The first published novel by Stephen King was Carrie in 1974, but the first he wrote was The Long Walk, begun his freshman year at the University of Maine in 1966 and sneaked onto the mass paperback market in 1979 under the pseudonym of "Richard Bachman." Outed at the apex of his fame, King had this novella and three others he'd released under his alias republished in 1985 as The Bachman Books. Like much of King's early work, The Long Walk lacks finishing, as if the story was filed by a reporter racing against a deadline, but is compulsively readable and appropriately nihilistic for a young man writing as the U.S. war machine began chewing up and spitting out boys in Southeast Asia.
Set in an unspecified future, the story introduces 16-year-old Ray Garraty, a local boy from Pownal whose mother drops him off at a guarded parking lot near the Maine/Canada border in the early morning hours of May 1. Garraty joins ninety-nine other boys assembling to participate in an annual event known as the Walk. He quickly befriends a walker named Peter McVries, who later tells Garraty that he joined the contest in a post-breakup funk. Their group expands to include Art Baker, a Louisiana boy from a family of morticians and Hank Olson, who's cocky and full of information about the Walk.
The object of the Walk is to maintain a pace of 4 miles an hour. Walkers who fall under that speed or stop walking for more than 30 seconds are given a verbal warning, which they can repeal by walking one hour without another warning. Three warnings results in "buying a ticket." As the event gets under way, it becomes clear to the reader that "buying a ticket" means death by hail of gunfire from the soldiers who monitor the event from aboard halftracks, and a revered national figure known as The Major who often joins the event to supervise. The Walk continues until there is only one walker alive. The reward is The Prize, anything that walker wants for the rest of his life.
"I have no idea what I'll want if I do win this," McVries said. "There's nothing I really need. I mean, I don't have a sick old mother sitting at home or a father on a kidney machine, or anything. I don't even have a little brother dying gamely of leukemia." He laughed and unstrapped his canteen.
"You've got a point there," Garraty agreed.
"You mean I don't have a point there. The whole thing is pointless."
"You don't really mean that," Garraty said confidently. "If you had to do it all over again--"
"Yeah, yeah, I'd still do it, but--"
"Hey!" The boy ahead of them, Pearson, pointed. "Sidewalks!"
They were finally coming into the town proper. Handsome houses set back from the road looked down at them from the vantage of ascending green lawns. The lawns were crowded with people, waving and cheering. It seemed to Garraty that almost all of them were sitting down. Sitting on the ground, on lawn chairs like the old men back at the gas station, sitting on picnic tables. Even sitting on swings and porch gliders. He felt a touch of jealous anger.
Go ahead and wave your asses off. I'll be damned if I'll wave back anymore. Hint 13. Conserve energy whenever possible.
But finally he decided he was being foolish. People might decide he was getting snotty. He was, after all, "Maine's Own." He decided he would wave to all the people with GARRATY signs. And to all the pretty girls.
Other contestants slip in and out of Garraty's circle. Stebbins is a skinny boy wearing a bright green sweater and purple pants who keeps to himself but seems to have the most information on how to survive the Walk. Barkovitch is a loudmouth ostracized by the others after he instigates a fight with another walker that results in that boy buying a ticket. Scramm is much more likable despite being the Vegas favorite to win the Walk due to his athletic stamina but draws the bemusement of his peers when he reveals that he has a young wife at home. Spectators come from all over the nation to watch from the roadside.
Garraty is determined to stay in the walk to reach his hometown, where his girlfriend Jan and his mother will be waiting to cheer him on. Thirsty walkers can ask the soldiers for a fresh canteen of water, but once they eat the lunches they started with and finish the concentrates they're provided, go without food. Only four boys are shot in the first eight and a half hours and as darkness falls, most of the contestants figure out how to half-walk and half-doze. One of the boys develops an unfortunate case of diarrhea. A steep grade in the road 12 hours into the Walk earns three boys a ticket. Soles of shoes come off. Then walkers start to lose their minds.
"I can't walk much further," Olson croaked. His face was a white blur in the darkness. No one answered him.
The darkness. Goddam the darkness. It seemed to Garraty they had been buried alive in it. Immured in it. Dawn was a century away. Many of them would never see the dawn. Or the sun. They were buried six feet deep in the darkness. All they needed was the monotonous chanting of the priest, his voice muffled but not entirely obscured by the new-packed darkness, above which the mourners stood. The mourners were not even aware that they were here, they werealive, they were screaming, and scratching and clawing at the coffin-lid darkness, the air was flaking and rusting away, the air was turning into poison gas, hope fading until hope itself was a darkness, and above all of it the nodding, chapel-bell voice of the priest and the impatient, shuffling feet of mourners anxious to be off into the warm May sunshine. Then, overmastering that, the sighing, shuffling chorus of the bugs and beetles, squirming their way through the earth, come for the feast.
I could go crazy, Garraty thought. I could go right the fuck off my rocker.
My first reaction, as I found myself up late totally absorbed in the storytelling, is that The Long Walk is a tremendous work of white-knuckled suspense. There's not a boring page in it. King has a natural ability to make his characters instantly relatable as human beings. Their thoughts and fears are a real boy's thoughts and fears, not characters acting out a plot. He also has a gift for throwing his reader into the cogs of whatever nightmare he's constructed, one from which there's no escape. The world is reduced to very stark terms. Stop walking, you die. Leave the road, you die.
There were no warnings. Percy had forfeited his right to them when his right foot passed over the verge of the shoulder. Percy had left the road, and the soldiers had known all along. Old Percy What's-His-Name hadn't been fooling anybody. There was one sharp, clean report, and Garraty jerked his eyes from Percy to the soldier standing on the back deck of the halftrack. The soldier was a sculpture in clean, angular lines, the rifle nestled into the hollow of his shoulder, his head half-cocked along the barrel.
Then his head swiveled back to Percy again. Percy was a real show, wasn't he? Percy was standing with both his feet on the weedy border of the pine forest now. He was as frozen and has sculpted as the man who had shot him. The two of them together would have been a subject for Michaelangelo, Garraty thought. Percy stood utterly still under a blue springtime sky. One hand was pressed to his chest, like a poet about to speak. His eyes were wide, and somehow ecstatic.
A bright seepage of blood ran through his fingers, shining in the sunlight. Old Percy What's-Your-Name. Hey Percy, your mother's calling. Hey Percy, does your mother know you're out? Hey Percy, what kind of silly sissy name is that, Percy. Percy, aren't you cute? Percy transformed into a bright, sunlit Adonis counterpointed by the savage, duncolored huntsman. And one, two, three coin-shaped splatters of blood fell on Percy's travel-dusty black shoes, and all of it happened in a space of only three seconds. Garraty did not even take two full steps and he was not warned, and oh Percy, what is your mother going to say? Do you, tell me, do you really have the nerve to die?
I saw this story as a parable for Vietnam through and through, with the sheer pointlessness of what the boys had signed up for not dawning on them until it was too late. There's a recurrent desire in many of the young men to take on the world, to sign up and join a cause bigger than themselves or the towns they come from. The bonds they form in the foxhole felt like a war story. My criticism of The Long Walk is that there's too much talking to make this a believable war story, given the grueling nature of the walk once it gets going. I don't know if an internalized version of this story would've been any better, though, considering how gripping the final product turned out.
Length: 84,610 words