The Long Walk

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 Bar soom, 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, re-tying his shoe.
    “Third warning, 5. Final