Stephen King - Under the Dome

“I’ll just have a tiny peek, shall I?” she said.

Horace barked again. To Andi Grinnell it sounded like Why not?

Andrea opened the envelope, and most of Big Jim Rennie’s secrets fell out into her lap.

Claire got home first. Benny came next, then Norrie. The three of them were sitting together on the porch of the McClatchey house when Joe arrived, cutting across lawns and keeping to the shadows. Benny and Norrie were drinking warm Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda. Claire was nursing a bottle of her husband’s beer as she rocked slowly to and fro on the porch glider. Joe sat down beside her, and Claire put an arm around his bony shoulders. He’s fragile, she thought. He doesn’t know it, but he is. No more to him than a bird.

“Dude,” Benny said, handing him the soda he’d saved for him. “We were startin to get a little worried.”

“Miz Shumway had a few more questions about the box,” Joe said. “More than I could answer, really. Gosh, it’s warm out, isn’t it? Warm as a summer night.” He turned his gaze upward. “And look at that moon. ”

“I don’t want to,” Norrie said. “It’s scary.”

“You okay, honey?” Claire asked.

“Yeah, Mom. You?”

She smiled. “I don’t know. Is this going to work? What do you guys think? I mean really think.”

For a moment none of them answered, and that scared her more than anything. Then Joe kissed her on the cheek and said, “It’ll work.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

She could always tell when he was lying—although she knew the talent might leave her when he was older—but she didn’t call him on it this time. She just kissed him back, her breath warm and somehow fatherly with beer. “Just as long as there’s no bloodshed.”

“No blood,” Joe said.

She smiled. “Okay; that’s good enough for me.”

They sat there in the dark a while longer, saying little. Then they went inside, leaving the town to sleep under the pink moon.

It was just past midnight.

It was twelve-thirty on the morning of October twenty-sixth when Julia let herself into Andrea’s house. She did it quietly, but there was no need; she could hear music from Andi’s little portable radio: the Staples Singers, kicking holy ass with “Get Right Church.”

Horace came down the hall to greet her, wagging his rear end and grinning that slightly mad grin of which only Corgis seem capable. He bowed before her, paws splayed, and Julia gave him a brief scratch behind the ears—it was his sweet spot.

Andrea was sitting on the couch, drinking a glass of tea.

“Sorry about the music,” she said, turning it down. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s your house, honey,” Julia said. “And for WCIK, that really rocks.”

Andi smiled. “It’s been uptempo gospel ever since this afternoon. I feel like I hit the jackpot. How was your meeting?”

“Good.” Julia sat down.

“Want to talk about it?”

“You don’t need the worry. What you need is to concentrate on feeling better. And you know what? You look a little better.”

It was true. Andi was still pale, and much too thin, but the dark circles under her eyes had faded a little, and the eyes themselves had a new spark. “Thanks for saying so.”

“Was Horace a good boy?”

“Very good. We played ball, and then we both slept a little. If I look better, that’s probably why. Nothing like a nap to improve a girl’s looks.”

“What about your back?”

Andrea smiled. It was an oddly knowing smile, without much humor in it. “My back isn’t bad at all. Hardly a twinge, even when I bend over. Do you know what I think?”

Julia shook her head.

“I think that when it comes to drugs, the body and the mind are co-conspirators. If the brain wants drugs, the body helps out. It says, ‘Don’t worry, don’t feel guilty, it’s okay, I really hurt.’ It’s not exactly hypochondria I’m talking about, nothing so simple. Just…” She trailed off and her eyes grew distant as she went somewhere else.

Where? Julia wondered.

Then she came back. “Human nature can be destructive. Tell me, do you think a town is like a body?”

“Yes,” Julia said instantly.

“And can it say it hurts so the brain can take the drugs it craves?”

Julia considered, then nodded. “Yes.”

“And right now, Big Jim Rennie is this town’s brain, isn’t he?”

“Yes, hon. I’d say he is.”

Andrea sat on the couch, head slightly lowered. Then she snapped off the little battery radio and got to her feet. “I think I’ll go up to bed. And do you know, I think I might actually be able to sleep.”

“That’s good.” And then, for no reason she could have articulated, Julia asked: “Andi, did anything happen while I was gone?”

Andrea looked surprised. “Why, yes. Horace and I played ball.” She bent down without the slightest wince of pain—a movement she would only a week ago have claimed was impossible for her—and held out one hand. Horace came to her and allowed his head to be stroked. “He’s very good at fetching.”

In her room, Andrea settled on her bed, opened the VADER file, and began to read through it again. More carefully this time. When she finally slid the papers back into the manila envelope, it was close to two AM. She put the envelope into the drawer of the table next to her bed. Also in the drawer was a.38 pistol, which her brother Douglas had given her for her birthday two years ago. She had been dismayed, but Dougie had insisted that a woman living alone should have protection.

Now she took it out, popped the cylinder, and checked the chambers. The one that would roll under the hammer when the trigger was pulled for the first time was empty, as per Twitch’s instructions. The other five were full. She had more bullets on the top shelf of her closet, but they would never give her a chance to reload. His little army of cops would shoot her down first.

And if she couldn’t kill Rennie with five shots, she probably didn’t deserve to live, anyway.

“After all,” she murmured as she put the gun back in the drawer, “what did I get straight for, anyway?” The answer seemed clear now that the Oxy had cleared her brain: she’d gotten straight to shoot straight.

“Amen to that,” she said, and turned out the light.

Five minutes later she was asleep.

Junior was wide awake. He sat by the window in the hospital room’s only chair, watching the bizarre pink moon decline and slip behind a black smudge on the Dome that was new to him. This one was bigger and much higher than the one left by the failed missile strikes. Had there been some other effort to breach the Dome while he’d been unconscious? He didn’t know and didn’t care. What mattered was that the Dome was still holding. If it hadn’t been, the town would have been lit like Vegas and crawling with GI Joes. Oh, there were lights here and there, marking a few diehard insomniacs, but for the most part, Chester’s Mill slept. That was good, because he had things to think about.

Namely Baaarbie and Barbie’s friends.

Junior had no headache as he sat by the window, and his memories had come back, but he was aware that he was a very sick boy. There was a suspicious weakness all down the left side of his body, and sometimes spit slipped from that side of his mouth. If he wiped it away with his left hand, sometimes he could feel skin against skin and sometimes he couldn’t. In addition to this, there was a dark keyhole shape, quite large, floating on the left side of his vision. As if something had torn inside that eyeball. He supposed it had.