Stephen King - Under the Dome

“The baby! Omigod, Little Walter!” She dashed down the hall before Rusty could stop her and came back looking relieved. “Still here. He’s not very lively, but that seems to be his nature.”

“Then she’ll probably be back. Whatever other problems she might have, she loves the kid. In an absentminded sort of way.”

“Huh?” More furious blinking.

“Never mind. I’ll be back as soon as I can, Hari. Keep em flying.”

“Keep what flying?” Her eyelids now appeared on the verge of catching fire.

Rusty almost said, I mean keep your pecker up, but that wasn’t right, either. In Harriet’s terminology, a pecker was probably a wah-wah.

“Keep busy,” he said.

Harriet was relieved. “I can do that, Dr. Rusty, no prob.”

Rusty turned to go, but now a man was standing there—thin, not bad-looking once you got past the hooked nose, a lot of graying hair tied back in a ponytail. He looked a bit like the late Timothy Leary. Rusty was starting to wonder if he was going to get out of here, after all.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Actually, I was thinking that perhaps I could help you.” He stuck out a bony hand. “Thurston Marshall. My partner and I were weekending at Chester Pond, and got caught in this whatever-it-is.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Rusty said.

“The thing is, I have a bit of medical experience. I was a conscientious objector during the Vietnam mess. Thought about going to Canada, but I had plans… well, never mind. I registered as a CO and did two years as an orderly at a veterans’ hospital in Massachusetts.”

That was interesting. “Edith Nourse Rogers?”

“The very one. My skills are probably a bit out-of-date, but—”

“Mr. Marshall, do I have a job for you.”

As Rusty headed down 119, a horn blew. He checked his mirror and saw one of the town’s Public Works trucks preparing to turn in at Catherine Russell Drive. It was hard to tell in the red light of the lowering sun, but he thought Stewart Bowie was behind the wheel. What he saw on second glance gladdened Rusty’s heart: there appeared to be a couple of LP tanks in the bed of the truck. He’d worry about where they came from later, maybe even ask some questions, but for now he was just relieved to know that soon the lights would be back on, the respirators and monitors online. Maybe not for the long haul, but he was in full one-day-at-a-time mode.

At the top of Town Common Hill he saw his old skateboarding patient, Benny Drake, and a couple of his friends. One was the McClatchey boy who’d set up the live video feed of the missile strike. Benny waved and shouted, obviously wanting Rusty to stop and shoot the shit. Rusty waved back, but didn’t slow. He was anxious to see Linda. Also to hear what she had to say, of course, but mostly to see her, put his arms around her, and finish making up with her.

Barbie needed to take a piss but held his water. He had done interrogations in Iraq and knew how it worked over there. He didn’t know if it would be the same here just yet, but it might be. Things were moving very rapidly, and Big Jim had shown a ruthless ability to move with the times. Like most talented demagogues, he never underestimated his target audience’s willingness to accept the absurd.

Barbie was also very thirsty, and it didn’t surprise him much when one of the new officers showed up with a glass of water in one hand and a sheet of paper with a pen clipped to it in the other. Yes, it was how these things went; how they went in Fallujah, Takrit, Hilla, Mosul, and Baghdad. How they also now went in Chester’s Mill, it seemed.

The new officer was Junior Rennie.

“Well, look at you,” Junior said. “Don’t look quite so ready to beat guys up with your fancy Army tricks right now.” He raised the hand holding the sheet of paper and rubbed his left temple with the tips of his fingers. The paper rattled.

“You don’t look so good yourself.”

Junior dropped his hand. “I’m fine as rain.”

Now that was odd, Barbie thought; some people said right as rain and some said fine as paint, but none, as far as he knew, said fine as rain. It probably meant nothing, but—

“Are you sure? Your eye’s all red.”

“I’m fucking terrific. And I’m not here to discuss me.”

Barbie, who knew why Junior was here, said: “Is that water?” Junior looked down at the glass as if he’d forgotten it. “Yeah. Chief said you might be thirsty. Thursday on a Tuesday, you know.” He laughed hard, as if this non sequitur was the wittiest thing to ever come out of his mouth. “Want it?”

“Yes, please.”

Junior held the glass out. Barbie reached for it. Junior pulled it back. Of course. It was how these things went.

“Why’d you kill them? I’m curious, Baaarbie. Wouldn’t Angie fuck you no more? Then when you tried Dodee, you found out she was more into crack-snacking than cock-gobbling? Maybe Coggins saw something he wasn’t supposed to? And Brenda got suspicious. Why not? She was a cop herself, you know. By injection!”

Junior yodeled laughter, but underneath the humor there was nothing but black watchfulness. And pain. Barbie was quite sure of it.

“What? Nothing to say?”

“I said it. I’d like a drink. I’m thirsty.”

“Yep, I bet you are. That Mace is a bitch, idn’t it? I understand you saw service in Iraq. What was that like?”

“Hot.”

Junior yodeled again. Some of the water in the glass spilled on his wrist. Were his hands shaking a little? And that inflamed left eye was leaking tears at the corner. Junior, what the hell’s wrong with you? Migraine? Something else?

“Did you kill anybody?”

“Only with my cooking.”

Junior smiled as if to say Good one, good one. “You weren’t any cook over there, Baaaarbie. You were a liaison officer. That was your job description, anyway. My dad looked you up on the Internet. There isn’t a lot, but there’s some. He thinks you were an interrogation guy. Maybe even a black ops guy. Were you like the Army’s Jason Bourne?”

Barbie said nothing.

“Come on, did you kill anybody? Or should I ask, how many did you kill? Besides the ones you bagged here, I mean.”

Barbie said nothing.

“Boy, I bet this water is good. It came from the cooler upstairs. Chilly Willy!”

Barbie said nothing.

“You guys come back with all sorts of problems. At least that’s what I breed and see on TV. Right or false? True or wrong?”

It isn’t a migraine making him do that. At least not any migraine I ever heard of.

“Junior, how bad does your head hurt?”

“Doesn’t hurt at all.”

“How long have you been having headaches?”

Junior set the glass carefully down on the floor. He was wearing a sidearm this evening. He drew it and pointed it through the bars at Barbie. The barrel was trembling slightly. “Do you want to keep playing doctor?”

Barbie looked at the gun. The gun wasn’t in the script, he was quite sure—Big Jim had plans for him, and probably not nice ones, but they didn’t include Dale Barbara being shot in a jail cell when anybody from upstairs could rush down and see that the cell door was still locked and the victim unarmed. But he didn’t trust Junior to follow the script, because Junior was ill.

“No,” he said. “No doctoring. Very sorry.”

“Yeah, you’re sorry, all right. One sorry shack of sit.” But Junior seemed satisfied. He holstered the gun and picked up the glass of water again. “My theory is that you came back all fucked up from what you saw and did over there. You know, PTSS, STD, PMS, one of those. My theory is that you just snapped. That about right?”