Stephen King: Under the Dome

And the worst of it? Everything he’d done and everything he’d worked for during the last thirty years of his life seemed unreal. Like the way people looked on the other side of the Dome. They walked, they talked, they drove cars, they even flew in airplanes and helicopters. But none of it mattered, not under the Dome.

Get hold of yourself. If God won’t help you, help yourself.

Okay. The first thing was light. Even a book of matches would do. There had to be something on one of the shelves in the other room. He would just feel along—very slowly, very methodically—until he found it. And then he would find batteries for the cotton-picking starter-motor. There were batteries, of that he was sure, because he needed the generator. Without the generator he would die.

Suppose you do get it started again? What happens when the propane runs out?

Ah, but something would intervene. He wasn’t meant to die down here. Roast beef with Jesus? He’d pass on that meal, actually. If he couldn’t sit at the head of the table, he’d just as soon skip the whole thing.

That made him laugh again. He made his way very slowly and carefully back to the door leading into the main room. He held his hands out in front of him like a blind man. After seven steps they touched the wall. He moved to the right, trailing his fingertips over the wood, and… ah! Emptiness. The doorway. Good.

He shuffled through it, moving more confidently now in spite of the blackness. He remembered the layout of this room perfectly: shelves to either side, couch dead ahea—

He tripped over the goddam cotton-picking kid again and went sprawling. He hit his forehead on the floor and screamed—more in surprise and outrage than in pain, because there was a carpet to pad the blow. But oh God, there was a dead hand between his legs. It seemed to be clutching at his balls.

Big Jim got to his knees, crawled forward, and hit his head again, this time on the couch. He let out another yell, then crawled up onto it, pulling his legs after him quickly, the way a man might pull his legs from water he’s just realized is infested with sharks.

He lay there trembling, telling himself to calm down, he had to calm down or he really would have a heart attack.

When you feel these arrhythmias, you need to center yourself and take long deep breaths, the hippy doctor had told him. At the time, Big Jim had considered this New Age bullshit, but now there was nothing else—he didn’t have his verapamil—so he’d have to try it.

And it seemed to work. After twenty deep breaths and long, slow exhales, he could feel his heart settling. The coppery taste was leaving his mouth. Unfortunately, a weight seemed to be settling on his chest. Pain was creeping down his left arm. He knew these were heart attack symptoms, but he thought indigestion from all the sardines he’d eaten was just as likely. More likely. The long, slow breaths were taking care of his heart just fine (but he would still get it looked at when he was out of this mess, maybe even give in and get that bypass surgery). The heat was the problem. The heat and the thick air. He had to find that flashlight and get the gennie going again. Just one more minute, or maybe two—

Someone was breathing in here.

Yes, of course. I’m breathing in here.

And yet he was quite sure he heard someone else. More than just one someone. It seemed to him that there were several people in here with him. And he thought he knew who they were.

That’s ridiculous.

Yes, but one of the breathers was behind the couch. One was lurking in the corner. And one was standing not three feet in front of him.

No. Stop it!

Brenda Perkins behind the couch. Lester Coggins in the corner, his jaw unhinged and hanging.

And standing dead ahead—

“No,” Big Jim said. “That’s crap. That’s bullshit. ”

He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on taking those long slow breaths.

“It sure smells good in here, Dad,” Junior droned from in front of him. “It smells like the pantry. And my girlfriends.”

Big Jim shrieked.

“Help me up, bro,” Carter said from where he lay on the floor. “He cut me up pretty bad. Shot me, too.”

“Stop it,” Big Jim whispered. “I don’t hear any of that, so just stop it. I’m counting breaths. I’m settling my heart.”

“I still have the papers,” Brenda Perkins said. “And lots of copies. Soon they’ll be tacked to every telephone pole in town, the way Julia tacked up the last issue of her newspaper. ‘Be sure your sin will find you out’—Numbers, chapter thirty-two.”

“You’re not there!”

But then something —it felt like a finger—kissed its way down his cheek.

Big Jim shrieked again. The fallout shelter was full of dead people who were nevertheless breathing the increasingly foul air, and they were moving in. Even in the dark he could see their pale faces. He could see his dead son’s eyes.

Big Jim bolted up from the couch, flailing at the black air with his fists. “Get away! All of you get away from me!”

He charged for the stairs and tripped over the bottom one. This time there was no carpet to cushion the blow. Blood began to drip into his eyes. A dead hand caressed the back of his neck.

“You killed me,” Lester Coggins said, but with his broken jaw it came out Ooo ill eee.

Big Jim ran up the stairs and hit the door at the top with all his considerable weight. It squalled open, pushing charred lumber and fallen bricks in front of it. It went just far enough for him to squeeze through.

“No!” he barked. “No, don’t touch me! None of you touch me!”

It was almost as dark in the ruins of the Town Hall conference room as in the shelter, but with one big difference: the air was worthless.

Big Jim realized this when he pulled in his third breath. His heart, tortured beyond endurance by this final outrage, once more rose into his throat. This time it stuck there.

Big Jim suddenly felt as if he were being crushed from throat to navel by a terrible weight: a long burlap sack filled with stones. He struggled back to the door like a man moving through mud. He tried to squeeze through the gap, but this time he stuck fast. A terrible sound began to emerge from his gaping mouth and closing throat, and the sound was AAAAAAA: feed me feed me feed me.

He flailed once, again, then once more: a hand reaching out, grasping for some final rescue.

It was caressed from the other side. “Daaady,” a voice crooned.

Someone shook Barbie awake just before dawn on Sunday morning. He came to reluctantly, coughing, turning instinctively to the Dome and the fans beyond. When the coughing finally eased, he looked to see who had awakened him. It was Julia. Her hair hung lankly and her cheeks were blooming with fever, but her eyes were clear. She said, “Benny Drake died an hour ago.”

“Oh, Julia. Jesus. I’m sorry.” His voice was cracked and hoarse, not his own voice at all.

“I have to get to the box that’s making the Dome,” she said. “How do I get to the box?”

Barbie shook his head. “It’s impossible. Even if you could do something to it, it’s on the ridge, almost half a mile from here. We can’t even go to the vans without holding our breaths, and they’re only fifty feet away.”

“There’s a way,” someone said.

They looked around and saw Sloppy Sam Verdreaux. He was smoking the last of his cigarettes and looking at them with sober eyes. He was sober; entirely sober for the first time in eight years.

He repeated, “There’s a way. I could show you.”