Under the Dome: A Novel

by Stephen King

  “I guess so….”

  Joe looked at Jackie. “And could you get hold of this Colonel Cox, if you had to?”

  “Yes.” Jackie and Julia answered together, then looked at each other in surprise.

  Light was dawning on Rommie’s face. “You’re thinking about the old McCoy place, aren’t you? Up on Black Ridge. Where the box is.”

  “Yeah. It might be a bad idea, but if we all had to run … if we were all up there … we could defend the box. I know that sounds crazy, since it’s the thing causing all the problems, but we can’t let Rennie get it.”

  “I hope it don’t come to refighting the Alamo in an apple orchard,” Rommie said, “but I see your point.”

  “There’s something else we could do, too,” Joe said. “It’s a little risky, and it might not work, but …”

  “Spill it,” Julia said. She was looking at Joe McClatchey with a kind of bemused awe.

  “Well … is the Geiger counter still in your van, Rommie?”

  “I t’ink so, yeah.”

  “Maybe someone could put it back in the fallout shelter where it came from.” Joe turned to Jackie and Linda. “Could either of you get in there? I mean, I know you got fired.”

  “Al Timmons would let us in, I think,” Linda said. “And he’d let Stacey Moggin in for sure. She’s with us. The only reason she’s not here right now is because she’s got the duty. Why risk it, Joe?”

  “Because …” He was speaking with uncharacteristic slowness, feeling his way. “Well … there’s radiation out there, see? Bad radiation. It’s just a belt—I bet you could drive right through it without any protection at all and not get hurt, if you drove fast and didn’t try it too often—but they don’t know that. The problem is, they don’t know there’s radiation out there at all. And they won’t, if they don’t have the Geiger counter.”

  Jackie was frowning. “It’s a cool idea, kiddo, but I don’t like the idea of pointing Rennie right at where we’re going. That doesn’t fit with my idea of a safe house.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be like that,” Joe said. He was still speaking slowly, testing for weak spots. “Not exactly, anyway. One of you could get in touch with Cox, see? Tell him to call Rennie and say they’re picking up spot radiation. Cox can say something like, ‘We can’t exactly pinpoint it because it comes and goes, but it’s pretty high, maybe even lethal, so watch out. You don’t happen to have a Geiger counter, do you?’”

  There was a long silence as they considered this. Then Rommie said, “We take Barbara and Rusty out to the McCoy farm. We go there ourselves if we have to … which we probably will. And if they try to go out there—”

  “They get a radiation spike on the Geiger counter that sends them running back to town with their hands over their worthless gonads,” Ernie rasped. “Claire McClatchey, you got a genius there.”

  Claire hugged Joe tight, this time with both arms. “Now if I could only get him to pick up his room,” she said.

  20

  Horace lay on the rug in Andrea Grinnell’s living room with his snout on one paw and his eye on the woman his mistress had left him with. Ordinarily Julia took him everywhere; he was quiet and never caused trouble even if there were cats, which he didn’t care for because of their stinkweed smell. Tonight, however, it had occurred to Julia that seeing Horace alive when her own dog was dead might cause Piper Libby pain. She had also noticed that Andi liked Horace, and thought that the Corgi might take Andi’s mind off her withdrawal symptoms, which had abated but not disappeared.

  For a while it worked. Andi found a rubber ball in the toybox she still kept for her one grandchild (who was now well past the toybox stage of life). Horace chased the ball obediently and brought it back as was required, although there wasn’t much challenge in it; he preferred balls that could be caught on the fly. But a job was a job, and he continued until Andi started shivering as if she were cold.

  “Oh. Oh fuck, here it comes again.”

  She lay down on the couch, shaking all over. She clutched one of the sofa-pillows against her chest and stared at the ceiling. Pretty soon her teeth started to clatter—a very annoying sound, in Horace’s opinion.

  He brought her the ball, hoping to distract her, but she pushed him away. “No, honey, not now. Let me get through this.”

  Horace took the ball back in front of the blank TV and lay down. The woman’s shaking moderated, and the sick-smell moderated along with it. The arms clutching the pillow loosened as she first began to drift and then to snore.

  Which meant it was chowtime.

  Horace slipped under the table again, walking over the manila envelope containing the VADER file. Beyond it was popcorn Nirvana. O lucky dog!

  Horace was still snarking, his tailless rear end wagging with pleasure that was close to ecstasy (the scattered kernels were incredibly buttery, incredibly salty, and—best of all—aged to perfection), when the deadvoice spoke again.

  Take that to her.

  But he couldn’t. His mistress was gone.

  The other her.

  The deadvoice brooked no refusal, and the popcorn was almost gone, anyway. Horace marked the few remaining blossoms for later attention, then backed up until the envelope was in front of him. For a moment he forgot what he was supposed to do. Then he remembered and picked it up in his mouth.

  Good dog.

  21

  Something cold licked Andrea’s cheek. She pushed it away and turned on her side. For a moment or two she almost escaped back into healing sleep, and then there was bark.

  “Shurrup, Horace.” She put the sofa pillow over her head.

  There was another bark, and then thirty-four pounds of Corgi landed on her legs.

  “Ah!” Andi cried, sitting up. She looked into a pair of brilliant hazel eyes and a foxy, grinning face. Only there was something interrupting that grin. A brown manila envelope. Horace dropped it on her stomach and jumped back down. He wasn’t supposed to get on furniture other than his own, but the deadvoice had made this seem like an emergency.

  Andrea picked up the envelope, which had been dented by the points of Horace’s teeth and was faintly marked with the tracks of his paws. There was also a kernel of popcorn stuck to it, which she brushed away. Whatever was inside felt fairly bulky. Printed on the front of the envelope in block letters were the words VADER FILE. Below that, also printed: JULIA SHUMWAY.

  “Horace? Where did you get this?”

  Horace couldn’t answer that, of course, but he didn’t have to. The kernel of popcorn told her where. A memory surfaced then, one so shimmery and unreal that it was more like a dream. Was it a dream, or had Brenda Perkins really come to her door after that first terrible night of withdrawal? While the food riot was going on at the other end of town?

  Will you hold this for me, dear? Just for a little while? I have an errand to run and I don’t want to take it with me.

  “She was here,” she told Horace, “and she had this envelope. I took it … at least I think I did … but then I had to throw up. Throw up again. I might have tossed it at the table while I was running for the john. Did it fall off? Did you find it on the floor?”

  Horace uttered one sharp bark. It could have been agreement; it could have been I’m ready for more ball if you are.

  “Well, thanks,” Andrea said. “Good pup. I’ll give it to Julia as soon as she comes back.”

  She no longer felt sleepy, and she wasn’t—for the moment—shivery, either. What she was was curious. Because Brenda was dead. Murdered. And it must have happened not long after she delivered this envelope. Which might make it important.

  “I’ll just have a tiny peek, shall I?” she said.

  Horace barked again. To Andi Grinnell it sounded like Why not?

  Andrea opened the envelope, and most of Big Jim Rennie’s secrets fell out into her lap.

  22

  Claire got home first. Benny came next, then Norrie. The three of them were sitting together on the porch of the McClatchey house
when Joe arrived, cutting across lawns and keeping to the shadows. Benny and Norrie were drinking warm Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda. Claire was nursing a bottle of her husband’s beer as she rocked slowly to and fro on the porch glider. Joe sat down beside her, and Claire put an arm around his bony shoulders. He’s fragile, she thought. He doesn’t know it, but he is. No more to him than a bird.

  “Dude,” Benny said, handing him the soda he’d saved for him. “We were startin to get a little worried.”

  “Miz Shumway had a few more questions about the box,” Joe said. “More than I could answer, really. Gosh, it’s warm out, isn’t it? Warm as a summer night.” He turned his gaze upward. “And look at that moon. ”

  “I don’t want to,” Norrie said. “It’s scary.”

  “You okay, honey?” Claire asked.

  “Yeah, Mom. You?”

  She smiled. “I don’t know. Is this going to work? What do you guys think? I mean really think.”

  For a moment none of them answered, and that scared her more than anything. Then Joe kissed her on the cheek and said, “It’ll work.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  She could always tell when he was lying—although she knew the talent might leave her when he was older—but she didn’t call him on it this time. She just kissed him back, her breath warm and somehow fatherly with beer. “Just as long as there’s no bloodshed.”

  “No blood,” Joe said.

  She smiled. “Okay; that’s good enough for me.”

  They sat there in the dark a while longer, saying little. Then they went inside, leaving the town to sleep under the pink moon.

  It was just past midnight.

  BLOOD EVERYWHERE

  1

  It was twelve-thirty on the morning of October twenty-sixth when Julia let herself into Andrea’s house. She did it quietly, but there was no need; she could hear music from Andi’s little portable radio: the Staples Singers, kicking holy ass with “Get Right Church.”

  Horace came down the hall to greet her, wagging his rear end and grinning that slightly mad grin of which only Corgis seem capable. He bowed before her, paws splayed, and Julia gave him a brief scratch behind the ears—it was his sweet spot.

  Andrea was sitting on the couch, drinking a glass of tea.

  “Sorry about the music,” she said, turning it down. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “It’s your house, honey,” Julia said. “And for WCIK, that really rocks.”

  Andi smiled. “It’s been uptempo gospel ever since this afternoon. I feel like I hit the jackpot. How was your meeting?”

  “Good.” Julia sat down.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “You don’t need the worry. What you need is to concentrate on feeling better. And you know what? You look a little better.”

  It was true. Andi was still pale, and much too thin, but the dark circles under her eyes had faded a little, and the eyes themselves had a new spark. “Thanks for saying so.”

  “Was Horace a good boy?”

  “Very good. We played ball, and then we both slept a little. If I look better, that’s probably why. Nothing like a nap to improve a girl’s looks.”

  “What about your back?”

  Andrea smiled. It was an oddly knowing smile, without much humor in it. “My back isn’t bad at all. Hardly a twinge, even when I bend over. Do you know what I think?”

  Julia shook her head.

  “I think that when it comes to drugs, the body and the mind are co-conspirators. If the brain wants drugs, the body helps out. It says, ‘Don’t worry, don’t feel guilty, it’s okay, I really hurt.’ It’s not exactly hypochondria I’m talking about, nothing so simple. Just …” She trailed off and her eyes grew distant as she went somewhere else.

  Where? Julia wondered.

  Then she came back. “Human nature can be destructive. Tell me, do you think a town is like a body?”

  “Yes,” Julia said instantly.

  “And can it say it hurts so the brain can take the drugs it craves?”

  Julia considered, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “And right now, Big Jim Rennie is this town’s brain, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, hon. I’d say he is.”

  Andrea sat on the couch, head slightly lowered. Then she snapped off the little battery radio and got to her feet. “I think I’ll go up to bed. And do you know, I think I might actually be able to sleep.”

  “That’s good.” And then, for no reason she could have articulated, Julia asked: “Andi, did anything happen while I was gone?”

  Andrea looked surprised. “Why, yes. Horace and I played ball.” She bent down without the slightest wince of pain—a movement she would only a week ago have claimed was impossible for her—and held out one hand. Horace came to her and allowed his head to be stroked. “He’s very good at fetching.”

  2

  In her room, Andrea settled on her bed, opened the VADER file, and began to read through it again. More carefully this time. When she finally slid the papers back into the manila envelope, it was close to two AM. She put the envelope into the drawer of the table next to her bed. Also in the drawer was a.38 pistol, which her brother Douglas had given her for her birthday two years ago. She had been dismayed, but Dougie had insisted that a woman living alone should have protection.

  Now she took it out, popped the cylinder, and checked the chambers. The one that would roll under the hammer when the trigger was pulled for the first time was empty, as per Twitch’s instructions. The other five were full. She had more bullets on the top shelf of her closet, but they would never give her a chance to reload. His little army of cops would shoot her down first.

  And if she couldn’t kill Rennie with five shots, she probably didn’t deserve to live, anyway.

  “After all,” she murmured as she put the gun back in the drawer, “what did I get straight for, anyway?” The answer seemed clear now that the Oxy had cleared her brain: she’d gotten straight to shoot straight.

  “Amen to that,” she said, and turned out the light.

  Five minutes later she was asleep.

  3

  Junior was wide awake. He sat by the window in the hospital room’s only chair, watching the bizarre pink moon decline and slip behind a black smudge on the Dome that was new to him. This one was bigger and much higher than the one left by the failed missile strikes. Had there been some other effort to breach the Dome while he’d been unconscious? He didn’t know and didn’t care. What mattered was that the Dome was still holding. If it hadn’t been, the town would have been lit like Vegas and crawling with GI Joes. Oh, there were lights here and there, marking a few diehard insomniacs, but for the most part, Chester’s Mill slept. That was good, because he had things to think about.

  Namely Baaarbie and Barbie’s friends.

  Junior had no headache as he sat by the window, and his memories had come back, but he was aware that he was a very sick boy. There was a suspicious weakness all down the left side of his body, and sometimes spit slipped from that side of his mouth. If he wiped it away with his left hand, sometimes he could feel skin against skin and sometimes he couldn’t. In addition to this, there was a dark keyhole shape, quite large, floating on the left side of his vision. As if something had torn inside that eyeball. He supposed it had.

  He could remember the wild rage he’d felt on Dome Day; could remember chasing Angie down the hall to the kitchen, throwing her against the fridge, and hoicking his knee into her face. He could remember the sound it made, as if there were a china platter behind her eyes and his knee had shattered it. That rage was gone now. What had taken its place was a silken fury that flowed through his body from some bottomless source deep inside his head, a spring that simultaneously chilled and clarified.

  The old fuck he and Frankie had rousted at Chester Pond had come in to examine him earlier this evening. The old fuck acted professional, taking his temperature and blood pressure, asking how his headache was, even check
ing his knee reflexes with a little rubber hammer. Then, after he left, Junior heard talk and laughter. Barbie’s name was mentioned. Junior crept to the door.

  It was the old fuck and one of the candy stripers, the pretty dago whose name was Buffalo or something like Buffalo. The old fuck had her top open and was feeling her tits. She had his fly open and was jerking his dick. A poison green light surrounded them. “Junior and his friend beat me up,” the old fuck was saying, “but now his friend’s dead and soon he will be, too. Barbie’s orders.”

  “I like to suck Barbie’s dick like a peppermint stick,” the Buffalo-girl said, and the old fuck said he enjoyed that, too. Then, when Junior blinked his eyes, the two of them were just walking down the hall. No green aura, no dirty stuff. So maybe it had been a hallucination. On the other hand, maybe not. One thing was for sure: they were all in it together. All in league with Baaarbie. He was in jail, but that was just temporary. To gain sympathy, probably. All part of Baaarbie ’s plaaan. Plus, he thought that in jail he was beyond Junior’s reach.

  “Wrong,” he whispered as he sat by the window, looking out at the night with his now-defective vision. “Wrong.”

  Junior knew exactly what had happened to him; it had come in a flash, and the logic was undeniable. He was suffering from thallium poisoning, like what had happened to that Russian guy in England. Barbie’s dog tags had been coated with thallium dust, and Junior had handled them, and now he was dying. And since his father had sent him to Barbie’s apartment, that meant he was a part of it, too. He was another of Barbie’s … his … what did you call those guys …

  “Minions,” Junior whispered. “Just another one of Big Jim Rennie’s filet minions.”

  Once you thought about it—once your mind was clarified—it made perfect sense. His father wanted to shut him up about Coggins and Perkins. Hence, thallium poisoning. It all hung together.