Stephen King - Under the Dome

Morrison only turned away. Thinking’s in short supply around here today, Barbie thought. Which, he was sure, was just the way Rennie liked it.

“Linda,” he said. “Mrs. Everett.”

“Don’t talk to me.” Her face was paper-pale except for dark purplish crescents beneath her eyes. They looked like bruises.

“Come on, sunshine,” Freddy said, and ground a knuckle into the small of Barbie’s back, just above the kidney. “Your suite awaits.”

Joe, Benny, and Norrie rode their bikes north along Route 119. The afternoon was summer-hot, the air hazy and humid. Not a breath of breeze stirred. Crickets sang dozily in the high weeds at the sides of the road. The sky at the horizon had a yellow look that Joe first took for clouds. Then he realized it was a mixture of pollen and pollution on the surface of the Dome. Out here, Prestile Stream ran close beside the highway, and they should have heard it chuckling as it sped southeast toward Castle Rock, eager to join the mighty Androscoggin, but they heard only the crickets and a few crows cawing lackadaisically in the trees.

They passed the Deep Cut Road, and came to the Black Ridge Road about a mile farther on. It was dirt, badly potholed, and marked with two leaning, frost-heaved signs. The one on the left read 4-WHEEL DRIVE RECOMMENDED. The one on the right added BRIDGE WEIGHT LIMIT 4 TONS LARGE TRUCKS POSTED. Both signs were riddled with bulletholes.

“I like a town where the folks take regular target practice,” Benny said. “Makes me feel safe from El Kliyder.”

“That’s Al Qaeda, nitboy,” Joe said.

Benny shook his head, smiling indulgently. “I’m talking about El Kliyder, the terrible Mexican bandit who has relocated to western Maine in order to avoid—”

“Let’s try the Geiger counter,” Norrie said, dismounting her bike.

It was back in the carrier of Benny’s High Plains Schwinn. They had nested it in a few old towels from Claire’s rag-basket. Benny took it out and handed it to Joe, its yellow case the brightest thing in that hazy landscape. Benny’s smile had disappeared. “You do it. I’m too nervous.”

Joe considered the Geiger counter, then handed it off to Norrie.

“Chickenshits,” she said, not unkindly, and turned it on. The needle swung immediately to +50. Joe stared at it and felt his heart suddenly bumping in his throat instead of his chest.

“Whoa!” Benny said. “We have liftoff!”

Norrie looked from the needle, which was steady (but still half a dial away from the red), to Joe. “Keep going?”

“Hell, yeah,” he said.

There was no power shortage at the Police Department—at least not yet. A green-tiled corridor ran the length of the basement beneath fluorescents that cast a depressingly changeless light. Dawn or midnight, it was always the blare of noon down here. Chief Randolph and Freddy Denton escorted (if such a word could be used, considering the fists clamped on his upper arms) Barbie down the steps. The two women officers, guns still drawn, followed behind.

To the left was the file room. To the right were five cells, two on each side and one at the very end. The last was the smallest, with a narrow bunk all but overhanging the seatless steel toilet, and this was the one toward which they frog-marched him.

On orders from Pete Randolph—who had gotten his from Big Jim—even the worst actors in the supermarket riot had been released on their own recognizance (where were they going to go?), and all the cells were supposed to be empty. So it was a surprise when Melvin Searles came bolting from number 4, where he had been lurking. The bandage wound around his head had slipped down and he was wearing sunglasses to mask two gaudily blackening eyes. In one hand he was carrying an athletic sock with something weighting the toe: a homemade blackjack. Barbie’s first, blurred impression was that he was about to be attacked by the Invisible Man.

“Bastard!” Mel shouted, and swung his cosh. Barbie ducked. It whizzed over his head, striking Freddy Denton on the shoulder. Freddy bellowed and let go of Barbie. Behind them, the women were shouting.

“Fuckin murderer ! Who’d you pay to bust my head? Huh?” Mel swung again, and this time connected with the bicep of Barbie’s left arm. That arm seemed to fall dead. Not sand in the sock, but a paperweight of some kind. Glass or metal, probably, but at least it was round. If it had had an angle, he would be bleeding.

“You fuckin fucked-up fuck!” Mel roared, and swung the loaded sock again. Chief Randolph ducked backward, also letting go of Barbie. Barbie grabbed the top of the sock, wincing as the weight inside wound the bottom around his wrist. He pulled back hard, and managed to yank Mel Searles’s homemade weapon free. At the same time Mel’s bandage fell down over his dark glasses like a blindfold.

“Hold it, hold it!” Jackie Wettington cried. “Stop what you’re doing, prisoner, this is your only warning!”

Barbie felt a small cold circle form between his shoulder blades. He couldn’t see it, but knew without looking that Jackie had drawn her sidearm. If she shoots me, that’s where the bullet will go. And she might, because in a small town where big trouble’s almost a complete stranger, even the professionals are amateurs.

He dropped the sock. Whatever was in it clunked on the lino. Then he raised his hands. “Ma’am I have dropped it!” he called. “Ma’am, I am unarmed, please lower your weapon!”

Mel brushed the slipping bandage aside. It unrolled down his back like the tail of a swami’s turban. He hit Barbie twice, once in the solar plexus and once in the pit of the stomach. This time Barbie wasn’t prepared, and the air exploded out of his lungs with a harsh PAH sound. He doubled over, then went to his knees. Mel hammered a fist down on the nape of his neck—or maybe it was Freddy; for all Barbie knew, it could have been the Fearless Leader himself—and he went sprawling, the world growing thin and indistinct. Except for a chip in the linoleum. That he could see very well. With breathtaking clarity, in fact, and why not? It was less than an inch from his eyes.

“Stop it, stop it, stop hitting him !” The voice was coming from a great distance, but Barbie was pretty sure it belonged to Rusty’s wife. “He’s down, don’t you see he’s down?”

Feet shuffled around him in a complicated dance. Someone stepped on his ass, stumbled, cried “Oh fuck !” and then he was kicked in the hip. It was all happening far away. It might hurt later, but right now it wasn’t too bad.

Hands grabbed him and hauled him upright. Barbie tried to raise his head, but it was easier, on the whole, just to let it hang. He was propelled down the hall toward the final cell, the green lino sliding between his feet. What had Denton said upstairs? Your suite awaits.

But I doubt if there’s pillow mints or turndown service, Barbie thought. Nor did he care. All he wanted was to be left alone to lick his wounds.

Outside the cell someone put a shoe in his ass to hurry him along even more. He flew forward, raising his right arm to stop himself from crashing face-first into the green cinderblock wall. He tried to raise his left arm as well, but it was still dead from the elbow down. He managed to protect his head, though, and that was good. He rebounded, staggered, then went to his knees again, this time beside the cot, as if about to say a prayer prior to turning in. Behind him, the cell door rumbled shut along its track.

Barbie braced his hands on the bunk and pushed himself up, the left arm working a little now. He turned around just in time to see Randolph walking away in a pugnacious strut—fists clenched, head lowered. Beyond him, Denton was unwinding what remained of Searles’s bandage while Searles glared (the power of the glare somewhat vitiated by the sunglasses, now sitting askew on his nose). Beyond the male officers, at the foot of the stairs, were the women. They wore identical expressions of dismay and confusion. Linda Everett’s face was paler than ever, and Barbie thought he saw the gleam of tears in her lashes.