The Long Walk

by Richard Bachman

Up ahead, a boy named Larson, 60, suddenly sat down on the road. He got a warning. The other boys split and passed around him, like the Red Sea around the Children of Israel. “I’m just going to rest for a while, okay?” Larson said with a trusting, shellshocked smile. “I can’t walk anymore right now, okay?” His smile stretched wider, and he turned it on the soldier who had jumped down from the halftrack with his rifle unslung and the stainless steel chronometer in his hand. “Warning, 60,” the soldier said. “Second warning.” “Listen, I’ll catch up,” Larson hastened to assure him. “I’m just resting. A guy can’t walk all the time. Not all the time. Can he, fellas?” Olson made a little moaning noise as he passed Larson, and shied away when Larson tried to touch his pants cuffs. Garraty felt his pulse beating warmly in his temples. Larson got his third warning… now he’ll understand, Garraty thought, now he’ll get up and start flogging it. And at the end, Larson did realize, apparently. Reality came crashing back in. “Hey!” Larson said behind them. His voice was high and alarmed. “Hey, just a second, don’t do that, I’ll get up. Hey, don’t! D—” The shot. They walked on up the hill.