The Long Walk

by Richard Bachman

“Don’t hurt me!” someone screamed. “Please don’t hurt me!” It was a redhead with a plaid shirt tied around his waist. He had stopped in the middle of the road and he was weeping. He was given first warning. And then he raced toward the halftrack, his tears cutting runnels through the sweaty dirt on his face, red hair glinting like a fire in the sun. “Don’t… I can’t… please… my mother… I can’t… don’t… no more… my feet…” He was trying to scale the side, and one of the soldiers brought the butt of his carbine down on his hands. The boy cried out and fell in a heap. He screamed again, a high, incredibly thin note that seemed sharp enough to shatter glass and what he was screaming was: “My feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—” “Jesus,” Garraty muttered. “Why doesn’t he stop that?” The screams went on and on. “I doubt if he can,” McVries said clinically. “The back treads of the halftrack ran over his legs.” Garraty looked and felt his stomach lurch into his throat. It was true. No wonder the redheaded kid was screaming about his feet. They had been obliterated. “Warning! Warning 38!” “—eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—” “I want to go home,” someone behind Garraty said very quietly. “Oh Christ, do I ever want to go home.” A moment later the redheaded boy’s face was blown away.