The Long Walk

by Stephen King

But of course it had hurt. It had hurt before, in the worst, rupturing way, knowing there would be no more you but the universe would roll on just the same, unharmed and unhampered.

“If I get out of this,” McVries said abruptly, “you know what I’m going to do?” “What?” Baker asked. “Fornicate until my cock turns blue. I’ve never been so horny in my life as I am right this minute, at quarter of eight on May first.” “You mean it?” Garraty asked. “I do,” McVries assured. “I could even get horny for you, Ray, if you didn’t need a shave.” Garraty laughed. “Prince Charming, that’s who I am,” McVries said. His hand went to the scar on his cheek and touched it. “Now all I need is a Sleeping Beauty. I could awake her with a biggy sloppy soul kiss and the two of us would ride away into the sunset. At least as far as the nearest Holiday Inn.” “Walk,” Olson said listlessly. “Huh?” “Walk into the sunset.” “Walk into the sunset, okay,” McVries said. “True love either way. Do you believe in true love, Hank dear?” “I believe in a good screw,” Olson said, and Art Baker burst out laughing.

Garraty thought that memories were like a line drawn in the dirt. The further back you went the scuffier and harder to see that line got. Until finally there was nothing but smooth sand and the black hole of nothingness that you came out of.

The dark figure beckoned, beckoned in the rain, beckoned for him to come and walk, to come and play the game. And it was time to get started. There was still so far to walk.

And when the hand touched his shoulder again, he somehow found the strength to run.