Free The Long Walk by Stephen King

overhead, Venus glowing steadily, the Dipper in its accustomed place. He had always been good at the constellations. He pointed out Cassiopeia to Pearson, who only grunted.
    He thought about Jan, his girl, and felt a twinge of guilt about the girl he had kissed earlier. He couldn’t remember exactly what that girl had looked like anymore, but she had excited him. Putting his hand on her ass like that had excited him—what would have happened if he had tried to put his hand between her legs? He felt a clockspring of pressure in his groin that made him wince a little as he walked.
    Jan had long hair, almost to her waist. She was sixteen. Her breasts were not as big as those of the girl who had kissed him. He had played with her breasts a lot. It drove him crazy. She wouldn’t let him make love to her, and he didn’t know how to make her. She wanted to, but she wouldn’t. Garraty knew that some boys could do that, could get a girl to go along, but he didn’t seem to have quite enough personality—or maybe not quite enough will —to convince her. He wondered how many of the others here were virgins. Gribble had called the Major a murderer. He wondered if Gribble was a virgin. He decided Gribble probably was.
    They passed the Caribou city limits. There was a large crowd there, and a news truck from one of the networks. A battery of lights bathed the road in a warm white glare. It was like walking into a sudden warm lagoon of sunlight, wading through it, and then emerging again.
    A fat newspaperman in a three-piece suit trotted along with them, poking his long-reach microphone at different Walkers. Behind him, two technicians busily unreeled a drum of electric cable.
    “How do you feel?”
    “Okay. I guess I feel okay.”
    “Feeling tired?”
    “Yeah, well, you know. Yeah. But I’m still okay.”
    “What do you think your chances are now?”
    “I dunno . . . okay, I guess. I still feel pretty strong.”
    He asked a big bull of a fellow, Scramm, what he thought of the Long Walk. Scramm grinned, said he thought it was the biggest fucking thing he’d ever seen, and the reporter made snipping motions with his fingers at the two technicians. One of them nodded back wearily.
    Shortly afterward he ran out of microphone cable and began wending his way back toward the mobile unit, trying to avoid the tangles of unreeled cord. The crowd, drawn as much by the TV crew as by the Long Walkers themselves, cheered enthusiastically. Posters of the Major were raised and lowered rhythmically on sticks so raw and new they were still bleeding sap. When the cameras panned over them, they cheered more frantically than ever and waved to Aunt Betty and Uncle Fred
    They rounded a bend and passed a small shop where the owner, a little man wearing stained white, had set up a soft drink cooler with a sign over it which read: ON THE HOUSE FOR THE
    LONG WALKERS!! COURTESY OF “EV’S” MARKET! A police cruiser was parked close by, and two policemen were patiently explaining to Ev, as they undoubtedly did every year, that it was against the rules for spectators to offer any kind of aid or assistance—including soft drinks—to the Walkers.
    They passed by the Caribou Paper Mills, Inc., a huge, soot-blackened building on a dirty river. The workers were lined up against the cyclone fences, cheering good-naturedly and waving. A whistle blew as the last of the Walkers—Stebbins—passed by, and Garraty, looking back over his shoulder, saw them trooping inside again.
    “Did he ask you?” a strident voice inquired of Garraty. With a feeling of great weariness, Garraty looked down at Gary Barkovitch.
    “Did who ask me what?”
    “The reporter, Dumbo. Did he ask you how you felt?”
    “No, he didn’t get to me.” He wished Barkovitch would go away. He wished the throbbing pain in the soles of his feet would go away.
    “They asked me,” Barkovitch said. “You know what I told them?”
    “Huh-uh.”
    “I told them I felt great,” Barkovitch