Stephen King - Under the Dome

“Al Timmons?” Rusty had seen Al hop into the back of a Burpee’s Department Store truck.

“No, the other one,” the older man said. “He said the Reverend might be able to help us with lodgings.”

Rusty nodded. “Was his name Dale?”

“I don’t think he actually gave us his name,” the woman said.

“Come on !” The boy let go of his sister’s hand and tugged at the woman’s instead. “I want to play that other game you said.” But he sounded more querulous than eager. Mild shock, maybe. Or some physical ailment. If the latter, Rusty hoped it was only a cold. The last thing The Mill needed right now was an outbreak of flu.

“They’ve misplaced their mother, at least temporarily,” the woman said in a low voice. “We’re taking care of them.”

“Good for you,” Rusty said, and meant it. “Son, does your head hurt?”

“No.”

“Sore throat?”

“No,” the boy named Aidan said. His solemn eyes studied Rusty. “Know what? If we don’t trick-or-treat this year, I don’t even care.”

“Aidan Appleton !” Alice cried, sounding shocked out of her shoes. Rusty jerked a little on the bench; he couldn’t help it. Then he smiled. “No? Why is that?”

“Because Mommy takes us around and Mommy went for splies.”

“He means supplies,” the girl named Alice said indulgently.

“She went for Woops,” Aidan said. He looked like a little old man—a little old worried man. “I’d be ascairt to go Halloweenin without Mommy.”

“Come on, Caro,” the man said. “We ought to—”

Rusty rose from the bench. “Could I speak to you for a minute, ma’am? Just a step or two over here.”

Caro looked puzzled and wary, but stepped with him to the side of the blue spruce.

“Has the boy exhibited any seizure activity?” Rusty asked. “That might include suddenly stopping what he’s doing… you know, just standing still for a while… or a fixed stare… smacking of the lips—”

“Nothing like that,” the man said, joining them. “No,”

Caro agreed, but she looked frightened.

The man saw it and turned an impressive frown on Rusty. “Are you a doctor?”

“Physician’s assistant. I thought maybe—”

“Well, I’m sure we appreciate your concern, Mr.—?”

“Eric Everett. Call me Rusty.”

“We appreciate your concern, Mr. Everett, but I believe it’s misplaced. Bear in mind that these children are without their mother—”

“And they spent two nights alone without much to eat,” Caro added. “They were trying to make it to town on their own when those two… officers ”—she wrinkled her nose as if the word had a bad smell—“found them.”

Rusty nodded. “That could explain it, I guess. Although the little girl seems fine.”

“Children react differently. And we better go. They’re getting away from us, Thurse.”

Alice and Aidan were running across the park, kicking up colorful bursts of fallen leaves, Alice flapping the checkerboard and yelling, “Passionage! Passionage!” at the top of her lungs. The boy was keeping up with her stride for stride and also yelling.

Kid had a momentary fugue, that’s all, Rusty thought. The rest was coincidence. Not even that—what American kid isn’t thinking of Halloween during the last half of October? One thing was sure: if these people were asked later, they would remember exactly where and when they had seen Eric “Rusty” Everett. So much for stealth.

The gray-haired man raised his voice. “Children! Slow down!”

The young woman considered Rusty, then put out her hand. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Everett. Rusty.”

“Probably overconcern. Occupational hazard.”

“You’re totally forgiven. This has been the craziest weekend in the history of the world. Chalk it up to that.”

“You bet. And if you need me, check the hospital or the Health Center.” He pointed in the direction of Cathy Russell, which would be visible through the trees once the rest of the leaves fell. If they fell.

“Or this bench,” she said, still smiling.

“Or this bench, right.” Also smiling.

“Caro!” Thurse sounded impatient. “Come on !”

She gave Rusty a little wave—no more than a twiddle of the fingertips—then ran after the others. She ran lightly, gracefully. Rusty wondered if Thurse knew that girls who could run lightly and gracefully almost always ran away from their elderly lovers, sooner or later. Maybe he did. Maybe it had happened to him before.

Rusty watched them cut across the common toward the spire of the Congo church. Eventually the trees screened them from sight. When he looked back at the PD building, Junior Rennie was gone.

Rusty sat where he was for a moment of two, drumming his fingers on his thighs. Then he came to a decision and stood up. Checking the town storage shed for the hospital’s missing propane tanks could wait. He was more curious about what The Mill’s one and only Army officer was doing in the Town Hall.

What Barbie was doing as Rusty crossed Comm Lane to the Town Hall was whistling appreciatively through his teeth. The fallout shelter was as long as an Amtrak dining car, and the shelves were fully stocked with canned goods. Most looked pretty fishy: stacks of sardines, ranks of salmon, and a lot of something called Snow’s Clam Fry-Ettes, which Barbie sincerely hoped he would never have to sample. There were boxes of dry goods, including many large plastic canisters marked RICE, WHEAT, POWDERED MILK, and SUGAR. There were stacked flats of bottles labeled DRINKING WATER. He counted ten large cartons of U.S. GOV’T SURPLUS CRACKERS. Two more were labeled U.S. GOV’T SURPLUS CHOCOLATE BARS. On the wall above these was a yellowing sign reading 700 CALORIES A DAY KEEPS HUNGER AT BAY.

“Dream on,” Barbie muttered.

There was a door at the far end. He opened it on Stygian blackness, felt around, found a light switch. Another room, not quite so big but still large. It looked old and disused—not dirty, Al Timmons at least must know about it because someone had been dusting the shelves and dry-mopping the floors, but neglected for sure. The stored water was in glass bottles, and he hadn’t seen any of those since a brief stint in Saudi.

This second room contained a dozen folded cots plus plain blue blankets and mattresses that had been zipped into clear plastic covers, pending use. There were more supplies, including half a dozen cardboard canisters labeled SANITATION KIT and another dozen marked AIR MASKS. There was a small auxiliary generator that could supply minimal power. It was running; must have started up when he turned on the lights. Flanking the little gennie were two shelves. On one was a radio that looked as if it might have been new around the time C. W. McCall’s novelty song “Convoy” had been a hit. On the other shelf were two hotplates and a metal box painted bright yellow. The logo on the side was from the days when CD stood for something other than compact disc. It was what he had come to find.

Barbie picked it up, then almost dropped it—it was heavy. On the front was a gauge labeled COUNTS PER SECOND. When you turned the instrument on and pointed the sensor at something, the needle might stay in the green, rise to the yellow center of the dial… or go over into the red. That, Barbie assumed, would not be good.

He turned it on. The little power lamp stayed dark and the needle lay quiet against 0.

“Battery’s dead,” someone said from behind him. Barbie almost jumped out of his skin. He looked around and saw a tall, heavyset man with blond hair standing in the doorway between the two rooms.