The Long Walk

by Richard Bachman

“Garraty?” “What?” Garraty said more quietly. “Je. Jesus will save you.” Olson’s head came up all the way. He began to walk off the road. He was walking at the halftrack. “Warning. Warning 70!” Olson never slowed. There was a ruinous dignity about him. The gabble of the crowd quieted. They watched, wide-eyed. Olson never hesitated. He reached the soft shoulder. He put his hands over the side of the halftrack. He began to clamber painfully up the side. “Olson!” Abraham yelled, startled. “Hey, that’s Hank Olson!” The soldiers brought their guns around in perfect four-part harmony. Olson grabbed the barrel of the closest and yanked it out of the hands that held it as if it had been an ice-cream stick. It clattered off into the crowd. They shrank from it, screaming, as if it had been a live adder. Then one of the other three guns went off. Garraty saw the flash at the end of the barrel quite clearly. He saw the jerky ripple of Olson’s shirt as the bullet entered his belly and then punched out the back.