Stephen King - Under the Dome

“Never mind. Want to take a shot at stopping it before it gets any worse?”

“How?”

He lifted the bullhorn, plucked from the hood of the car where Toby Whelan left it. When he tried to hand it to her, Rose drew back, holding her hands to her chest. “You do it, Barbie.”

“No. You’re the one who’s been feeding them for years, you’re the one they know, you’re the one they’ll listen to.”

She took the bullhorn, although hesitantly. “I don’t know what to say. I can’t think of a single thing that will make them stop. Toby Whelan already tried. They didn’t pay any attention.”

“Toby tried to give orders,” Barbie said. “Giving orders to a mob is like giving orders to an anthill.”

“I still don’t know what to—”

“I’m going to tell you.” Barbie spoke calmly, and that calmed her. He paused long enough to beckon Linda Everett. She and Jackie came together, their arms around each other’s waists.

“Can you get in touch with your husband?” Barbie asked.

“If his cell phone’s on.”

“Tell him to get down here—with an ambulance, if possible. If he doesn’t answer his phone, grab a police car and drive on up to the hospital.”

“He’s got patients….”

“He’s got some patients right here. He just doesn’t know it.” Barbie pointed to Ginny Tomlinson, now sitting with her back against the cinderblock side of the market and her hands pressed to her bleeding face. Gina and Harriet Bigelow crouched on either side of her, but when Gina tried to stanch the bleeding from Ginny’s radically altered nose with a folded handkerchief, Ginny cried out in pain and turned her head away. “Starting with one of his two remaining trained nurses, if I’m not mistaken.”

“What are you going to do?” Linda asked, taking her cell phone from her belt.

“Rose and I are going to make them stop. Aren’t we, Rose?”

Rose stopped inside the door, mesmerized by the chaos before her. The eye-watering smell of vinegar was in the air, mingled with the aromas of brine and beer. Mustard and ketchup were splattered like gaudy puke on the linoleum of aisle 3. A cloud of mingled sugar and flour arose from aisle 5. People pushed their loaded shopping carts through it, many coughing and wiping their eyes. Some of the carts slued as they rolled through a drift of spilled dry beans.

“Stay there a sec,” Barbie said, although Rose showed no sign of moving; she was hypnotized with the bullhorn clasped between her breasts.

Barbie found Julia shooting pictures of the looted cash registers. “Quit that and come with me,” he said.

“No, I have to do this, there’s no one else. I don’t know where Pete Freeman is, and Tony—”

“You don’t have to shoot it, you have to stop it. Before something a lot worse than that happens.” He was pointing to Fern Bowie, who was strolling past with a loaded basket in one hand and a beer in the other. His eyebrow was split and blood was dripping down his face, but Fern seemed content enough withal.

“How?”

He led her back to Rose. “Ready, Rose? Showtime.”

“I… well…”

“Remember, serene. Don’t try to stop them; just try to lower the temperature.”

Rose took a deep breath, then raised the bullhorn to her mouth. “HI, EVERYBODY, THIS IS ROSE TWITCHELL, FROM SWEETBRIAR ROSE.”

To her everlasting credit, she did sound serene. People looked around when they heard her voice—not because it sounded urgent, Barbie knew, but because it didn’t. He had seen this in Takrit, Fallujah, Baghdad. Mostly after bombings in crowded public places, when the police and the troop carriers arrived. “PLEASE FINISH YOUR SHOPPING AS QUICKLY AND CALMLY AS POSSIBLE.”

A few people chuckled at this, then looked around at each other as if coming to. In aisle 7, Carla Venziano, shamefaced, helped Henrietta Clavard to her feet. There’s plenty of Texmati for both of us, Carla thought. What in God’s name was I thinking?

Barbie nodded at Rose to go on, mouthing Coffee. In the distance, he could hear the sweet warble of an approaching ambulance.

“WHEN YOU’RE DONE, COME TO SWEETBRIAR FOR COFFEE. IT’S FRESH AND IT’S ON THE HOUSE.”

A few people clapped. Some leatherlungs yelled, “Who wants coffee? We got BEER!” Laughter and whoops greeted this sally.

Julia twitched Barbie’s sleeve. Her forehead was creased in what Barbie thought was a very Republican frown. “They’re not shopping; they’re stealing.”

“Do you want to editorialize or get them out of here before someone gets killed over a bag of Blue Mountain Dry Roast?” he asked.

She thought it over and nodded, her frown giving way to that inward-turning smile he was coming to like a great deal. “You have a point, Colonel,” she said.

Barbie turned to Rose, made a cranking gesture, and she started in again. He began to walk the two women up and down the aisles, starting with the mostly denuded deli and dairy section, on the look-out out for anyone who might be cranked up enough to offer interference. There was no one. Rose was gaining confidence, and the market was quieting. People were leaving. Many were pushing carts laden with loot, but Barbie still took it as a good sign. The sooner they were out the better, no matter how much shit they took with them… and the key was for them to hear themselves referred to as shoppers rather than stealers. Give a man or woman back his self-respect, and in most cases—not all, but most—you also give back that person’s ability to think with at least some clarity.

Anson Wheeler joined them, pushing a shopping cart full of supplies. He looked slightly shamefaced, and his arm was bleeding. “Someone hit me with a jar of olives,” he explained. “Now I smell like an Italian sandwich.”

Rose handed the bullhorn to Julia, who began broadcasting the same message in the same pleasant voice: Finish up, shoppers, and leave in orderly fashion.

“We can’t take that stuff,” Rose said, pointing at Anson’s cart. “But we need it, Rosie,” he said. He sounded apologetic but firm. “We really do.”

“We’ll leave some money, then,” she said. “If no one’s stolen my purse out of the truck, that is.”

“Um… I don’t think that’ll work,” Anson said. “Some guys were stealing the money out of the registers.” He had seen which guys, but didn’t want to say. Not with the editor of the local paper walking next to him.

Rose was horrified. “What’s happening here? In the name of God, what’s happening ?”

“I don’t know,” Anson said.

Outside, the ambulance pulled up, the siren dying to a growl. A minute or two later, while Barbie, Rose, and Julia were still canvassing the aisles with the bullhorn (the crowd was thinning out now), someone behind them said, “That’s enough. Give me that.”

Barbie was not surprised to see acting chief Randolph, tricked out to the nines in his dress uniform. Here he was, a day late and a dollar short. Right on schedule.

Rose was working the bullhorn, extolling the virtues of free coffee at Sweetbriar. Randolph plucked it from her hand and immediately began giving orders and making threats.

“LEAVE NOW! THIS IS CHIEF PETER RANDOLPH, ORDERING YOU TO LEAVE NOW! DROP WHAT YOU ARE HOLDING AND LEAVE NOW! IF YOU DROP WHAT YOU’RE HOLDING AND LEAVE NOW, YOU MAY AVOID CHARGES!”

Rose looked at Barbie, dismayed. He shrugged. It didn’t matter. The spirit of the mob had departed. The cops who were still ambulatory—even Carter Thibodeau, staggering but on his feet—started hustling people out. When the “shoppers” wouldn’t drop their loaded baskets, the cops struck several to the ground, and Frank DeLesseps overturned a loaded shopping cart. His face was grim and pale and angry.