by Stephen King
“Need to post signs around town, too,” he murmured. But that would be no problem. All of his guys had printers. And bikes.
Scarecrow Joe began sending e-mails by the dawn’s early light. Soon he’d make the rounds on his own bike, and enlist Benny Drake to help him. Maybe Norrie Calvert, too. Ordinarily the members of Joe’s posse were late weekend risers, but Joe thought everyone in town would be up early this morning. No doubt The Man would shut down the Internet soon, as He had the phones, but for now it was Joe’s weapon, the weapon of the people.
It was time to fight the power.
2
“Fellas, raise your hands,” Peter Randolph said. He was tired and baggy-eyed as he stood in front of his new recruits, but he also felt a certain grim happiness. The green Chief’s car was parked in the motor pool parking lot, freshly gassed and ready to go. It was his now.
The new recruits—Randolph intended to call them Special Deputies in his formal report to the Selectmen—obediently raised their hands. There were actually five of them, and one was not a fella but a stocky young woman named Georgia Roux. She was an unemployed hairdresser and Carter Thibodeau’s girlfriend. Junior had suggested to his father that they probably ought to add a female just to keep everybody happy, and Big Jim had concurred at once. Randolph initially resisted the idea, but when Big Jim favored the new Chief with his fiercest smile, Randolph had given in.
And, he had to admit as he administered the oath (with some of his regular force looking on), they certainly looked tough enough. Junior had lost some pounds over the previous summer and was nowhere near his weight as a high school offensive linemen, but he still had to go one-ninety, and the others, even the girl, were authentic bruisers.
They stood repeating the words after him, phrase for phrase: Junior on the far left, next to his friend Frankie DeLesseps; then Thibodeau and the Roux girl; Melvin Searles on the end. Searles was wearing a vacant going-to-the-county-fair grin. Randolph would have wiped that shit off his face in a hurry if he’d had three weeks to train these kids (hell, even one), but he didn’t.
The only thing on which he hadn’t caved to Big Jim was the issue of sidearms. Rennie had argued for them, insisting that these were “levelheaded, Godfearing young people,” and saying he’d be glad to provide them himself, if necessary.
Randolph had shaken his head. “The situation’s too volatile. Let’s see how they do first.”
“If one of them gets hurt while you’re seeing how they do—”
“Nobody’s gonna get hurt, Big Jim,” Randolph said, hoping he was right. “This is Chester’s Mill. If it was New York City, things might be different.”
3
Now Randolph said, “‘And I will, to the best of my ability, protect and serve the people of this town.’”
They gave it back as sweetly as a Sunday School class on Parents’ Day. Even the vacantly grinning Searles got it right. And they looked good. No guns—yet—but at least they had walkie-talkies. Nightsticks, too. Stacey Moggin (who would be pulling a street shift herself) had found uniform shirts for everyone but Carter Thibodeau. They had nothing to fit him because he was too broad in the shoulders, but the plain blue workshirt he’d fetched from home looked okay. Not reg, but it was clean. And the silver badge pinned over the left pocket sent the message that needed sending.
Maybe this was going to work.
“So help me God,” Randolph said.
“So help me God,” they repeated.
From the corner of his eye, Randolph saw the door open. It was Big Jim. He joined Henry Morrison, wheezy George Frederick, Fred Denton, and a dubious-looking Jackie Wettington at the back of the room. Rennie was here to see his son sworn in, Randolph knew. And because he was still uneasy about refusing the new men sidearms (refusing Big Jim anything ran counter to Randolph’s politically attuned nature), the new Chief now extemporized, mostly for the Second Selectman’s benefit.
“And I will take no shit from anybody.”
“And I will take no shit from anybody!” they repeated. With enthusiasm. All smiling now. Eager. Ready to hit the streets.
Big Jim was nodding and giving him a thumbs-up in spite of the cussword. Randolph felt himself expand, unaware the words would come back to haunt him: I will take no shit from anybody.
4
When Julia Shumway came into Sweetbriar Rose that morning, most of the breakfast crowd had departed either for church or impromptu forums on the common. It was nine o’clock. Barbie was on his own; neither Dodee Sanders nor Angie McCain had shown up, which surprised no one. Rose had gone to Food City. Anson went with her. Hopefully they’d come back loaded with groceries, but Barbie wouldn’t let himself believe it until he actually saw the goodies.
“We’re closed until lunch,” he said, “but there’s coffee.”
“And a cinnamon roll?” Julia asked hopefully.
Barbie shook his head. “Rose didn’t make them. Trying to conserve the gennie as much as possible.”
“Makes sense,” she said. “Just coffee, then.”
He had carried the pot with him, and poured. “You look tired.”
“Barbie, everyone looks tired this morning. And scared to death.”
“How’s that paper coming?”
“I was hoping to have it out by ten, but it’s looking more like three this afternoon. The first Democrat extra since the Prestile flooded in oh-three.”
“Production problems?”
“Not as long as my generator stays online. I just want to go down to the grocery store and see if a mob shows up. Get that part of the story, if one does. Pete Freeman’s already there to take pictures.”
Barbie didn’t like that word mob. “Christ, I hope they behave.”
“They will; this is The Mill, after all, not New York City.”
Barbie wasn’t sure there was that much difference between city mice and country mice when they were under stress, but he kept his mouth shut. She knew the locals better than he did.
And Julia, as if reading his mind: “Of course I could be wrong. That’s why I sent Pete.” She looked around. There were still a few people at the counter up front, finishing eggs and coffee, and of course the big table at the back—the “bullshit table” in Yankee parlance—was full of old men chewing over what had happened and discussing what might happen next. The center of the restaurant, however, she and Barbie had to themselves.
“Couple of things to tell you,” she said in a lower voice. “Stop hovering like Willie the Waiter and sit down.”
Barbie did so, and poured his own cup of coffee. It was the bottom of the pot and tasted like diesel … but of course the bottom of the pot was where the caffeine motherlode was.
Julia reached into the pocket of her dress, brought out her cell, and slid it across to him. “Your man Cox called again at seven this morning. Guess he didn’t get much sleep last night, either. Asked me to give you this. Doesn’t know you have one of your own.”
Barbie let the phone stay where it was. “If he expects a report already, he’s seriously overestimated my abilities.”
“He didn’t say that. He said that if he needed to talk to you, he wanted to be able to reach out.”
That decided Barbie. He pushed the cell phone back to her. She took it, not looking surprised. “He also said that if you didn’t hear from him by five this afternoon, you should call him. He’ll have an update. Want the number with the funny area code?”
He sighed. “Sure.”
She wrote it on a napkin: small neat numbers. “I think they’re going to try something.”
“What?”
“He didn’t say; it was just a sense I got that a number of options are on the table.”
“I’ll bet there are. What else is on your mind?”
“Who says there’s anything?”
“It’s just a sense I get,” he said, grinning.
“Okay, the Geiger counter.”
“I was thinking I’d speak to Al Timmons about that.” Al was
the Town Hall janitor, and a regular at Sweetbriar Rose. Barbie got on well with him.
Julia shook her head.
“No? Why no?”
“Want to guess who gave Al a personal no-interest loan to send Al’s youngest son to Heritage Christian in Alabama?”
“Would that be Jim Rennie?”
“Right. Now let’s go on to Double Jeopardy, where the scores can really change. Guess who holds the paper on Al’s Fisher plow.”
“I’m thinking that would also be Jim Rennie.”
“Correct. And since you’re the dogshit Selectman Rennie can’t quite scrape off his shoe, reaching out to people who owe him might not be a good idea.” She leaned forward. “But it so happens that I know who had a complete set of the keys to the kingdom: Town Hall, hospital, Health Center, schools, you name it.”
“Who?”
“Our late police chief. And I happen to know his wife—widow—very well. She has no love for James Rennie. Plus, she can keep a secret if someone convinces her it needs keeping.”
“Julia, her husband isn’t even cold yet.”
Julia thought of the grim little Bowie funeral parlor and made a grimace of sorrow and distaste. “Maybe not, but he’s probably down to room temperature. I take your point, though, and applaud your compassion. But …” She grasped his hand. This surprised Barbie but didn’t displease him. “These aren’t ordinary circumstances. And no matter how brokenhearted she is, Brenda Perkins will know that. You have a job to do. I can convince her of that. You’re the inside man.”
“The inside man,” Barbie said, and was suddenly visited by a pair of unwelcome memories: a gymnasium in Fallujah and a weeping Iraqi man, naked save for his unraveling keffiyeh. After that day and that gym, he had stopped wanting to be an inside man. And yet here he was.
“So shall I—”
It was a warm morning for October, and although the door was now locked (people could leave but not reenter), the windows were open. Through those facing Main Street, there now came a hollow metallic bang and a yelp of pain. It was followed by cries of protest.
Barbie and Julia looked at each other across their coffee cups with identical expressions of surprise and apprehension.
It begins right now, Barbie thought. He knew that wasn’t true—it had begun yesterday, when the Dome came down—but at the same time he felt sure it was true.
The people at the counter were running to the door. Barbie got up to join them, and Julia followed.
Down the street, at the north end of the town common, the bell in the steeple of the First Congregational Church began to ring, summoning the faithful to worship.
5
Junior Rennie felt great. He had not so much as a shadow of a headache this morning, and breakfast was sitting easy in his stomach. He thought he might even be able to eat lunch. That was good. He hadn’t had much use for food lately; half the time just looking at it made him feel throw-uppy. Not this morning, though. Flapjacks and bacon, baby.
If this is the apocalypse, he thought, it should have come sooner.
Each Special Deputy had been partnered with a regular full-time officer. Junior drew Freddy Denton, and that was also good. Denton, balding but still trim at fifty, was known as a serious hardass … but there were exceptions. He had been president of the Wildcat Boosters Club during Junior’s high school football years, and it was rumored he had never given a varsity football player a ticket. Junior couldn’t speak for all of them, but he knew that Frankie DeLesseps had been let off by Freddy once, and Junior himself had been given the old “I’m not going to write you up this time but slow down” routine twice. Junior could have been partnered with Wettington, who probably thought a first down was finally letting some guy into her pants. She had a great rack, but can you say loser ? Nor had he cared for the cold-eyed look she gave him after the swearing-in, as he and Freddy passed her on their way to the street.
Got a little leftover pantry space for you, if you fuck with me, Jackie, he thought, and laughed. God, the heat and light on his face felt good! How long since it had felt so good?
Freddy looked over. “Something funny, Junes?”
“Nothing in particular,” Junior said. “I’m just on a roll, that’s all.”
Their job—this morning, at least—was to foot-patrol Main Street (“To announce our presence,” Randolph had said), first up one side and down the other. Pleasant enough duty in the warm October sunshine.
They were passing Mill Gas & Grocery when they heard raised voices from inside. One belonged to Johnny Carver, the manager and part owner. The other was too slurry for Junior to make out, but Freddy Denton rolled his eyes.
“Sloppy Sam Verdreaux, as I live and breathe,” he said. “Shit! And not even nine-thirty.”
“Who’s Sam Verdreaux?” Junior asked.
Freddy’s mouth tightened down to a white line Junior recognized from his football days. It was Freddy’s Ah fuck, we’re behind look. Also his Ah fuck, that was a bad call look. “You’ve been missing the better class of Mill society, Junes. But you’re about to get introduced.”
Carver was saying, “I know it’s past nine, Sammy, and I see you’ve got money, but I still can’t sell you any wine. Not this morning, not this afternoon, not tonight. Probably not tomorrow either, unless this mess clears itself up. That’s from Randolph himself. He’s the new Chief.”
“Like fuck he is!” the other voice responded, but it was so slurry it came to Junior’s ears sounding as Li-fuh hizz. “Pete Randolph ain’t but shitlint on Duke Perkins’ asshole.”
“Duke’s dead and Randolph says no booze sales. I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Just one bottle of T-Bird,” Sam whined. Juz one barf T-Burr. “I need it. Annd, I can pay for it. Come on. How long I been tradin here?”
“Well shit.” Although he sounded disgusted with himself, Johnny was turning to look at the wall-long case of beer and vino as Junior and Freddy came up the aisle. He had probably decided a single bottle of Bird would be a small price to get the old rumpot out of his store, especially since a number of shoppers were watching and avidly awaiting further developments.
The hand-printed sign on the case said absolutely NO ALCOHOL SALES UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, but the wussy was reaching for the booze just the same, the stuff in the middle. That was where the cheapass popskull lived. Junior had been on the force less than two hours, but he knew that was a bad idea. If Carver caved in to the straggle-haired wino, other, less disgusting customers would demand the same privilege.
Freddy Denton apparently agreed. “Don’t do that,” he told Johnny Carver. And to Verdreaux, who was looking at him with the red eyes of a mole caught in a brushfire: “I don’t know if you have enough working brain cells left to read the sign, but I know you heard the man: no alcohol today. So get in the breeze. Quit smelling up the place.”
“You can’t do that, Officer,” Sam said, drawing himself up to his full five and a half feet. He was wearing filthy chinos, a Led Zeppelin tee-shirt, and old slippers with busted backs. His hair looked as if it had last been cut while Bush II was riding high in the polls. “I got my rights. Free country. Says so right in the Constitution of Independence.”
“The Constitution’s been canceled in The Mill,” Junior said, with absolutely no idea that he was speaking prophecy. “So put an egg in your shoe and beat it.” God, how fine he felt! In barely a day he had gone from doom and gloom to boom and zoom!
“But …”
Sam stood there for a moment with his lower lip trembling, trying to muster more arguments. Junior observed with disgust and fascination that the old fuck’s eyes were getting wet. Sam held out his hands, which were trembling far worse than his loose mouth. He only had one more argument to make, but it was a hard one to bring out in front of an audience. Because he had to, he did.
“I really need it, Johnny. No joke. Just a little, to stop the shakes. I’ll make it last. And I won’t get up to no dickens. Swear on my mother’s name. I’ll just go home.” Ho
me for Sloppy Sam was a shack sitting in a gruesomely bald dooryard dotted with old auto parts.
“Maybe I ought to—” Johnny Carver began.
Freddy ignored him. “Sloppy, you never made a bottle last in your life.”
“Don’t you call me that!” Sam Verdreaux cried. The tears over-spilled his eyes and slid down his cheeks.
“Your fly’s unzipped, oldtimer,” Junior said, and when Sam looked down at the crotch of his grimy chinos, Junior stroked a finger up the flabby underside of the old man’s chin and then tweaked his beak. A grammar school trick, sure, but it hadn’t lost its charm. Junior even said what they’d said back then: “Dirty clothes, gotcha nose!”
Freddy Denton laughed. So did a couple of other people. Even Johnny Carver smiled, although he didn’t look as if he really wanted to.
“Get outta here, Sloppy,” Freddy said. “It’s a nice day. You don’t want to spend it in a cell.”
But something—maybe being called Sloppy, maybe having his nose tweaked, maybe both—had relit some of the rage that had awed and frightened Sam’s mates when he’d been a lumber-jockey on the Canadian side of the Merimachee forty years before. The tremble disappeared from his lips and hands, at least temporarily. His eyes lighted on Junior, and he made a phlegmy but undeniably contemptuous throat-clearing sound. When he spoke, the slur had left his voice.
“Fuck you, kid. You ain’t no cop, and you was never much of a football player. Couldn’t even make the college B-team is what I heard.”
His gaze switched to Officer Denton.
“And you, Deputy Dawg. Sunday sales legal after nine o’clock. Has been since the seventies, and that’s the end of that tale.”
Now it was Johnny Carver he was looking at. Johnny’s smile was gone, and the watching customers had grown very silent. One woman had a hand to her throat.