Stephen King - Under the Dome

They were wearing their badges. And they were indeed drunk.

“What do you want? It’s late.”

“Want some dope,” Georgia said. “You sell it, so sell some to us.”

“I want to get high as apple pie in a red dirt sky,” Mel said, and then laughed: Nyuck-nyuck-nyuck.

“I don’t have any,” Sammy said.

“Bullshit, the place reeks of it,” Carter said. “Sell us some. Don’t be a bitch.”

“Yeah,” Georgia said. In the light of Sammy’s flash, her eyes had a silvery glitter. “Never mind that we’re cops.”

They all roared at this. They would wake the baby for sure.

“No!” Sammy tried to shut the door. Thibodeau pushed it open again. He did it with just the flat of his hand—easy as could be—but Sammy went stumbling backward. She tripped over Little Walter’s goddam choo-choo and went down on her ass for the second time that day. Her tee-shirt flew up.

“Ooo, pink underwear, are you expecting one of your girlfriends?” Georgia asked, and they all roared again. The flashlights that had gone out now came back on, spotlighting her.

Sammy yanked the tee-shirt down almost hard enough to rip the neck. Then she got unsteadily to her feet, the flashlight beams dancing up and down her body.

“Be a good hostess and invite us in,” Frankie said, barging through the door. “Thank you very much.” His light flashed around the living room. “What a pigsty.”

“Pigsty for a pig!” Georgia bellowed, and they all broke up again. “If I was Phil, I might come back out of the woods just long enough to kick your fuckin ass!” She raised her fist; Carter Thibodeau knuckle-dapped her.

“He still hidin out at the radio station?” Mel asked. “Tweekin the rock? Gettin all paranoid for Jesus?”

“I don’t know what you…” She wasn’t mad anymore, only afraid. This was the disconnected way people talked in the nightmares that came if you smoked weed dusted with PCP. “Phil’s gone!”

Her four visitors looked at each other, then laughed. Searles’s idiotic nyuck-nyuck-nyuck rode above the others.

“Gone! Bugged out!” Frankie crowed.

“Fuckin as if !” Carter replied, and then they bumped knucks.

Georgia grabbed a bunch of Sammy’s paperbacks off the top shelf of the bookcase and looked through them. “Nora Roberts? Sandra Brown? Stephenie Meyer? You read this stuff? Don’t you know fuckin Harry Potter rules?” She held the books out, then opened her hands and dropped them on the floor.

The baby still hadn’t awakened. It was a miracle. “If I sell you some dope, will you go?” Sammy asked.

“Sure,” Frankie said.

“And hurry up,” Carter said. “We got an early call tomorrow. Eee- vack -u-ation detail. So shag that fat ass of yours.”

“Wait here.”

She went into the kitchenette and opened the freezer—warm now, everything would be thawed, for some reason that made her feel like crying—and took out one of the gallon Baggies of dope she kept in there. There were three others.

She started to turn around, but someone grabbed her before she could, and someone else plucked the Baggie from her hand. “I want to check out that pink underwear again,” Mel said in her ear. “See if you got SUNDAY on your ass.” He yanked her shirt up to her waist. “Nope, guess not.”

“Stop it! Quit it!”

Mel laughed: Nyuck-nyuck-nyuck.

A flashlight stabbed her in the eyes, but she recognized the narrow head behind it: Frankie DeLesseps. “You gave me lip today,” he said. “Plus, you slapped me and hurt my little hannie. And all I did was this.” He reached out and grabbed her breast again.

She tried to jerk away. The beam of light that had been trained on her face tilted momentarily up to the ceiling. Then it came down again, fast. Pain exploded in her head. He had hit her with his flashlight.

“Ow! Ow, that hurts! STOP it!”

“Shit, that didn’t hurt. You’re just lucky I don’t arrest you for pushing dope. Stand still if you don’t want another one.”

“This dope smells skanky,” Mel said in a matter-of-fact voice. He was behind her, still holding up her shirt.

“So does she,” Georgia said.

“Gotta confiscate the weed, bee-yatch,” Carter said. “Sorry.”

Frankie had glommed onto her breast again. “Stand still.” He pinched the nipple. “Just stand still.” His voice, roughening. His breathing, quickening. She knew where this was going. She closed her eyes. Just as long as the baby doesn’t wake up, she thought. And as long as they don’t do more. Do worse.

“Go on,” Georgia said. “Show her what she’s been missing since Phil left.”

Frankie gestured into the living room with his flashlight. “Get on the couch. And spread em.”

“Don’t you want to read her her rights, first?” Mel asked, and laughed: Nyuck-nyuck-nyuck. Sammy thought if she had to hear that laugh one more time, her head would split wide open. But she started for the couch, head down, shoulders slumped.

Carter grabbed her on the way by, turned her, and sprayed the beam of his flashlight up his own face, turning it into a goblin-mask. “Are you going to talk about this, Sammy?”

“N-N-No.”

The goblin-mask nodded. “You hold that thought. Because no one would believe you, anyway. Except for us, of course, and then we’d have to come back and really fuck you up.”

Frankie pushed her onto the couch.

“Do her,” Georgia said excitedly, training her light on Sammy. “ Do that bitch!”

All three of the young men did her. Frankie went first, whispering “You gotta learn to keep your mouth shut except for when you’re on your knees” as he pushed into her.

Carter was next. While he was riding her, Little Walter awoke and began to cry.

“Shut up, kid, or I’ll hafta readja your rights!” Mel Searles hollered, and then laughed.

Nyuck-nyuck-nyuck.

It was almost midnight.

Linda Everett lay fast asleep in her half of the bed; she’d had an exhausting day, she had an early call tomorrow (eee- vack -u-ation detail), and not even her worries about Janelle could keep her awake. She didn’t snore, exactly, but a soft queep-queep-queep sound came from her half of the bed.

Rusty had had an equally exhausting day, but he couldn’t sleep, and it wasn’t Jan he was worried about. He thought she was going to be all right, at least for a while. He could keep her seizures at bay if they didn’t get any worse. If he ran out of Zarontin at the hospital dispensary, he could get more from Sanders Drug.

It was Dr. Haskell he kept thinking about. And Rory Dinsmore, of course. Rusty kept seeing the torn and bloody socket where the boy’s eye had been. Kept hearing Ron Haskell telling Ginny, I’m not death. Deaf, I mean.

Except he had been death.

He rolled over in bed, trying to leave these memories behind, and what came in their place was Rory muttering It’s Halloween. Overlapping that, his own daughter’s voice: It’s the Great Pumpkin’s fault! You have to stop the Great Pumpkin!

His daughter had been having a seizure. The Dinsmore kid had taken a ricochet to the eye and a bullet fragment to the brain. What did that tell him?

It tells me nothing. What did the Scottish guy say on Lost ? “Don’t mistake coincidence for fate?”

Maybe that had been it. Maybe it had. But Lost had been a long time ago. The Scottish guy could have said Don’t mistake fate for coincidence.

He rolled over the other way and this time saw the black headline of that night’s Democrat one-sheet: EXPLOSIVES TO BE FIRED AT BARRIER!