Stephen King - Under the Dome

Sixth, I offer you the strong possibility that your ordeal may end as early as tomorrow, at 1 PM, EDT. Col. Barbara will explain the military operation that will occur at that time, and he assures me that between the good offices of yourselves and Ms. Julia Shumway, who owns and operates the local newspaper, you will be able to inform the citizens of Chester’s Mill what to expect.

And last: you are citizens of the United States of America, and we will never abandon you. Our firmest promise, based on our finest ideals, is simple: No man, woman, or child left behind. Every resource we need to employ in order to end your confinement will be employed. Every dollar we need to spend will be spent. What we expect from you in return is faith and cooperation. Please give us both.

With every prayer and every good wish,

I remain most sincerely yours,

Whatever scribble-dee-dee dogsbody might have written it, the bastard had signed it himself, and using all three of his names, including the terrorist one in the middle. Big Jim hadn’t voted for him, and at this moment, had he teleported into existence in front of him, Rennie felt he could cheerfully have strangled him.

And Barbara.

Big Jim’s fondest wish was that he could whistle up Pete Randolph and have Colonel Fry Cook slammed into a cell. Tell him he could run his gosh-darned martial law command from the basement of the cop-shop with Sam Verdreaux serving as his aide-de-camp. Maybe Sloppy Sam could even hold the DTs at bay long enough to salute without sticking his thumb in his eye.

But not now. Not yet. Certain phrases from the Blackguard in Chief’s letter stood out:

As you aid him, so will we aid you.

A smooth working relationship with all town officials.

This decision will be subject to review.

What we expect is faith and cooperation.

That last one was the most telling. Big Jim was sure the pro-abortion son-of-a-buck knew nothing about faith—to him it was just a buzzword—but when he spoke of cooperation, he knew exactly what he was saying, and so did Jim Rennie: It’s a velvet glove, but don’t forget the iron fist inside it.

The President offered sympathy and support (he saw the drug-addled Grinnell woman actually tear up as she read the letter), but if you looked between the lines, you saw the truth. It was a threat letter, pure and simple. Cooperate or you lose your Internet. Cooperate because we’ll be making a list of who’s naughty and who’s nice, and you don’t want to be on the naughty side of the ledger when we break through. Because we will remember.

Cooperate, pal. Or else.

Rennie thought: I will never turn my town over to a short-order cook who dared to lay a hand on my son and then dared to challenge my authority. That will never happen, you monkey. Never.

He also thought: Softly, calmly.

Let Colonel Fry Cook explain the military’s big plan. If it worked, fine. If it didn’t, the U.S. Army’s newest colonel was going to discover whole new meanings to the phrase deep in enemy territory.

Big Jim smiled and said, “Let’s go inside, shall we? Seems we have a lot to talk about.”

Junior sat in the dark with his girlfriends.

It was strange, even he thought so, but it was also soothing.

When he and the other new deputies had gotten back to the police station after the colossal fuckup in Dinsmore’s field, Stacey Moggin (still in uniform herself, and looking tired) had told them they could have another four duty-hours if they wanted. There was going to be plenty of overtime on offer, at least for a while, and when it came time for the town to pay, Stacey said, she was sure there’d be bonuses, as well… probably provided by a grateful United States government.

Carter, Mel, Georgia Roux, and Frank DeLesseps had all agreed to work the extra hours. It wasn’t really the money; they were getting off on the job. Junior was too, but he’d also been hatching another of his headaches. This was depressing after feeling absolutely tip-top all day.

He told Stacey he’d pass, if that was all right. She assured him it was, but reminded him he was scheduled back on duty tomorrow at seven o’clock. “There’ll be plenty to do,” she said.

On the steps, Frankie hitched up his belt and said, “I think I’ll swing by Angie’s house. She probably went someplace with Dodee, but I’d hate to think she slipped in the shower—that she’s lying there all paralyzed, or something.”

Junior felt a throb go through his head. A small white spot began to dance in front of his left eye. It seemed to be jigging and jagging with his heartbeat, which had just speeded up.

“I’ll go by, if you want,” he told Frankie. “It’s on my way.”

“Really? You don’t mind?”

Junior shook his head. The white spot in front of his eye darted crazily, sickeningly, when he did. Then it settled again.

Frankie lowered his voice. “Sammy Bushey gave me some lip out at the field day.”

“ That hole,” Junior said.

“No doubt. She goes, ‘What are you going to do, arrest me?’ ” Frankie raised his voice to a snarky falsetto that scraped Junior’s nerves. The dancing white spot actually seemed to turn red, and for a moment he considered putting his hands around his old friend’s neck and choking the life out of him so that he, Junior, would never have to be subjected to that falsetto again.

“What I’m thinking,” Frankie continued, “is I might go out there after I’m off. Teach her a lesson. You know, Respect Your Local Police.”

“She’s a skank. Also a lesboreenie.”

“That might make it even better.” Frankie had paused, looking toward the weird sunset. “This Dome thing could have an upside. We can do pretty much whatever we want. For the time being, anyway. Consider it, chum.” Frankie squeezed his crotch.

“Sure,” Junior had replied, “but I’m not particularly horny.”

Except now he was. Well, sort of. It wasn’t like he was going to fuck them, or anything but—

“But you’re still my girlfriends,” Junior said in the darkness of the pantry. He’d used a flashlight at first, but then had turned it off. The dark was better. “Aren’t you?”

They didn’t reply. If they did, Junior thought, I’d have a major miracle to report to my dad and Reverend Coggins.

He was sitting against a wall lined with shelves of canned goods. He had propped Angie on his right and Dodee on his left. Menagerie a trios, as they said in the Penthouse Forum. His girls hadn’t looked too good with the flashlight on, their swollen faces and bulging eyes only partially obscured by their hanging hair, but once he turned it off… hey! They could have been a couple of live chicks!

Except for the smell, that was. A mixture of old shit and decay just starting to happen. But it wasn’t too bad, because there were other, more pleasant smells in here: coffee, chocolate, molasses, dried fruit, and—maybe—brown sugar.

Also a faint aroma of perfume. Dodee’s? Angie’s? He didn’t know. What he knew was that his headache was better again and that disturbing white spot had gone away. He slid his hand down and cupped Angie’s breast.

“You don’t mind me doing that, do you, Ange? I mean, I know you’re Frankie’s girlfriend, but you guys sort of broke up and hey, it’s only copping a feel. Also—I hate to tell you this, but I think he’s got cheating on his mind tonight.”

He groped with his free hand, found one of Dodee’s. It was chilly, but he put it on his crotch anyway. “Oh my, Dodes,” he said. “That’s pretty bold. But you do what you feel, girl; get down with your bad self.”