Stephen King - Under the Dome

“Why would you think that?” Barbie asked. “Don’t you guys know that if you let us stay on the Net, Aunt Sarah’s cranberry bread recipe is sure to get out sooner or later?”

Julia sat up straight and mouthed, They’re trying to cut the Internet? Barbie raised one finger toward her— Wait.

“Just hear me out, Barbie. Suppose we call this Rennie and tell him the Internet’s got to go, so sorry, crisis situation, extreme measures, et cetera, et cetera. Then you can convince him of your usefulness by changing our minds.”

Barbie considered. It might work. For a while, anyway. Or it might not.

“Plus,” Cox said brightly, “you’ll be giving them this other information. Maybe saving some lives, but saving people the scare of their lives, for sure.”

Barbie said, “Phones stay up as well as Internet.”

“That’s hard. I might be able to keep the Net for you, but… listen, man. There are at least five Curtis LeMay types sitting on the committee presiding over this mess, and as far as they’re concerned, everyone in Chester’s Mill is a terrorist until proved otherwise.”

“What can these hypothetical terrorists do to harm America? Suicide-bomb the Congo Church?”

“Barbie, you’re preaching to the choir.”

Of course that was probably the truth.

“Will you do it?”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that. Wait for my call before you do anything. I have to talk to the late Police Chief’s widow first.”

Cox persisted. “Will you keep the horse-trading part of this conversation to yourself?”

Again, Barbie was struck by how little even Cox—a freethinker, by military standards—understood about the changes the Dome had already wrought. In here, the Cox brand of secrecy no longer mattered.

Us against them, Barbie thought. Now it’s us against them. Unless their crazy idea works, that is.

“Sir, I really will have to get back to you on that; this phone is suffering a bad case of low battery.” A lie he told with no remorse. “And you need to wait to hear from me before you talk to anybody else.”

“Just remember, the big bang’s scheduled for thirteen hundred tomorrow. If you want to maintain viability on this, you better stay out front.”

Maintain viability. Another meaningless phrase under the Dome. Unless it applied to keeping your gennie supplied with propane.

“We’ll talk,” Barbie said. He closed the phone before Cox could say more. 119 was almost clear now, although DeLesseps was still there, leaning against his vintage muscle car with his arms folded. As Julia drove past the Nova, Barbie noted a sticker reading ASS, GAS, OR GRASS—NOBODY RIDES FOR FREE. Also a police bubblegum light on the dash. He thought the contrast summed up everything that was now wrong in Chester’s Mill.

As they rode, Barbie told her everything Cox had said.

“What they’re planning is really no different than what that kid just tried,” she said, sounding appalled.

“Well, a little different,” Barbie said. “The kid tried it with a rifle. They’ve got a Cruise missile lined up. Call it the Big Bang theory.”

She smiled. It wasn’t her usual one; wan and bewildered, it made her look sixty instead of forty-three. “I think I’m going to be putting out another paper sooner than I thought.”

Barbie nodded. “Extra, extra, read all about it.”

“Hello, Sammy,” someone said. “How are you?”

Samantha Bushey didn’t recognize the voice and turned toward it warily, hitching up the Papoose carrier as she did. Little Walter was asleep and he weighed a ton. Her butt hurt from falling on it, and her feelings were hurt, too—that damn Georgia Roux, calling her a dyke. Georgia Roux, who had come whining around Sammy’s trailer more than once, looking to score an eightball for her and the musclebound freak she went around with.

It was Dodee’s father. Sammy had spoken with him thousands of times, but she hadn’t recognized his voice; she hardly recognized him. He looked old and sad—broken, somehow. He didn’t even scope out her boobs, which was a first.

“Hi, Mr. Sanders. Gee, I didn’t even see you at the—” She flapped her hand back toward the flattened-down field and the big tent, now half collapsed and looking forlorn. Although not as forlorn as Mr. Sanders.

“I was sitting in the shade.” That same hesitant voice, coming through an apologetic, hurting smile that was hard to look at. “I had something to drink, though. Wasn’t it warm for October? Golly, yes. I thought it was a good afternoon—a real town afternoon—until that boy…”

Oh crispy crackers, he was crying.

“I’m awful sorry about your wife, Mr. Sanders.”

“Thank you, Sammy. That’s very kind. Can I carry your baby back to your car for you? I think you can go now—the road’s almost clear.”

That was an offer Sammy couldn’t refuse even if he was crying. She scooped Little Walter out of the Papoose—it was like picking up a big clump of warm bread dough—and handed him over. Little Walter opened his eyes, smiled glassily, belched, then went back to sleep.

“I think he might have a package in his diaper,” Mr. Sanders said.

“Yeah, he’s a regular shit machine. Good old Little Walter.”

“Walter’s a very nice old-fashioned name.”

“Thanks.” Telling him that her baby’s first name was actually Little didn’t seem worth the trouble… and she was sure she’d had that conversation with him before, anyway. He just didn’t remember. Walking with him like this—even though he was carrying the baby—was the perfect bummer end to a perfect bummer afternoon. At least he was right about the traffic; the automotive mosh pit had finally cleared out. Sammy wondered how long it would be before the whole town was riding bicycles again.

“I never liked the idea of her in that plane,” Mr. Sanders said. He seemed to be picking up the thread of some interior conversation. “Sometimes I even wondered if Claudie was sleeping with that guy.”

Dodee’s Mom sleeping with Chuck Thompson? Sammy was both shocked and intrigued.

“Probably not,” he said, and sighed. “In any case, it doesn’t matter now. Have you seen Dodee? She didn’t come home last night.”

Sammy almost said Sure, yesterday afternoon. But if the Dodester hadn’t slept at home last night, saying that would only worry the Dodester’s dadster. And let Sammy in for a long conversation with a guy who had tears streaming down his face and a snotrunner hanging from one nostril. That would not be cool.

They had reached her car, an old Chevrolet with cancer of the rocker panels. She took Little Walter and grimaced at the smell. That wasn’t just mail in his diaper, that was UPS and Federal Express combined.

“No, Mr. Sanders, haven’t seen her.”

He nodded, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. The snotrunner disappeared, or at least went somewhere else. That was a relief. “She probably went to the mall with Angie McCain, then to her aunt Peg’s in Sabattus when she couldn’t get back into town.”

“Yeah, that’s probably it.” And when Dodee turned up right here in The Mill, he’d have a pleasant surprise. God knew he deserved one. Sammy opened the car door and laid Little Walter on the passenger side. She’d given up on the child-restraint seat months ago. Too much of a pain in the ass. And besides, she was a very safe driver.

“Good to see you, Sammy.” A pause. “Will you pray for my wife?”

“Uhhh… sure, Mr. Sanders, no prob.”

She started to get in the car, then remembered two things: that Georgia Roux had shoved her tit with her goddam motorcycle boot—probably hard enough to leave a bruise—and that Andy Sanders, brokenhearted or not, was the town’s First Selectman.