Stephen King - Under the Dome

Jackie pushed the closed doors open with her foot, standing well back. Behind one was an office. Behind the other was a conference room of surprising luxury, dominated by a giant flat-screen TV. It was on, but muted. Anderson Cooper, almost life-sized, looked like he was doing his standup on Castle Rock’s Main Street. The buildings were draped with flags and yellow ribbons. Linda saw a sign on the hardware store that read: SET THEM FREE. That made Linda feel even eerier. The super running across the bottom of the screen read DEFENSE DEPARTMENT SOURCES CLAIM MISSILE STRIKE IS IMMINENT.

“Why is the TV on?” Jackie asked.

“Because whoever was minding the store left it that way when—”

A booming voice interrupted her. “That was Raymond Howell’s version of ‘Christ My Lord and Leader.’ ”

Both women jumped.

“And this is Norman Drake, reminding you of three important facts: you’re listening to the Revival Time Hour on WCIK, God loves you, and He sent his Son to die for you on Calvary’s cross. It’s nine twenty-five AM, and as we always like to remind you, time is short. Have you given your heart to the Lord? Back after this.”

Norman Drake gave way to a silver-tongued devil selling the entire Bible on DVDs, and the best thing about it was you could pay in monthly installments and return the whole deal if you weren’t just as happy as a pig in shit. Linda and Jackie went to the broadcast studio window and looked in. Neither Norman Drake nor the silver-tongued devil was there, but when the commercial ended and the deejay came back to announce the next song of praise, a green light turned red and a red light turned green. When the music started up, another red light went green.

“It’s automated!” Jackie said. “The whole freaking thing!”

“Then why do we feel like someone’s here? And don’t say you don’t.”

Jackie didn’t. “Because it’s weird. The jock even does time-checks. Honey, this setup must have cost a fortune! Talk about the ghost in the machine—how long do you think it will run?”

“Probably till the propane runs out and the generator stops.” Linda spotted another closed door and opened it with her foot, as Jackie had… only, unlike Jackie, she drew her gun and held it, safety on and muzzle down, beside her leg.

It was a bathroom, and it was empty. There was, however, a picture of a very Caucasian Jesus on the wall.

“I’m not religious,” Jackie said, “so you’ll have to explain to me why people would want Jesus watching them poop.”

Linda shook her head.

“Let’s get out of here before I lose it,” she said. “This place is the Radioland version of the Mary Celeste. ”

Jackie looked around uneasily. “Well, the vibe is spooky, I’ll give you that.” She suddenly raised her voice in a harsh shout that made Linda jump. She wanted to tell Jackie not to yell like that. Because someone might hear her and come. Or some thing.

“Hey! Yo! Anybody here? Last chance!”

Nothing. No one.

Outside, Linda took a deep breath. “Once, when I was a teenager, some friends and I went to Bar Harbor, and we stopped for a picnic at this scenic turnout. There were half a dozen of us. The day was clear, and you could see practically all the way to Ireland. When we were done eating, I said I wanted to take a picture. My friends were all horsing around and grabassing, and I kept backing up, trying to get everyone in the frame. Then this one girl—Arabella, my best friend back then—stopped trying to give this other girl a wedgie and shouted, ‘Stop, Linda, stop !’ I stopped and looked around. Know what I saw?”

Jackie shook her head.

“The Atlantic Ocean. I’d backed up all the way to the drop-off at the edge of the picnic area. There was a warning sign, but no fence or guardrail. One more step and I would have gone down. And how I felt then is how I felt in there.”

“Lin, it was empty. ”

“I don’t think so. And I don’t think you do, either.”

“It was spooky, sure. But we checked the rooms—”

“Not the studio. Plus the TV was on and the music was too loud. You don’t think they turn it up that loud ordinarily, do you?”

“How do I know what holy rollers do?” Jackie asked. “Maybe they were expecting the Apocolick.”

“Lypse.”

“Whatever. Do you want to check the storage barn?”

“Absolutely not,” Linda said, and that made Jackie snort laughter.

“Okay. Our report is no sign of the Rev, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Then we’re off to town. And coffee.”

Before getting into unit Two’s shotgun seat, Linda took one more look at the studio building, sitting there wreathed in white-bread audio joy. There was no other sound; she realized she didn’t hear a single bird singing, and wondered if they had all killed themselves smashing into the Dome. Surely that wasn’t possible. Was it?

Jackie pointed at the mike. “Want me to give the place a shout through the loudspeaker? Say if anyone’s hiding in there they should beat feet into town? Because—I just thought of this—maybe they were scared of us.”

“What I want is for you to stop screwing around and get out of here.”

Jackie didn’t argue. She reversed down the short driveway to Little Bitch Road, and turned the cruiser toward The Mill.

Time passed. Religious music played. Norman Drake returned and announced that it was nine thirty-four, Eastern Daylight God Loves You Time. This was followed by an ad for Jim Rennie’s Used Cars, delivered by the Second Selectman himself. “It’s our annual Fall Sales Spectacular, and boy, did we overstock!” Big Jim said in a rueful thejoke’s-on-me voice. “We’ve got Fords, Chevvies, Plymouths! We’ve got the hard-to-get Dodge Ram and even the harder-to-get Mustang! Folks, I’m sitting on not one or two but three Mustangs that are like new, one the famous V6 convertible, and each comes with the famous Jim Rennie Christian Guarantee. We service what we sell, we finance, and we do it all at low low prices. And right now”—he chuckled more ruefully than ever—“we’ve just GOT to clear this LOT ! So come on down! The coffeepot’s always on, neighbor, and you’ll love the feelin when Big Jim’s dealin!”

A door neither woman had noticed eased open at the back of the studio. Inside were more blinking lights—a galaxy of them. The room was little more than a cubby choked with wires, splitters, routers, and electronic boxes. You would have said there was no room for a man. But The Chef was beyond skinny; he was emaciated. His eyes were only glitters sunk deep in his skull. His skin was pale and blotchy. His lips folded loosely inward over gums that had lost most of their teeth. His shirt and pants were filthy, and his hips were naked wings; Chef’s underwear days were now just a memory. It is doubtful that Sammy Bushey would have recognized her missing husband. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in one hand (he could only eat soft things now) and a Glock 9 in the other.

He went to the window overlooking the parking lot, thinking he’d rush out and kill the intruders if they were still there; he had almost done it while they were inside. Only he’d been afraid. Because demons couldn’t actually be killed. When their human bodies died, they just flew into another host. When they were between bodies, the demons looked like blackbirds. Chef had seen this in vivid dreams that came on the increasingly rare occasions when he slept.

They were gone, however. His atman had been too strong for them.

Rennie had told him he had to shut down out back, and Chef Bushey had, but he might have to start up some of the cookers again, because there had been a big shipment to Boston a week ago and he was almost out of product. He needed smoke. It was what his atman fed on these days.