The Long Walk

by Richard Bachman

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.