Stephen King - Under the Dome

He made sure the connection was tight and put his thumb on the starter-button (thinking that if the little generator’s starter-battery was as old as the batteries that had been powering the emergency lights, they were in trouble). Then he paused.

It was seventy-two hours if it was the two of them. But if it was just him, he could stretch it to ninety or maybe even a hundred by shutting down the purifier until the air got really thick. He had broached this idea to Big Jim, who had vetoed it out of hand.

“Got a dickey heart,” he had reminded Carter. “The thicker the air is, the more likely it is to play up on me.”

“Carter?” Loud and demanding. A voice that got up in his ears the way the smell of the boss’s sardines got up his nose. “What’s going on back there?”

“All set, boss!” he called, and pushed the button. The starter-motor whirred, and the gennie fired up at once.

I have to think about this, Carter told himself, but the survival-watchman thought differently. The survival-watchman thought that every minute lost was a minute wasted.

He was good to me, Carter told himself. He gave me responsibilities.

Dirty jobs he didn’t want to do himself is what he gave you. And a hole in the ground to die in. That too.

Carter made up his mind. He pulled his Beretta from its holster as he walked back into the main room. He considered putting it behind his back so the boss wouldn’t know, and decided against it. The man had called him son, after all, and might even have meant it. He deserved better than an unexpected shot in the back of the head and going out all unprepared.

It wasn’t dark at the far northeastern end of town; here the Dome was badly smudged but far from opaque. The sun glared through and turned everything a feverish pink.

Norrie ran to Barbie and Julia. The girl was coughing and out of breath, but she ran anyway.

“My grampy is having a heart attack!” she wailed, and then fell on her knees, hacking and gasping.

Julia put her arms around the girl and turned her face to the roaring fans. Barbie crawled to where the exiles were surrounding Ernie Calvert, Rusty Everett, Ginny Tomlinson, and Dougie Twitchell.

“Give them room, people!” Barbie snapped. “Give the guy some air!”

“That’s the problem,” Tony Guay said. “They gave him what was left… the stuff that was supposed to be for the kids… but—”

“Epi,” Rusty said, and Twitch handed him a syringe. Rusty injected it. “Ginny, start compressions. When you get tired, let Twitch take over. Then me.”

“I want to, too,” Joanie said. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she seemed composed enough. “I took a class.”

“I was in it too,” Claire said. “I’ll help.”

“And me,” Linda said quietly. “I took the refresher just last summer.”

It’s a small town and we all support the team, Barbie thought. Ginny—her face still swollen from her own injuries—began chest compressions. She gave way to Twitch just as Julia and Norrie joined Barbie.

“Will they be able to save him?” Norrie asked.

“I don’t know,” Barbie said. But he did know; that was the hell of it.

Twitch took over from Ginny. Barbie watched as drops of sweat from Twitch’s forehead darkened Ernie’s shirt. After about five minutes he stopped, coughing breathlessly. When Rusty started to move in, Twitch shook his head. “He’s gone.” Twitch turned to Joanie and said, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Calvert.”

Joanie’s face trembled, then crumpled. She let out a cry of grief that turned into a coughing fit. Norrie hugged her, coughing again herself.

“Barbie,” a voice said. “A word?”

It was Cox, now dressed in brown camo and wearing a fleece jacket against the chill on the other side. Barbie didn’t like the somber expression on Cox’s face. Julia went with him. They leaned close to the Dome, trying to breathe slowly and evenly.

“There’s been an accident at Kirtland Air Force Base in New Mexico.” Cox kept his voice pitched low. “They were running final tests on the pencil nuke we meant to try, and… shit.”

“It exploded ?” Julia asked, horrified.

“No, ma’am, melted down. Two people were killed, and another half dozen are apt to die of radiation burns and/or radiation poisoning. The point is, we lost the nuke. We lost the fucking nuke.”

“Was it a malfunction?” Barbie asked. Almost hoping that it had been, because that meant it wouldn’t have worked, anyway.

“No, Colonel, it did not. That’s why I used the word accident. They happen when people hurry, and we’ve been hurrying our collective ass off.”

“I’m so sorry for those men,” Julia said. “Do their relatives know yet?”

“Given your own situation, it’s very kind of you to think of that. They’ll be informed soon. The accident occurred at one o’clock this morning. Work has already begun on Little Boy Two. It should be ready in three days. Four at most.”

Barbie nodded. “Thank you, sir, but I’m not sure we have that long.”

A long thin wail of grief—a child’s wail—went up from behind them. As Barbie and Julia turned around, the wail turned into a series of harsh coughs and gasps for air. They saw Linda kneel beside her elder daughter and fold the girl into her arms.

“She can’t be dead!” Janelle screamed. “Audrey can’t be dead!”

But she was. The Everetts’ golden retriever had died in the night, quietly and without fuss, as the Little Js slept on either side of her.

When Carter came back into the main room, The Mill’s Second Selectman was eating cereal from a box with a cartoon parrot on the front. Carter recognized this mythical bird from many childhood breakfasts: Toucan Sam, the patron saint of Froot Loops.

Must be stale as hell, Carter thought, and had a fleeting moment of pity for the boss. Then he thought of the difference between seventy-some hours of air and eighty or a hundred and hardened his heart.

Big Jim scrummed more cereal from the box, then saw the Beretta in Carter’s hand.

“Well,” he said.

“I’m sorry, boss.”

Big Jim opened his hand and let the Froot Loops cascade back into the box, but his hand was sticky and some of the brightly colored cereal-rings clung to his fingers and palms. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and trickled from his receding hairline.

“Son, don’t do this.”

“I have to, Mr. Rennie. It’s not personal.”

Nor was it, Carter decided. Not even a little bit. They were trapped in here, that was all. And because it had happened as a result of Big Jim’s decisions, Big Jim would have to pay the price.

Big Jim set the box of Froot Loops on the floor. He did it with care, as if he were afraid the box might shatter if treated roughly. “Then what is it?”

“It just comes down to… air.”

“Air. I see.”

“I could have come in here with the gun behind my back and just put a bullet in your head, but I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to give you time to get ready. Because you’ve been good to me.”

“Then don’t make me suffer, son. If it’s not personal, you won’t make me suffer.”

“If you keep still, you won’t. It’ll be quick. Like shooting a wounded deer in the woods.”

“Can we talk about it?”

“No, sir. My mind is made up.”

Big Jim nodded. “All right, then. Can I have a word of prayer, first? Would you allow me that?”

“Yes, sir, you can pray if you want. But make it fast. This is hard on me too, you know.”

“I believe it is. You’re a good boy, son.”