Stephen King - Under the Dome

Big Jim opened the clasp.

“Jim,” Peter Randolph said. He had come in unnoticed and was standing by the overturned reception desk, looking exhausted. “I think we’ve got things quieted down, but I can’t find several of the new officers. I think they may have quit on us.”

“To be expected,” Big Jim said. “And temporary. They’ll be back when things settle and they realize Dale Barbara isn’t going to lead a gang of bloodthirsty cannibals into town to eat them alive.”

“But with this damned Visitors Day thing—”

“Almost everyone is going to be on their best behavior tomorrow, Pete, and I’m sure we’ll have enough officers to take care of any who aren’t.”

“What do we do about the press con—”

“Do you see I happen to be a little busy here? Do you see that, Pete? Goodness! Come over to the Town Hall conference room in half an hour and we’ll discuss anything you want. But for now, leave me the heck alone. ”

“Of course. Sorry.” Pete backed away, his body as stiff and offended as his voice.

“Stop,” Rennie said.

Randolph stopped.

“You never offered me condolences on my son.”

“I… I’m very sorry.”

Big Jim measured Randolph with his eyes. “Indeed you are.”

When Randolph was gone, Rennie pulled the papers out of the envelope, looked at them briefly, then stuffed them back in. He looked at Carter with honest curiosity. “Why didn’t you give this to me right away? Were you planning to keep it?”

Now that he’d handed over the envelope, Carter saw no option but the truth. “Yuh. For a while, anyway. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

Carter shrugged.

Big Jim didn’t pursue the question. As a man who routinely kept files on anyone and everyone who might cause him trouble, he didn’t have to. There was another question that interested him more.

“Why did you change your mind?”

Carter once again saw no option but the truth. “Because I want to be your guy, boss.”

Big Jim hoisted his bushy eyebrows. “ Do you. More than him?” He jerked his head toward the door Randolph had just walked out of.

“Him? He’s a joke.”

“Yes.” Big Jim dropped a hand on Carter’s shoulder. “He is.

Come on. And once we get over there to the Town Hall, burning these papers in the conference room woodstove will be our first order of business.”

They were indeed high. And horrible.

Barbie saw them as soon as the shock passing up his arms faded. His first, strong impulse was to let go of the box, but he fought it and held on, looking at the creatures who were holding them prisoner. Holding them and torturing them for pleasure, if Rusty was right.

Their faces—if they were faces—were all angles, but the angles were padded and seemed to change from moment to moment, as if the underlying reality had no fixed form. He couldn’t tell how many of them there were, or where they were. At first he thought there were four; then eight; then only two. They inspired a deep sense of loathing in him, perhaps because they were so alien he could not really perceive them at all. The part of his brain tasked with interpreting sensory input could not decode the messages his eyes were sending.

My eyes couldn’t see them, not really, even with a telescope. These creatures are in a galaxy far, far away.

There was no way to know that—reason told him the owners of the box might have a base under the ice at the South Pole, or might be orbiting the moon in their version of the starship Enterprise —but he did. They were at home… whatever home was for them. They were watching. And they were enjoying.

They had to be, because the sons of bitches were laughing.

Then he was back in the gym in Fallujah. It was hot because there was no air-conditioning, just overhead fans that paddled the soupy, jock-smelling air around and around. They had let all the interrogation subjects go except for two Abduls who were unwise enough to snot off a day after two IEDs had taken six American lives and a sniper had taken one more, a kid from Kentucky everyone liked—Carstairs. So they’d started kicking the Abduls around the gym, and pulling off their clothes, and Barbie would like to say he had walked out, but he hadn’t. He would like to say that at least he hadn’t participated, but he had. They got feverish about it. He remembered connecting with one Abdul’s bony, shit-speckled ass, and the red mark his combat boot had left there. Both Abduls naked by then. He remembered Emerson kicking the other one’s dangling cojones so hard they flew up in front of him and saying That’s for Carstairs, you fucking sandnigger. Someone would soon be giving his mom a flag while she sat on a folding chair near the grave, same old same old. And then, just as Barbie was remembering that he was technically in charge of these men, Sergeant Hackermeyer pulled one of them up by the unwinding remains of the keffiyeh that was now his only clothing and held him against the wall and put his gun to the Abdul’s head and there was a pause and no one said no in the pause and no one said don’t do that in the pause and Sergeant Hackermeyer pulled the trigger and the blood hit the wall as it’s hit the wall for three thousand years and more, and that was it, that was goodbye, Abdul, don’t forget to write when you’re not busy cherrypopping those virgins.

Barbie let go of the box and tried to get up, but his legs betrayed him. Rusty grabbed him and held him until he steadied.

“Christ,” Barbie said.

“You saw them, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are they children? What do you think?”

“Maybe.” But that wasn’t good enough, wasn’t what his heart believed. “Probably.”

They walked slowly back to where the others were clustered in front of the farmhouse.

“You all right?” Rommie asked.

“Yes,” Barbie said. He had to talk to the kids. And Jackie. Rusty, too. But not yet. First he had to get himself under control.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Rommie, is there more of that lead roll at your store?” Rusty asked.

“Yuh. I left it on the loading dock.”

“Good,” Rusty said, and borrowed Julia’s cell phone. He hoped Linda was home and not in an interrogation room at the PD, but hoping was all he could do.

The call from Rusty was necessarily brief, less than thirty seconds, but for Linda Everett it was long enough to turn this terrible Thursday a hundred and eighty degrees toward sunshine. She sat at the kitchen table, put her hands to her face, and cried. She did it as quietly as possible, because there were now four children upstairs instead of just two. She had brought the Appleton kids home with her, so now she had the As as well as the Js.

Alice and Aidan had been terribly upset—dear God, of course they had been—but being with Jannie and Judy had helped. So had doses of Benadryl all around. At the request of her girls, Linda had spread sleeping bags in their room, and now all four of them were conked out on the floor between the beds, Judy and Aidan with their arms wrapped around each other.

Just as she was getting herself under control again, there was a knock at the kitchen door. Her first thought was the police, although given the bloodshed and confusion downtown, she hadn’t expected them so soon. But there was nothing authoritative about that soft rapping.

She went to the door, pausing to snatch a dish towel from the end of the counter and wipe her face. At first she didn’t recognize her visitor, mostly because his hair was different. It was no longer in a ponytail; it fell to Thurston Marshall’s shoulders, framing his face, making him look like an elderly washerwoman who has gotten bad news—terrible news—after a long, hard day.