by Stephen King
At least we’ve got a good stove and a helluva woodpile. If we need it.
There was a flashlight in the glove compartment, but when he turned it on it emitted a weak beam for five seconds and then died. Rusty muttered an obscenity and reminded himself to stock up on batteries tomorrow—later today, now. Assuming the stores were open.
If I can’t find my way around here after twelve years, I’m a monkey.
Yes, well. He felt a little like a monkey tonight—one fresh-caught and slammed into a zoo cage. And he definitely smelled like one. Maybe a shower before bed—
But nope. No power, no shower.
It was a clear night, and although there was no moon, there were a billion stars above the house, and they looked the same as ever. Maybe the barrier didn’t exist overhead. The President hadn’t spoken to that issue, so perhaps the people in charge of investigating didn’t know yet. If The Mill were at the bottom of a newly created well instead of caught underneath some weird bell jar, then things might still work out. The government could airdrop supplies. Surely if the country could spend hundreds of billions for corporate bailouts, then it could afford to parachute in extra Pop-Tarts and a few lousy generators.
He mounted the porch steps, taking out his housekey, but when he got to the door, he saw something hanging over the lockplate. He bent closer, squinting, and smiled. It was a mini-flashlight. At Burpee’s End of Summer Blowout Sale, Linda had bought six for five bucks. At the time he’d thought it a foolish expenditure, even remembered thinking, Women buy stuff at sales for the same reason men climb mountains—because they’re there.
A small metal loop stuck out on the bottom of the light. Threaded through it was a lace from one of his old tennis shoes. A note had been taped to the lace. He took it off and trained the light on it.
Hello sweet man. Hope you’re OK. The 2 Js are finally down for the night. Both worried & upset, but finally corked off. I have the duty all day tomorrow & I do mean all day, from 7 to 7, Peter Randolph says (our new Chief—GROAN). Marta Edmunds said she’d take the girls, so God bless Marta. Try not to wake me. (Altho I may not be asleep.) We are in for hard days I fear, but we’ll get thru this. Plenty to eat in pantry, thank God.
Sweetie, I know you’re tired, but will you walk Audrey? She’s still doing that weird Whining Thing of hers. Is it possible she knew this was coming? They say dogs can sense earthquakes, so maybe … ?
Judy & Jannie say they love their Daddy. So do I.
We’ll find time to talk tomorrow, won’t we? Talk and take stock. I’m a little scared.
Lin
He was scared, too, and not crazy about his wife working a twelve tomorrow when he was likely to be working a sixteen or even longer. Also not crazy about Judy and Janelle spending a whole day with Marta when they were undoubtedly scared, too.
But the thing he was least crazy about was having to walk their golden retriever at nearly one in the morning. He thought it was possible she had sensed the advent of the barrier; he knew that dogs were sensitive to many impending phenomena, not just earthquakes. Only if that were the case, what he and Linda called the Whining Thing should have stopped, right? The rest of the dogs in town had been grave-quiet on his way back tonight. No barking, no howling. Nor had he heard other reports of dogs doing the Whining Thing.
Maybe she’ll be asleep on her bed beside the stove, he thought as he unlocked the kitchen door.
Audrey wasn’t asleep. She came to him at once, not bounding joyfully as she usually did—You’re home! You’re home! Oh thank God, you’re home!—but sidling, almost slinking, with her tail tucked down over her withers, as if expecting a blow (which she had never received) instead of a pat on the head. And yes, she was once more doing the Whining Thing. It had actually been going on since before the barrier. She’d stop for a couple of weeks, and Rusty would begin to hope it was over, and then it would start again, sometimes soft, sometimes loud. Tonight it was loud—or maybe it only seemed that way in the dark kitchen where the digital readouts on the stove and the microwave were out and the usual light Linda left on for him over the sink was dark.
“Stop it, girl,” he said. “You’ll wake the house.”
But Audrey wouldn’t. She butted her head softly against his knee and looked up at him in the bright, narrow beam of light he held in his right hand. He would have sworn that was a pleading look.
“All right,” he said. “All right, all right. Walkies.”
Her leash dangled from a peg beside the pantry door. As he went to get it (dropping the light around his neck to hang by the shoelace as he did), she skittered in front of him, more like a cat than a dog. If not for the flashlight, she might have tripped him up. That would have finished this whore of a day in grand fashion.
“Just a minute, just a minute, hold on.”
But she barked at him and backed away.
“Hush! Audrey, hush!”
Instead of hushing she barked again, the sound shockingly loud in the sleeping house. He jerked in surprise. Audrey darted forward and seized the leg of his pants in her teeth and began to back toward the hall, trying to pull him along.
Now intrigued, Rusty allowed himself to be led. When she saw he was coming, Audry let go and ran to the stairs. She went up two, looked back, and barked again.
A light went on upstairs, in their bedroom. “Rusty?” It was Lin, her voice muzzy.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he called, keeping it as low as he could. “Actually it’s Audrey.”
He followed the dog up the stairs. Instead of taking them at her usual all-out lope, Audrey kept pausing to look back. To dog-people, their animals’ expressions are often perfectly readable, and what Rusty was seeing now was anxiety. Audrey’s ears were laid flat, her tail still tucked. If this was the Whining Thing, it had been raised to a new level. Rusty suddenly wondered if there was a prowler in the house. The kitchen door had been locked, Lin was usually good about locking all the doors when she was alone with the girls, but—
Linda came to the head of the stairs, belting a white terry-cloth robe. Audrey saw her and barked again. A get-out-of-my-way bark.
“Audi, stop that!” she said, but Audrey ran past her, striking against Lin’s right leg hard enough to knock her back against the wall. Then the golden ran down the hall toward the girls’ room, where all was still quiet.
Lin fished her own mini-flashlight from a pocket of her robe. “What in the name of heaven—”
“I think you better go back to the bedroom,” Rusty said.
“Like hell I will!” She ran down the hall ahead of him, the bright beam of the little light bouncing.
The girls were seven and five, and had recently entered what Lin called “the feminine privacy phase.” Audrey reached their door, rose up, and began scratching on it with her front paws.
Rusty caught up with Lin just as she opened the door. Audrey bounded in, not even giving Judy’s bed a look. Their five-year-old was fast asleep, anyway.
Janelle wasn’t asleep. Nor was she awake. Rusty understood everything the moment the two flashlight beams converged on her, and cursed himself for not realizing earlier what was happening, what must have been happening since August or maybe even July. Because the behavior Audrey had been exhibiting—the Whining Thing—was well documented. He just hadn’t seen the truth when it was staring him in the face.
Janelle, eyes open but showing only whites, wasn’t convulsing—thank God for that—but she was trembling all over. She had pushed the covers down with her feet, probably at onset, and in the double flashlight beams he could see a damp patch on her pajama bottoms. Her fingertips wiggled, as if she were loosening up to play the piano.
Audrey sat by the bed, looking up at her little mistress with rapt attention.
“What’s happening to her?” Linda screamed.
In the other bed Judy stirred and spoke. “Mumma? Is it brefkus? Did I miss the bus?”
“She’s having a seizure,” Rusty said.
“Well help her!”
Linda cried. “Do something! Is she dying?”
“No,” Rusty said. The part of his brain that remained analytical knew this was almost certainly just petit mal—as the others must have been, or they would have known about this already. But it was different when it was one of your own.
Judy sat bolt upright in bed, spilling stuffed animals everywhere. Her eyes were wide and terrified, nor was she much comforted when Linda tore the child out of bed and clasped her in her arms.
“Make her stop! Make her stop, Rusty!”
If it was petit mal, it would stop on its own.
Please God let it stop on its own, he thought.
He placed his palms on the sides of Jan’s trembling, thrumming head and tried to rotate it upward, wanting to make sure her airway remained clear. At first he wasn’t able to—the goddam foam pillow was fighting him. He tossed it on the floor. It struck Audrey on the way down, but she didn’t so much as flinch, only maintained her rapt gaze.
Rusty was now able to cock Jannie’s head back a little, and he could hear her breathing. It wasn’t rapid; there was no harsh tearing for oxygen, either.
“Mommy, what’s the matter with Jan-Jan?” Judy asked, beginning to cry. “Is she mad? Is she sick?”
“Not mad and only a little sick,” Rusty was astounded at how calm he sounded. “Why don’t you let Mommy take you down to our—”
“No!” they cried together, in perfect two-part harmony.
“Okay,” he said, “but you have to be quiet. Don’t scare her when she wakes up, because she’s apt to be scared already.
“A little scared,” he amended. “Audi, good girl. That’s a very very good girl.”
Such compliments usually sent Audrey into paroxysms of joy, but not tonight. She didn’t even wag her tail. Then, suddenly, the golden gave a small woof and lay down, dropping her muzzle onto one paw. Seconds later, Jan’s trembling ceased and her eyes closed.
“I’ll be damned,” Rusty said.
“What?” Linda was now sitting on the edge of Judy’s bed with Judy on her lap. “What?”
“It’s over,” Rusty said.
But it wasn’t. Not quite. When Jannie opened her eyes again, they were back where they belonged, but they weren’t seeing him.
“The Great Pumpkin!” Janelle cried. “It’s the Great Pumpkin’s fault! You have to stop the Great Pumpkin!”
Rusty gave her a gentle shake. “You were having a dream, Jannie. A bad one, I guess. But it’s over and you’re all right.”
For a moment she still wasn’t completely there, although her eyes shifted and he knew she was seeing and hearing him now. “Stop Halloween, Daddy! You have to stop Halloween!”
“Okay, honey, I will. Halloween’s off. Completely.”
She blinked, then raised one hand to brush her clumped and sweaty hair off her forehead. “What? Why? I was going to be Princess Leia! Does everything have to go wrong with my life?” She began to cry.
Linda came over—Judy scurrying behind and holding onto the skirt of her mother’s robe—and took Janelle in her arms. “You can still be Princess Leia, honeylove, I promise.”
Jan was looking at her parents with puzzlement, suspicion, and growing fright. “What are you doing in here? And why is she up?” Pointing to Judy.
“You peed in your bed,” Judy said smugly, and when Jan realized—realized and started to cry harder—Rusty felt like smacking Judy a good one. He usually felt like a pretty enlightened parent (especially compared to those he sometimes saw creeping into the Health Center with their arm-broke or eye-blackened children), but not tonight.
“It doesn’t matter,” Rusty said, hugging Jan close. “It wasn’t your fault. You had a little problem, but it’s over now.”
“Does she have to go to the hospital?” Linda asked.
“Only to the Health Center, and not tonight. Tomorrow morning. I’ll get her fixed up with the right medicine then.”
“NO SHOTS!” Jannie screamed, and began to cry harder than ever. Rusty loved the sound of it. It was a healthy sound. Strong.
“No shots, sweetheart. Pills.”
“Are you sure?” Lin asked.
Rusty looked at their dog, now lying peacefully with her snout on her paw, oblivious of all the drama.
“Audrey ’s sure,” he said. “But she ought to sleep in here with the girls for tonight.”
“Yay!” Judy cried. She fell to her knees and hugged Audi extravagantly.
Rusty put an arm around his wife. She laid her head on his shoulder as if too weary to hold it up any longer.
“Why now?” she asked. “Why now ?”
“I don’t know. Just be grateful it was only petit mal.”
On that score, his prayer had been answered.
MADNESS, BLINDNESS, ASTONISHMENT OF THE HEART
1
Scarecrow Joe wasn’t up early; he was up late. All night, in fact.
This would be Joseph McClatchey, age thirteen, also known as King of the Geeks and Skeletor, residing at 19 Mill Street. Standing six-two and weighing one-fifty, he was indeed skeletal. And he was a bona fide brain. Joe remained in the eighth grade only because his parents were adamantly opposed to the practice of “skipping forward.”
Joe didn’t mind. His friends (he had a surprising number for a scrawny thirteen-year-old genius) were there. Also, the work was a tit and there were plenty of computers to goof with; in Maine, every middle school kid got one. Some of the better websites were blocked, of course, but it hadn’t taken Joe long to conquer such minor annoyances. He was happy to share the information with his homies, two of whom were those dauntless board-benders Norrie Calvert and Benny Drake. (Benny particularly enjoyed surfing the Blondes in White Panties site during his daily library period.) This sharing no doubt explained some of Joe’s popularity, but not all; kids just thought he was cool. The bumper sticker plastered on his backpack probably came closest to explaining why. It read FIGHT THE POWERS THAT BE.
Joe was a straight-A student, a dependable and sometimes brilliant basketball center on the middle school team (varsity as a seventh-grader!), and a foxy-good soccer player. He could tickle the piano keys, and two years previous had won second prize in the annual Town Christmas Talent Competition with a hilariously laid-back dance routine to Gretchen Wilson’s “Redneck Woman.” It had the adults in attendance applauding and screaming with laughter. Lissa Jamieson, the town’s head librarian, said he could make a living doing that if he wanted to, but growing up to be Napoleon Dynamite was not Joe’s ambition.
“The fix was in,” Sam McClatchey had said, gloomily fingering his son’s second-place medal. It was probably true; the winner that year had been Dougie Twitchell, who happened to be the Third Select-man’s brother. Twitch had juggled half a dozen Indian clubs while singing “Moon River.”
Joe didn’t care if the fix was in or not. He had lost interest in dancing the way he lost interest in most things once he had to some degree mastered them. Even his love of basketball, which as a fifth-grader he had assumed to be eternal, was fading.
Only his passion for the Internet, that electronic galaxy of endless possibilities, did not seem to pall for him.
His ambition, unexpressed even to his parents, was to become President of the United States. Maybe, he sometimes thought, I’ll do the Napoleon Dynamite thing at my inaugural. That shit would be on YouTube for eternity.
Joe spent the entire first night the Dome was in place on the Internet. The McClatcheys had no generator, but Joe’s laptop was juiced and ready to go. Also, he had half a dozen spare batteries. He had urged the other seven or eight kids in his informal computer club to also keep spares on hand, and he knew where there were more if they were needed. They might not be; the school had a kick-ass generator, and he thought he could recharge there with no trouble. Even if Mill Middle went into lockdown, Mr. Allnut, the janitor, would no doubt hook him up; Mr. Allnut was also a fan of blondesinwhitepanties.com. Not to mention country music downloads, which Scarecrow Joe saw
he got for free.
Joe all but wore out his Wi-Fi connection that first night, going from blog to blog with the jitter-jive agility of a toad hopping on hot rocks. Each blog was more dire than the last. The facts were thin, the conspiracy theories lush. Joe agreed with his dad and mom, who called the weirder conspiracy theorists who lived on (and for) the Internet “the tinfoil-hat folks,” but he was also a believer in the idea that, if you were seeing a lot of horseshit, there had to be a pony in the vicinity.
As Dome Day became Day Two, all the blogs were suggesting the same thing: the pony in this case was not terrorists, invaders from space, or Great Cthulhu, but the good old military-industrial complex. The specifics varied from site to site, but three basic theories ran through all of them. One was that the Dome was some sort of heartless experiment, with the people of Chester’s Mill serving as guinea pigs. Another was that it was an experiment that had gone wrong and out of control (“Exactly like in that movie The Mist, ” one blogger wrote). A third was that it wasn’t an experiment at all, but a coldly created pretext to justify war with America’s stated enemies. “And WE’LL WIN!” ToldjaSo87 wrote. “Because with this new weapon, WHO CAN STAND AGAINST US? My friends, WE HAVE BECOME THE NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS OF NATIONS!!!!”
Joe didn’t know which if any of these theories was the truth. He didn’t really care. What he cared about was the expressed common denominator, which was the government.
It was time for a demonstration, which he of course would lead. Not in town, either, but out on Route 119, where they could stick it directly to The Man. It might only be Joe’s guys at first, but it would grow. He had no doubt of that. The Man was probably still keeping the press corps away, but even at thirteen, Joe was wise enough to know that didn’t necessarily matter. Because there were people inside those uniforms, and thinking brains behind at least some of those expressionless faces. The military presence as a whole might constitute The Man, but there would be individuals hiding in the whole, and some of them would be secret bloggers. They’d get the word out, and some would probably accompany their reports with camera-phone pictures: Joe McClatchey and his friends carrying signs reading END THE SECRECY, STOP THE EXPERIMENT, FREE CHESTER’S MILL, etc., etc.