Stephen King - Under the Dome

The Dome, she thought. He didn’t call it the barrier there at the end; he called it the Dome.

Barbie had taken off his shirt and was sitting on his bed to untie his sneakers when the knock came at the door, which one reached by climbing an outside flight of stairs on the side of Sanders Hometown Drug. The knock wasn’t welcome. He had walked most of the day, then put on an apron and cooked for most of the evening. He was beat.

And suppose it was Junior and a few of his friends, ready to throw him a welcome-back party? You could say it was unlikely, even paranoid, but the day had been a festival of unlikely. Besides, Junior and Frank DeLesseps and the rest of their little band were among the few people he hadn’t seen at Sweetbriar tonight. He supposed they might be out on 119 or 117, rubbernecking, but maybe somebody had told them he was back in town and they’d been making plans for later tonight. Later like now.

The knock came again. Barbie stood up and put a hand on the portable TV. Not much of a weapon, but it would do some damage if thrown at the first one who tried to cram through the door. There was a wooden closet rod, but all three rooms were small and it was too long to swing effectively. There was also his Swiss Army Knife, but he wasn’t going to do any cutting. Not unless he had t—

“Mr. Barbara?” It was a woman’s voice. “Barbie? Are you in there?”

He took his hand off the TV and crossed the kitchenette. “Who is it?” But even as he asked, he recognized the voice.

“Julia Shumway. I have a message from someone who wants to speak to you. He told me to tell you that Ken says hello.”

Barbie opened the door and let her in.

In the pine-paneled basement conference room of the Chester’s Mill Town Hall, the roar of the generator out back (an elderly Kelvinator) was no more than a dim drone. The table in the center of the room was handsome red maple, polished to a high gleam, twelve feet long. Most of the chairs surrounding it were empty that night. The four attendees of what Big Jim was calling the Emergency Assessment Meeting were clustered at one end. Big Jim himself, although only the Second Selectman, sat at the head of the table. Behind him was a map showing the athletic-sock shape of the town.

Those present were the selectmen and Peter Randolph, the acting Chief of Police. The only one who seemed entirely with it was Rennie. Randolph looked shocked and scared. Andy Sanders was, of course, dazed with grief. And Andrea Grinnell—an overweight, graying version of her younger sister, Rose—just seemed dazed. This was not new.

Four or five years previous, Andrea had slipped in her icy driveway while going to the mailbox one January morning. She had fallen hard enough to crack two discs in her back (being eighty or ninety pounds overweight probably hadn’t helped). Dr. Haskell had prescribed that new wonder-drug, OxyContin, to ease what had been no doubt excruciating pain. And had been giving it to her ever since. Thanks to his good friend Andy, who ran the local drugstore, Big Jim knew that Andrea had begun at forty milligrams a day and had worked her way up to a giddy four hundred. This was useful information.

Big Jim said, “Due to Andy’s great loss, I’m going to chair this meeting, if no one objects. We’re all very sorry, Andy.”

“You bet, sir,” Randolph said.

“Thank you,” Andy said, and when Andrea briefly covered his hand with her own, he began to ooze at the eyes again.

“Now, we all have an idea of what’s happened here,” Big Jim said, “although no one in town understands it yet—”

“I bet no one out of town does, either,” Andrea said.

Big Jim ignored her. “—and the military presence hasn’t seen fit to communicate with the town’s elected officials.”

“Problems with the phones, sir,” Randolph said. He was on a first-name basis with all of these people—in fact considered Big Jim a friend—but in this room he felt it wise to stick to sir or ma’am. Perkins had done the same, and on that, at least, the old man had probably been right.

Big Jim waved a hand as if swatting at a troublesome fly. “Someone could have come to the Motton or Tarker’s side and sent for me—us—and no one has seen fit to do so.”

“Sir, the situation is still very… uh, fluid.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. And it’s very possible that’s why no one has put us in the picture just yet. Could be, oh yes, and I pray that’s the answer. I hope you’ve all been praying.”

They nodded dutifully.

“But right now…” Big Jim looked around gravely. He felt grave. But he also felt excited. And ready. He thought it not impossible that his picture would be on the cover of Time magazine before the year was out. Disaster—especially the sort triggered by terrorists—was not always a completely bad thing. Look what it had done for Rudy Giuliani. “ Right now, lady and gentlemen, I think we have to face the very real possibility that we are on our own.”

Andrea put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes shone either with fear or too much dope. Possibly both. “Surely not, Jim!”

“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, that’s what Claudette always says.” Andy spoke in tones of deep meditation. “Said, I mean. She made me a nice breakfast this morning. Scrambled eggs and leftover taco cheese. Gosh!”

The tears, which had slowed, began to ooze again. Andrea once more covered his hand. This time Andy gripped it. Andy and Andrea, Big Jim thought, and a thin smile creased the lower half of his fleshy face. The Dumbsey Twins.

“Hope for the best, plan for the worst,” he said. “What good advice that is. The worst in this case could entail days cut off from the outside world. Or a week. Possibly even a month.” He didn’t actually believe that, but they’d be quicker to do what he wanted if they were frightened.

Andrea repeated: “Surely not!”

“We just don’t know,” Big Jim said. This, at least, was the unvarnished truth. “How can we?”

“Maybe we ought to close Food City,” Randolph said. “At least for the time being. If we don’t, it’s apt to fill up like before a blizzard.”

Rennie was annoyed. He had an agenda, and this was on it, but it wasn’t first on it.

“Or maybe that’s not a good idea,” Randolph said, reading the Second Selectman’s face.

“Actually, Pete, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Big Jim said. “Same principle as never declaring a bank holiday when currency is tight. You only provoke a run.”

“Are we talking about closing the banks, too?” Andy asked. “What’ll we do about the ATMs? There’s one at Brownie’s Store… Mill Gas and Grocery… my drugstore, of course…” He looked vague, then brightened. “I think I even saw one at the Health Center, although I’m not entirely sure about that one…”

Rennie wondered briefly if Andrea had been loaning the man some of her pills. “I was only making a metaphor, Andy.” Keeping his voice low and kind. This was exactly the kind of thing you could expect when people wandered off the agenda. “In a situation like this, food is money, in a manner of speaking. What I’m saying is it should be business as usual. It’ll keep people calm.”

“Ah,” Randolph said. This he understood. “Gotcha.”

“But you’ll need to talk to the supermarket manager—what’s his name, Cade?”

“Cale,” Randolph said. “Jack Cale.”

“Also Johnny Carver at the Gas and Grocery, and… who in the heck runs Brownie’s since Dil Brown died?”

“Velma Winter,” Andrea said. “She’s from Away, but she’s very nice.”