Stephen King - Under the Dome

They could. They did. All of them were holding up their hands now, and swaying from side to side, caught up in that good-God fever.

“ But if YOU ALL were to come out—if we were to pray in a circle right there in God’s grass, under God’s blue sky… within sight of the soldiers they say are guarding the work of God’s righteous Hand… if YOU ALL were to come out, if WE ALL were to pray together, then we might be able to get to the bottom of this sin, and drag it out into the light to die, and work a God-almighty miracle! WILL YOU COME? WILL YOU GET KNEEBOUND WITH ME? ”

Of course they would come. Of course they would get knee-bound. People enjoy an honest-to-God prayer meeting in good times and bad. And when the band swung into “Whate’er My God Ordains is Right” (key of G, Lester on lead guitar), they sang fit to raise the roof.

Jim Rennie was there, of course; it was Big Jim who made the car-pool arrangements.

END THE SECRECY!

FREE CHESTER’S MILL!

DEMONSTRATE!!!!

WHERE? The Dinsmore Dairy Farm on Route 119 (Just look for the WRECKED TRUCK and the MILITARY AGENTS OF OPPRESSION)!

WHEN? 2 PM, EOT (Eastern Oppression Time)!

WHO? YOU, and every Friend you can bring! Tell them WE WANT TO TELL OUR STORY TO THE MEDIA! Tell them WE WANT TO KNOW WHO DID THIS TO US!

AND WHY!

Most of all, tell them WE WANT OUT!!!

This is OUR TOWN! We need to fight for it!

WE NEED TO TAKE IT BACK!!!

Some signs available, but be sure & bring your own (and remember that Profanity is counterproductive).

FIGHT THE POWER!

STICK IT TO THE MAN!

The Committee to Free Chester’s Mill

If there was one man in town who could take that old Nietzschean saying “Whatever does not kill me makes me stronger” as his personal motto, that man was Romeo Burpee, a hustler with a daddy-cool Elvis pomp and pointed boots with elastic sides. He owed his first name to a romantic Franco-American mother; his last to a hardass Yankee father who was practical to his dry pinchpenny core. Romeo had survived a childhood of merciless taunts—plus the occasional beating—to become the richest man in town. (Well… no. Big Jim was the richest man in town, but much of his wealth was of necessity hidden.) Rommie owned the largest and most profitable indie department store in the entire state. Back in the eighties, his potential backers in the venture had told him he was mad to go with such a frankly ugly name as Burpee’s. Rommie’s response had been that if the name hadn’t hurt Burpee Seeds, it wouldn’t hurt him. And now their biggest summer sellers were tee-shirts reading MEET ME FOR SLURPEES AT BURPEES. Take that, you imagination-challenged bankers!

He had succeeded, in large measure, by recognizing the main chance and pursuing it ruthlessly. Around ten that Sunday morning—not long after he’d watched Sloppy Sam hauled off to the copshop—another main chance rolled around. As they always did, if you watched for them.

Romeo observed children putting up posters. Computer-generated and very professional-looking. The kids—most on bikes, a couple on skateboards—were doing a good job of covering Main Street. A protest demonstration out on 119. Romeo wondered whose idea that had been.

He caught up with one and asked.

“It was my idea,” Joe McClatchey said.

“No shit?”

“No shit whatsoever,” Joe said.

Rommie tipped the kid five, ignoring his protests and tucking it deep into his back pocket. Information was worth paying for. Rommie thought people would go to the kid’s demonstration. They were crazy to express their fear, frustration, and righteous anger.

Shortly after sending Scarecrow Joe on his way, Romeo began to hear people talking about an afternoon prayer meeting, to be held by Pastor Coggins. Same by-God time, same by-God place.

Surely a sign. One reading SALES OPPORTUNITY HERE.

Romeo went into his store, where business was lackadaisical. The people Sunday-shopping today were either doing it at Food City or Mill Gas & Grocery. And they were the minority. Most were either at church or at home watching the news. Toby Manning was behind the cash register, watching CNN on a little battery-powered TV.

“Shut off that quack and close down your register,” Romeo said.

“Really, Mr. Burpee?”

“Yes. Drag the big tent out of storage. Get Lily to help you.”

“The Summer Blowout Sale tent?”

“That’s the baby,” Romeo said. “We’re gonna pitch it in that cowgrass where Chuck Thompson’s plane crashed.”

“Alden Dinsmore’s field? What if he wants money to use it?”

“Then we’ll pay him.” Romeo was calculating. The store sold everything, including discount grocery items, and he currently had roughly a thousand packs of discount Happy Boy franks in the industrial freezer behind the store. He’d bought them from Happy Boy HQ in Rhode Island (company now defunct, little microbe problem, thank God not E. coli ), expecting to sell them to tourists and locals planning Fourth of July cookouts. Hadn’t done as well as he’d expected, thanks to the goddam recession, but had held onto them anyway, as stubbornly as a monkey holding onto a nut. And now maybe…

Serve them on those little garden-sticks from Taiwan, he thought. I’ve still got a billion of those bastards. Call them something cute, like Frank-AMa-Bobs. Plus they had maybe a hundred cartons of Yummy Tummy Lemonade and Limeade powder, another discount item on which he’d expected to take a loss.

“We’re going to want to pack up all the Blue Rhino, too.” Now his mind was clicking away like an adding machine, which was just the way Romeo liked it to click.

Toby was starting to look excited. “Whatcha got in mind, Mr. Burpee?”

Rommie went on inventorying stuff he’d expected to record on his books as a dead loss. Those cheapshit pinwheels… leftover Fourth of July sparklers… the stale candy he’d been saving for Halloween…

“Toby,” he said, “we’re going to throw the biggest damn cookout and field day this town has ever seen. Get moving. We’ve got a lot to do.”

Rusty was making hospital rounds with Dr. Haskell when the walkie-talkie Linda had insisted he carry buzzed in his pocket.

Her voice was tinny but clear. “Rusty, I have to go in after all. Randolph says it looks like half the town is going to be out at the barrier on 119 this afternoon—some for a prayer meeting, some for a demonstration. Romeo Burpee is going to pitch a tent and sell hot-dogs, so expect an influx of gastroenteritis patients this evening.”

Rusty groaned.

“I’ll have to leave the girls with Marta after all.” Linda sounded defensive and worried, a woman who knew there was suddenly not enough of her to go around. “I’ll fill her in on Jannie’s problem.”

“Okay.” He knew if he told her to stay home, she would… and all he’d accomplish would be to worry her just when her worries were starting to settle a bit. And if a crowd did show up out there, she’d be needed.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Just remember to send the dog to Marta’s with the girls,” Rusty said. “You know what Haskell said.”

Dr. Ron Haskell—The Wiz—had come up big for the Everett family this morning. Had come up big ever since the onset of the crisis, really. Rusty never would have expected it, but he appreciated it. And he could see by the old guy’s pouched eyes and drooping mouth that Haskell was paying the price. The Wiz was too old for medical crises; snoozing in the third-floor lounge was more his speed these days. But, other than Ginny Tomlinson and Twitch, it was now just Rusty and The Wiz holding the fort. It was bad luck all around that the Dome had crashed down on a beautiful weekend morning when anyone who could get out of town had done so.