Stephen King - Under the Dome

Silence greeted this, the kind that falls over a fourth-grade class after the teacher finally loses his temper. He really was forceful, Julia thought, and for a moment wished with all her heart that Cox were here under the Dome, and in charge. But of course, if pigs had wings, bacon would be airborne.

“Your job, ladies and gentlemen, is twofold: to help us get the word out, and to make sure that things go smoothly on Visitors Day once it does.”

The CNN super became PRESS TO AID VISATORS ON FRIDAY.

“The last thing we want to do is start a stampede of relations from all over the country to western Maine. We’ve already got close to ten thousand relatives of those trapped under the Dome in this immediate area; the hotels, motels, and camping areas are full to bursting. The message to relatives in other parts of the country is, ‘If you’re not here, don’t come.’ Not only will you not be granted a visitors’ pass, you’ll be turned around at checkpoints here, here, here, and here.” He highlighted Lewiston, Auburn, North Windham, and Conway, New Hampshire.

“Relatives currently in the area should procede to registration officers who are already standing by at the Fairgrounds and the Speed-way. If you’re planning to jump into your car right this minute, don’t. This isn’t the Filene’s White Sale, and being first in line guarantees you nothing. Visitors will be chosen by lottery, and you must register to get in. Those applying to visit will need two photo IDs. We’ll attempt to give priority to visitors with two or more relatives in The Mill, but no promises on that. And a warning, people: if you show up on Friday to board one of the buses and you have no pass or a counterfeit pass—if you clog up our operation, in other words—you’ll find yourself in jail. Do not test us on this.

“Embarkation on Friday morning will commence at 0800 hours. If this goes smoothly, you’ll have at least four hours with your loved ones, maybe longer. Gum up the works and everyone’s time Domeside goes down. Buses will depart the Dome at seventeen hundred hours.”

“What’s the visitors’ site?” a woman shouted.

“I was just getting to that, Andrea.” Cox picked up his controller and zoomed in on Route 119. Jackie knew the area well; she had damned near broken her nose on the Dome out there. She could see the roofs of the Dinsmore farmhouse, outbuildings, and dairy barns.

“There’s a flea market site on the Motton side of the Dome.” Cox binged it with his pointer. “The buses will park there. Visitors will debark and walk to the Dome. There’s plenty of field on both sides where people can gather. All the wreckage out there has been removed.”

“Will the visitors be allowed to go all the way up to the Dome?” a reporter asked.

Cox once more faced the camera, addressing the potential visitors directly. Rose could just imagine the hope and fear those people—watching in bars and motel TVs, listening on their car radios—must be feeling right now. She felt plenty of both herself.

“Visitors will be allowed within two yards of the Dome,” Cox said. “We consider that a safe distance, although we make no guarantees. This isn’t an amusement park ride that’s been safety-tested. People with electronic implants must stay away. You’re on your own with that; we can’t check each and every chest for a pacemaker scar. Visitors will also leave all electronic devices, including but not limited to iPods, cell phones, and Blackberries, on the buses. Reporters with mikes and cameras will be kept at a distance. The close-up space is for the visitors, and what goes on between them and their loved ones is no one’s business but their own. People, this will work if you help us make it work. If I can put it in Star Trek terms, help us make it so.” He put the pointer down. “Now I’ll take a few questions. A very few. Mr. Blitzer.”

Rose’s face lit up. She raised a fresh cup of coffee and toasted the TV screen with it. “Lookin good, Wolfie! You can eat crackers in my bed anytime you want.”

“Colonel Cox, are there any plans to add a press conference with the town officials? We understand that Second Selectman James Rennie is the actual man in charge. What’s going on with that?”

“We are trying to make a press conference happen, with Mr. Rennie and any other town officials who might be in attendance. That would be at noon, if things run to the schedule we have in mind.”

A round of spontaneous applause from the reporters greeted this. There was nothing they liked better than a press conference, unless it was a high-priced politician caught in bed with a high-priced whore.

Cox said, “Ideally, the presser will take place right there on the road, with the town spokespersons, whoever they might be, on their side and you ladies and gentlemen on this one.”

Excited gabble. They liked the visual possibilities.

Cox pointed. “Mr. Holt.”

Lester Holt from NBC shot to his feet. “How sure are you that Mr. Rennie will attend? I ask because there have been reports of financial mismanagement on his part, and some sort of criminal investigation into his affairs by the State of Maine Attorney General.”

“I’ve heard those reports,” Cox said. “I’m not prepared to comment on them, although Mr. Rennie may want to.” He paused, not quite smiling. “ I’d certainly want to.”

“Rita Braver, Colonel Cox, CBS. Is it true that Dale Barbara, the man you tapped as emergency administrator in Chester’s Mill, has been arrested for murder? That the Chester’s Mill police in fact believe him to be a serial killer?”

Total silence from the press; nothing but attentive eyes. The same was true of the four people seated at the counter in Sweetbriar Rose.

“It’s true,” Cox said. A muted mutter went up from the assembled reporters. “But we have no way of verifying the charges or vetting whatever evidence there may be. What we have is the same telephone and Internet chatter you ladies and gentlemen are no doubt getting. Dale Barbara is a decorated officer. He’s never been arrested. I have known him for many years and vouched for him to the President of the United States. I have no reason to say I made a mistake based on what I know at this time.”

“Ray Suarez, Colonel, PBS. Do you believe the charges against Lieutenant Barbara—now Colonel Barbara—may have been politically motivated? That James Rennie may have had him jailed to keep him from taking control as the President ordered?”

And that’s what the second half of this dog-and-pony show is all about, Julia realized. Cox has turned the news media into the Voice of America, and we’re the people behind the Berlin Wall. She was all admiration.

“If you have a chance to question Selectman Rennie on Friday, Mr. Suarez, you be sure to ask him that.” Cox spoke with a kind of stony calm. “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s all I have.”

He strode off as briskly as he’d entered, and before the assembled reporters could even begin shouting more questions, he was gone.

“Holy wow,” Ernie murmured.

“Yeah,” Jackie said.

Rose killed the TV. She looked glowing, energized. “What time is this meeting? I don’t regret a thing that Colonel Cox said, but this could make Barbie’s life more difficult.”

Barbie found out about Cox’s press conference when a red-faced Manuel Ortega came downstairs and told him. Ortega, formerly Alden Dinsmore’s hired man, was now wearing a blue workshirt, a tin badge that looked homemade, and a.45 hung on a second belt that had been buckled low on his hips, gunslinger-style. Barbie knew him as a mild fellow with thinning hair and perpetually sunburned skin who liked to order breakfast for dinner—pancakes, bacon, eggs over easy—and talk about cows, his favorite being the Belted Galloways that he could never persuade Mr. Dinsmore to buy. He was Yankee to the core in spite of his name, and had a dry Yankee sense of humor. Barbie had always liked him. But this was a different Manuel, a stranger with all the good humor boiled dry. He brought news of the latest development, most of it shouted through the bars and accompanied by a considerable dose of flying spit. His face was nearly radioactive with rage.