going, get the show on the road.

    I made these. You can take them, can’t you? They’re not too heavy, are they? She thrust a foil-wrapped package of cookies at him.

    Yeah. He took them and then clutched her awkwardly, trying to give her what she needed to have. He kissed her cheek. Her skin was like old silk. For a moment he could have cried himself. Then he thought of the smiling, mustachioed face of the Major and stepped back, stuffing the cookies into the pocket of his fatigue jacket.

    G’bye, Mom.

    Goodbye, Ray. Be a good boy.

    She stood there for a moment and he had a sense of her being very light, as if even the light puffs of breeze blowing this morning might send her sailing away like a dandelion gone to seed. Then she got back into the car and started the engine. Garraty stood there. She raised her hand and waved. The tears were flowing now. He could see them. He waved back and then as she pulled out he just stood there with his arms at his sides, conscious of how fine and brave and alone he must look. But when the car had passed back through the gate, forlornness struck him and he was only a sixteen-year-old boy again, alone in a strange place.

    He turned back toward the road. The other boy, the dark-haired one, was watching his folks pull out. He had a bad scar along one cheek. Garraty walked over to him and said hello.

    The dark-haired boy gave him a glance. Hi.

    I’m Ray Garraty, he said, feeling mildly like an asshole.

    I’m Peter McVries.

    You are ready? Garraty asked.

    McVries shrugged. I feel jumpy. That’s the worst.

    Garraty nodded.

    The two of them walked toward the road and the stone marker. Behind them, other cars were pulling out. A woman began screaming abruptly. Unconsciously, Garraty and McVries drew closer together. Neither of them looked back. Ahead of them was the road, wide and black.

    That composition surface will be hot by noon, McVries said abruptly. I’m going to stick to the shoulder.

    Garraty nodded. McVries looked at him thoughtfully.

    What do you weigh?

    Hundred and sixty.

    I’m one-sixty-seven. They say the heavier guys get tired quicker, but I think I’m in pretty good shape.

    To Garraty, Peter McVries looked rather more than that—he looked awesomely fit. He wondered who they were that said the heavier guys got tired quicker, almost asked, and decided not to. The Walk was one of those things that existed on apocrypha, talismans, legend.

    McVries sat down in the shade near a couple of other boys, and after a moment, Garraty sat beside him. McVries seemed to have dismissed him entirely. Garraty looked at his watch. It was five after eight. Fifty-five minutes to go. Impatience and anticipation came back, and he did his best to squash them, telling himself to enjoy sitting while he could.

    All of the boys were sitting. Sitting in groups and sitting alone; one boy had climbed onto the lowest branch of a pine overlooking the road and was eating what looked like a jelly sandwich. He was skinny and blond, wearing purple pants and a blue chambray shirt under an old green zip sweater with holes in the elbows. Garraty wondered if the skinny ones would last or burn out quickly.

    The boys he and McVries had sat down next to were talking.

    I’m not hurrying, one of them said. Why should I? If I get warned, so what? You just adjust, that’s all. Adjustment is the key word here. Remember where you heard that first.

    He looked around and discovered Garraty and McVries.

    More lambs to the slaughter. Hank Olson’s the name. Walking is my game. He said this with no trace of a smile at all.

    Garraty offered his own name. McVries spoke his own absently, still looking off toward the road.

    I’m Art Baker, the other said quietly. He spoke with a very slight Southern accent. The four of them shook hands all around.

    There was a moment’s silence, and McVries said, Kind of scary, isn’t it?

    They all nodded except Hank Olson, who shrugged and grinned. Garraty watched the boy in the pine tree finish his sandwich, ball up the waxed paper it had been in, and toss it onto the soft shoulder. He’ll burn out early, he decided. That made him feel a little better.

    You see that spot right by the marker post? Olson said suddenly.

    They all looked. The breeze made moving shadow-patterns across the road. Garraty didn’t know if he saw anything or not.

    That’s from the Long Walk the year before last, Olson said with grim satisfaction. Kid was so scared he just froze up at nine o’clock.

    They considered the horror of it silently.

    Just couldn’t move. He took his three warnings and then at 9:02 AM they gave him his ticket. Right there by the starting post.

    Garraty wondered if his own legs would freeze. He didn’t think so, but it was a thing you wouldn’t know for sure until the time came, and it was a terrible thought. He wondered why Hank Olson wanted to bring up such a terrible thing.

    Suddenly Art Baker sat up straight. Here he comes.

    A dun-colored jeep drove up to the stone marker and stopped. It was followed by a strange, tread-equipped vehicle that moved much more slowly. There were toy-sized radar dishes mounted on the front and back of this halftrack. Two soldiers lounged on its upper deck, and Garraty felt a chill in his belly when he looked at them. They were carrying army-type heavy-caliber carbine rifles.

    Some of the boys got up, but Garraty did not. Neither did Olson or Baker, and after his initial look, McVries seemed to have fallen back into his own thoughts. The skinny kid in the pine tree was swinging his feet idly.

    The Major got out of the jeep. He was a tall, straight man with a deep desert tan that went well with his simple khakis. A pistol was strapped to his Sam Browne belt, and he was wearing reflector sunglasses. It was rumored that the Major’s eyes were extremely light-sensitive, and he was never seen in public without his sunglasses.

    Sit down, boys, he said. Keep Hint Thirteen in mind. Hint Thirteen was Conserve energy whenever possible.

    Those who had stood sat down. Garraty looked at his watch again. It said 8:16, and he decided it was a minute fast. The Major always showed up on time. He thought momentarily of setting it back a minute and then forgot it.

    I’m not going to make a speech, the Major said, sweeping them with the blank lenses that covered his eyes. I give my congratulations to the winner among your number, and my acknowledgments of valor to the losers.

    He turned to the back of the jeep. There was a living silence. Garraty breathed deep of the spring air. It would be warm. A good day to walk.

    The Major turned back to them. He was holding a clipboard. When I call your name, please step forward and take your number. Then go back to your place until it is time to begin. Do this smartly, please.

    You’re in the army now, Olson whispered with a grin, but Garraty ignored it. You couldn’t help admiring the Major. Garraty’s father, before the Squads took him away, had been fond of calling the Major the rarest and most dangerous monster any nation can produce, a society-supported sociopath. But he had never seen the Major in person.

    Aaronson.

    A short, chunky farmboy with a sunburned neck gangled forward, obviously awed by the Major’s presence, and took his large plastic 1. He fixed it to his shirt by the pressure strip and the Major clapped him on the back.

    Abraham.

    A tall boy with reddish hair in jeans and a T-shirt. His jacket was tied about his waist schoolboy style and flapped wildly around his knees. Olson sniggered.

    Baker, Arthur.

    That’s me, Baker said, and got to his feet. He moved with deceptive leisure, and he made Garraty nervous. Baker was going to be tough. Baker was going to last a long time.

    Baker came back. He had pressed his number 3 onto the right breast of his shirt.

    Did he say anything to you? Garraty asked.

    He asked me if it was commencing to come off hot down home, Baker said shyly. Yeah, he… the Major talked to me.

    Not as hot as it’s gonna commence getting up here, Olson cracked.

    Baker, James, the Major said.

    It went on until 8:40, and it came out right. No one had ducked out. Back in the parking lot, engines started and a number of cars began pulling out—boys from the backup list who would now go home and watch the Long Walk coverage on TV. It’s on, Garraty thought, it’s really on.

    When his turn came, the Major gave him number 47 and told him Good luck. Up close he smelled very masculine and somehow overpowering. Garraty had an almost insatiable urge to touch the man’s leg and make sure he was real.

    Peter McVries was 61. Hank Olson was 70. He was with the Major longer than the rest. The Major laughed at something Olson said and clapped him on the back. I told him to keep a lot of money on short call, Olson said when he came back. And he told me to give ’em hell. Said he liked to see someone who was raring to rip. Give ’em hell, boy, he said.

    Pretty good, McVries said, and then winked at Garraty. Garraty wondered what McVries had meant, winking like that. Was he making fun of Olson?

    The skinny boy in the tree was named Stebbins. He got his number with his head down, not speaking to the Major at all, and then sat back at the base of his tree. Garraty was somehow fascinated with the boy.

    Number 100 was a red-headed fellow with a volcanic complexion. His name was Zuck. He got his number and then they all sat and waited for what would come next.

    Then three soldiers from the halftrack passed out wide belts with snap pockets. The pockets were filled with tubes of high-energy concentrate pastes. More soldiers came around with canteens. They buckled on the belts and slung the canteens. Olson slung his belt low on his hips like a gunslinger, found a Waifa chocolate bar, and began to eat it. Not bad, he said, grinning. He swigged from his canteen, washing down the chocolate, and Garraty wondered if Olson was just fronting, or if he knew something Garraty did not.

    The Major looked them over soberly. Garraty’s wristwatch said 8:56—how had it gotten so late? His stomach lurched painfully.

    All right, fellows, line up by tens, please. No particular order. Stay with your friends, if you like.

    Garraty got up. He felt numb and unreal. It was as if his body now belonged to someone else.

    Well here we go, McVries said at his elbow. Good luck, everyone.

    Good luck to you, Garraty said, surprised.

    McVries said: I need my fucking head examined. He looked suddenly pale and sweaty, not so awesomely fit as he had earlier. He was trying to smile and not making it. The scar stood out on his cheek like a wild punctuation mark.

    Stebbins got up and ambled to the rear of the ten wide, ten deep queue. Olson, Baker, McVries, and Garraty were in the third row. Garraty’s mouth was dry. He wondered if he should drink some water. He decided against it. He had never in his life been so aware of his feet. He wondered if he might freeze and get his ticket on the starting line. He wondered if Stebbins would fold early—Stebbins with his jelly sandwich and his purple pants. He wondered if he would fold up first. He wondered what it would feel like if—

    His wristwatch said 8:59.

    The Major was studying a stainless steel pocket chronometer. He raised his fingers slowly, and everything hung suspended with his hand. The hundred boys watched it carefully, and the silence was awful and immense. The silence was everything.

    Garraty’s watch said 9:00, but the poised hand did not fall.

    Do it! Why doesn’t he do it?

    He felt like screaming it out.

    Then he remembered that his watch was a minute fast—you could set your watch by the Major, only he hadn’t, he had forgotten.

    The Major’s fingers dropped. Luck to all, he said. His face was expressionless and the reflector sunglasses hid his eyes. They began to walk smoothly, with no jostling.

    Garraty walked with them. He hadn’t frozen. Nobody froze. His feet passed beyond the stone marker, in parade-step with McVries on his left and Olson on his right. The sound of feet was very loud.

    This is it, this is it, this is it.

    A sudden insane urge to stop came to him. Just to see if they really meant business. He rejected the thought indignantly and a little fearfully.

    They came out of the shade and into the sun, the warm spring sun. It felt good. Garraty relaxed, put his hands in his pockets, and kept step with McVries. The group began to spread out, each person finding his own stride and speed. The halftrack clanked along the soft shoulder, throwing thin dust. The tiny radar dishes turned busily, monitoring each Walker’s speed with a sophisticated on-board computer. Low speed cutoff was exactly four miles an hour.

    Warning! Warning 88!

    Garraty started and looked around. It was Stebbins. Stebbins was 88. Suddenly he was sure Stebbins was going to get his ticket right here, still in sight of the starting post.

    Smart. It was Olson.

    What? Garraty asked. He had to make a conscious effort to move his tongue.

    The guy takes a warning while he’s still fresh and gets an idea of where the limit is. And he can sluff it easy enough—you walk an hour without getting a fresh warning, you lose one of the old ones. You know that.

    Sure I know it, Garraty said. It was in the rule book. They gave you three warnings. The fourth time you fell below four miles an hour you were… well, you were out of the Walk. But if you had three warnings and could manage to walk for three hours, you were back in the sun again.

    So now he knows, Olson said. And at 10:02, he’s in the clear again.

    Garraty walked on at a good clip. He was feeling fine. The starting post dropped from sight as they breasted a hill and began descending into a long, pine-studded valley. Here and there were rectangular fields with the earth just freshly turned.

    Potatoes, they tell me, McVries said.

    Best in the world, Garraty answered automatically.

    You from Maine? Baker asked.

    Yeah, downstate. He looked up ahead. Several boys had drawn away from the main group, making perhaps six miles an hour. Two of them were wearing identical leather jackets, with what looked like eagles on the back. It was a temptation to speed up, but Garraty refused to be hurried. Conserve energy whenever possible—Hint 13.

    Does the road go anywhere near your hometown? McVries asked.

    About seven miles to one side. I guess my mother and my girlfriend will come to see me. He paused and added carefully: If I’m still walking, of course.

    Hell, there won’t be twenty-five gone when we get downstate, Olson said.

    A silence fell among them at that. Garraty knew it wasn’t so, and he thought Olson did, too.

    Two other boys received warnings, and in spite of what Olson had said, Garraty’s heart lurched each time. He checked back on Stebbins. He was still at the rear, and eating another jelly sandwich. There was a third sandwich jutting from the pocket of his ragged green sweater. Garraty wondered if his mother had made them, and he thought of the cookies his own mother had given him—pressed on him, as if warding off evil spirits.

    Why don’t they let people watch the start of a Long Walk? Garraty asked.

    Spoils the Walkers’ concentration, a sharp voice said.

    Garraty turned his head. It was a small dark, intense-looking boy with the number 5 pressed to the collar of his jacket. Garraty couldn’t remember his name. Concentration? he said.

    Yes. The boy moved up beside Garraty. The Major has said it is very important to concentrate on calmness at the beginning of a Long Walk. He pressed his thumb reflectively against the end of his rather sharp nose. There was a bright red pimple there. I agree. Excitement, crowds, TV later. Right now all we need to do is focus. He stared at Garraty with his hooded dark brown eyes and said it again. Focus.

    All I’m focusing on is pickin’ ’em up and layin’ ’em down, Olson said.

    5 looked insulted. You have to pace yourself. You have to focus on yourself. You have to have a Plan. I’m Gary Barkovitch, by the way. My home is Washington, D.C.

    I’m John Carter, Olson said. My home is Barsoom, Mars.

    Barkovitch curled his lip in contempt and dropped back.

    There’s one cuckoo in every clock, I guess, Olson said.

    But Garraty thought Barkovitch was thinking pretty clearly—at least until one of the guards called out Warning! Warning 5! about five minutes later.

    I’ve got a stone in my shoe! Barkovitch said waspishly.

    The soldier didn’t reply. He dropped off the halftrack and stood on the shoulder of the road opposite Barkovitch. In his hand he held a stainless steel chronometer just like the Major’s. Barkovitch stopped completely and took off his shoe. He shook a tiny pebble out of it. Dark, intense, his olive-sallow face shiny with sweat, he paid no attention when the soldier called out, Second warning, 5. Instead, he smoothed his sock carefully over the arch of his foot.

    Oh-oh, Olson said. They had all turned around and were walking backward.

    Stebbins, still at the tag end, walked past Barkovitch without looking at him. Now Barkovitch was all alone, slightly to the right of the white line, retying his shoe.

    Third warning, 5. Final warning.

    There was something in Garraty’s belly that felt like a sticky ball of mucus. He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t look away. He wasn’t conserving energy whenever possible by walking backward, but he couldn’t help that, either. He could almost feel Barkovitch’s seconds shriveling away to nothing.

    Oh, boy, Olson said. That dumb shit, he’s gonna get his ticket.

    But then Barkovitch was up. He paused to brush some road dirt from the knees of his pants. Then he broke into a trot, caught up with the group, and settled back into his walking pace. He passed Stebbins, who still didn’t look at him, and caught up with Olson.

    He grinned, brown eyes glittering. See? I just got myself a rest. It’s all in my Plan.

    Maybe you think so, Olson said, his voice higher than usual. "All I see that you got is three warnings. For your lousy minute and a half you got to walk three… fucking… hours. And why in hell did you need a rest? We just started, for Chrissake!"

    Barkovitch looked insulted. His eyes burned at Olson. We’ll see who gets his ticket first, you or me, he said. It’s all in my Plan.

    Your Plan and the stuff that comes out of my asshole bear a suspicious resemblance to each other, Olson said, and Baker chuckled.

    With a snort, Barkovitch strode past them.

    Olson couldn’t resist a parting shot. Just don’t stumble, buddy. They don’t warn you again. They just…

    Barkovitch didn’t even look back and Olson gave up, disgusted.

    At thirteen past nine by Garraty’s watch (he had taken the trouble to set it back the one minute), the Major’s jeep breasted the hill they had just started down. He came past them on the shoulder opposite the pacing halftrack and raised a battery-powered loudhailer to his lips.

    I’m pleased to announce that you have finished the first mile of your journey, boys. I’d also like to remind you that the longest distance a full complement of Walkers has ever covered is seven and three-quarters miles. I’m hoping you’ll better that.

    The jeep spurted ahead. Olson appeared to be considering this news with startled, even fearful, wonder. Not even eight miles, Garraty thought. It wasn’t nearly as far as he would have guessed. He hadn’t expected anyone—not even Stebbins—to get a ticket until late afternoon at least. He thought of Barkovitch. All he had to do was fall below speed once in the next hour.

    Ray? It was Art Baker. He had taken off his coat and slung it over one arm. Any particular reason you came on the Long Walk?

    Garraty unclipped his canteen and had a quick swallow of water. It was cool and good. It left beads of moisture on his upper lip and he licked them off. It was good, good to feel things like that.

    I don’t really know, he said truthfully.

    Me either. Baker thought for

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