Under the Dome: A Novel

by Stephen King

The Reverend Piper Libby, who ministered to her flock from the pulpit of the First Congregational Church, no longer believed in God, although this was a fact she had not shared with her congregants. Lester Coggins, on the other hand, believed to the point of martyrdom or madness (both words for the same thing, perhaps).

  The Rev. Libby, still wearing her Saturday grubs—and still pretty enough, even at forty-five, to look good in them—knelt in front of the altar in almost total darkness (the Congo had no generator), with Clover, her German shepherd, lying behind her with his nose on his paws and his eyes at half-mast.

  “Hello, Not-There,” Piper said. Not-There was her private name for God just lately. Earlier in the fall it had been The Great Maybe. During the summer, it had been The Omnipotent Could-Be. She’d liked that one; it had a certain ring. “You know the situation I’ve been in—You should, I’ve bent Your ear about it enough—but that’s not what I’m here to talk about tonight. Which is probably a relief to You.”

  She sighed.

  “We’re in a mess here, my Friend. I hope You understand it, because I sure don’t. But we both know this place is going to be full of people tomorrow, looking for heavenly disaster assistance.”

  It was quiet inside the church, and quiet outside. “Too quiet,” as they said in the old movies. Had she ever heard The Mill this quiet on a Saturday night? There was no traffic, and the bass thump of whatever weekend band happened to be playing at Dipper’s (always advertised as being DIRECT FROM BOSTON!) was absent.

  “I’m not going to ask that You show me Your will, because I’m no longer convinced You actually have a will. But on the off chance that You are there after all—always a possibility, I’m more than happy to admit that—please help me to say something helpful. Hope not in heaven, but right here on earth. Because …” She was not surprised to find that she had started to cry. She bawled so often now, although always in private. New Englanders strongly disapproved of public tears from ministers and politicians.

  Clover, sensing her distress, whined. Piper told him to hush, then turned back to the altar. She often thought of the cross there as the religious version of the Chevrolet Bowtie, a logo that had come into being for no other reason than because some guy saw it on the wallpaper of a Paris hotel room a hundred years ago and liked it. If you saw such symbols as divine, you were probably a lunatic.

  Nevertheless, she persevered.

  “Because, as I’m sure You know, Earth is what we have. What we’re sure of. I want to help my people. That’s my job, and I still want to do it. Assuming You’re there, and that You care—shaky assumptions, I admit—then please help me. Amen.”

  She stood up. She had no flashlight, but anticipated no trouble finding her way outside with unbarked shins. She knew this place step for step and obstacle for obstacle. Loved it, too. She didn’t fool herself about either her lack of faith or her stubborn love of the idea itself.

  “Come on, Clove,” she said. “President in half an hour. The other Great Not-There. We can listen on the car radio.”

  Clover followed placidly, untroubled by questions of faith.

  5

  Out on Little Bitch Road (always referred to as Number Three by Holy Redeemer worshippers), a far more dynamic scene was taking place, and under bright electric lights. Lester Coggins’s house of worship possessed a generator new enough for the shipping tags still to be pasted on its bright orange side. It had its own shed, also painted orange, next to the storage barn behind the church.

  Lester was a man of fifty so well maintained—by genetics as well as his own strenuous efforts to take care of the temple of his body—that he looked no more than thirty-five (judicious applications of Just For Men helped in this regard). He wore nothing tonight but a pair of gym shorts with ORAL ROBERTS GOLDEN EAGLES printed on the right leg, and almost every muscle on his body stood out.

  During services (of which there were five each week), Lester prayed in an ecstatic televangelist tremolo, turning the Big Fellow’s name into something that sounded as if it could have come from an overamped wah-wah pedal: not God but GUH-UH-UH-ODD! In his private prayers, he sometimes fell into these same cadences without realizing it. But when he was deeply troubled, when he really needed to take counsel with the God of Moses and Abraham, He who traveled as a pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night, Lester held up his end of the conversation in a deep growl that made him sound like a dog on the verge of attacking an intruder. He wasn’t aware of this because there was no one in his life to hear him pray. Piper Libby was a widow who had lost her husband and both young sons in an accident three years before; Lester Coggins was a lifelong bachelor who as an adolescent had suffered nightmares of masturbating and looking up to see Mary Magdalene standing in his bedroom doorway.

  The church was almost as new as the generator, and constructed of expensive red maple. It was also plain to the point of starkness. Behind Lester’s bare back stretched a triple rank of pews beneath a beamed ceiling. Ahead of him was the pulpit: nothing but a lectern with a Bible on it and a large redwood cross hanging on a drape of royal purple. The choir loft was above and to the right, with musical instruments—including the Stratocaster Lester himself sometimes played—clustered at one end.

  “God hear my prayer,” Lester said in his growly I’m-really-praying voice. In one hand he held a heavy length of rope that had been knotted twelve times, one knot for each disciple. The ninth knot—the one signifying Judas—had been painted black. “God hear my prayer, I ask it in the name of the crucified and risen Jesus.”

  He began to whip himself across the back with the rope, first over the left shoulder and then over the right, his arm rising and flexing smoothly. His not inconsiderable biceps and delts began to pop a sweat. When it struck his already well-scarred skin, the knotted rope made a carpet-beater sound. He had done this many times before, but never with such force.

  “God hear my prayer ! God hear my prayer! God hear my prayer! God hear my prayer!”

  Whack and whack and whack and whack. The sting like fire, like nettles. Sinking in along the turnpikes and byroads of his miserable human nerves. Both terrible and terribly satisfying.

  “Lord, we have sinned in this town, and I am chief among sinners. I listened to Jim Rennie and believed his lies. Yea, I believed, and here is the price, and it is now as it was of old. It’s not just the one that pays for the sin of one, but the many. You are slow to anger, but when it comes, Your anger is like the storms that sweep a field of wheat, laying low not just one stalk or a score but every one. I have sowed the wind and reaped the whirlwind, not just for one but for many.”

  There were other sins and other sinners in The Mill—he knew that, he was not naïve, they swore and danced and sexed and took drugs he knew far too much about—and they no doubt deserved to be punished, to be scourged, but that was true of every town, surely, and this was the only one that had been singled out for this terrible act of God.

  And yet … and yet … was it possible that this strange curse was not because of his sin? Yes. Possible. Although not likely.

  “Lord, I need to know what to do. I’m at the crossroads. If it’s Your will that I should stand in this pulpit tomorrow morning and confess to what that man talked me into—the sins we participated in together, the sins I have participated in alone—then I will do so. But that would mean the end of my ministry, and it’s hard for me to believe that’s Your will at such a crucial time. If it’s Your will that I should wait … wait and see what happens next … wait and pray with my flock that this burden should be lifted … then I’ll do that. Your will be done, Lord. Now and always.”

  He paused in his scourging (he could feel warm and comforting trickles running down his bare back; several of the rope knots had begun to turn red) and turned his tearstained face up toward the beamed roof.

  “Because these folks need me, Lord. You know they do, now more than ever. So … if it’s Your will that this cup should be removed from my lips … please give me a si
gn.”

  He waited. And behold, the Lord God said unto Lester Coggins, “I will shew you a sign. Goest thou to thy Bible, even as you did as a child after those nasty dreams of yours.”

  “This minute,” Lester said. “This second. ”

  He hung the knotted rope around his neck, where it printed a blood horseshoe on his chest and shoulders, then mounted to the pulpit with more blood trickling down the hollow of his spine and dampening the elastic waistband of his shorts.

  He stood at the pulpit as if to preach (although never in his worst nightmares had he dreamed of preaching in such scant garb), closed the Bible lying open there, then shut his eyes. “Lord, Thy will be done—I ask in the name of Your Son, crucified in shame and risen in glory.”

  And the Lord said, “Open My Book, and see what you see.”

  Lester did as instructed (taking care not to open the big Bible too close to the middle—this was an Old Testament job if ever there had been one). He plunged his finger down to the unseen page, then opened his eyes and bent to look. It was the second chapter of Deuteronomy, the twenty-eighth verse. He read:

  “The Lord shalt smite thee with madness and blindness and astonishment of the heart.”

  Astonishment of the heart was probably good, but on the whole this wasn’t encouraging. Or clear. Then the Lord spake again, saying: “Don’t stop there, Lester.”

  He read the twenty-ninth verse.

  “And thou shalt grope at noonday—”

  “Yes, Lord, yes,” he breathed, and read on.

  “—as the blind gropeth in darkness, and thou shalt not prosper in thy ways: and thou shalt be only oppressed and spoiled evermore, and no man shall save thee.”

  “Will I be struck blind?” Lester asked, his growly prayer-voice rising slightly. “Oh God, please don’t do that—although, if it is Thy will—”

  The Lord spake unto him again, saying, “Did you get up on the stupid side of the bed today, Lester?”

  His eyes flew wide. God’s voice, but one of his mother’s favorite sayings. A true miracle. “No, Lord, no.”

  “Then look again. What am I shewing you?”

  “It’s something about madness. Or blindness.”

  “Which of the two dost thou thinkest most likely?”

  Lester scored the verses. The only word repeated was blind.

  “Is that … Lord, is that my sign?”

  The Lord answered, saying, “Yea, verily, but not thine own blindness; for now thine eyes see more clearly. Lookest thou for the blinded one who has gone mad. When you see him, you must tell your congregation what Rennie has been up to out here, and your part in it. You both must tell. We’ll talk about this more, but for now, Lester, go to bed. You’re dripping on the floor.”

  Lester did, but first he cleaned up the little splatters of blood on the hardwood behind the pulpit. He did it on his knees. He didn’t pray as he worked, but he meditated on the verses. He felt much better.

  For the time being, he would speak only generally of the sins which might have brought this unknown barrier down between The Mill and the outside world; but he would look for the sign. For a blind man or woman who had gone crazy, yea, verily.

  6

  Brenda Perkins listened to WCIK because her husband liked it (had liked it), but she would never have set foot inside the Holy Redeemer Church. She was Congo to the core, and she made sure her husband went with her.

  Had made sure. Howie would only be in the Congo church once more. Would lie there, unknowing, while Piper Libby preached his eulogy.

  This realization—so stark and immutable—struck home. For the first time since she’d gotten the news, Brenda let loose and wailed. Perhaps because now she could. Now she was alone.

  On the television, the President—looking solemn and frighteningly old—was saying, “My fellow Americans, you want answers. And I pledge to give them to you as soon as I have them. There will be no secrecy on this issue. My window on events will be your window. That is my solemn promise—”

  “Yeah, and you’ve got a bridge you want to sell me,” Brenda said, and that made her cry harder, because it was one of Howie’s faves. She snapped off the TV, then dropped the remote on the floor. She felt like stepping on it and breaking it but didn’t, mostly because she could see Howie shaking his head and telling her not to be silly.

  She went into his little study instead, wanting to touch him somehow while his presence here was still fresh. Needing to touch him. Out back, their generator purred. Fat n happy, Howie would have said. She’d hated the expense of that thing when Howie ordered it after nine-eleven (Just to be on the safe side, he’d told her), but now she regretted every sniping word she’d said about it. Missing him in the dark would have been even more terrible, more lonely.

  His desk was bare except for his laptop, which was standing open. His screen saver was a picture from a long-ago Little League game. Both Howie and Chip, then eleven or twelve, were wearing the green jerseys of the Sanders Hometown Drug Monarchs; the picture had been taken the year Howie and Rusty Everett had taken the Sanders team to the state finals. Chip had his arms around his father and Brenda had her arms around both of them. A good day. But fragile. As fragile as a crystal goblet. Who knew such things at the time, when it still might be possible to hold on a little?

  She hadn’t been able to get hold of Chip yet, and the thought of that call—supposing she could make it—undid her completely. Sobbing, she got down on her knees beside her husband’s desk. She didn’t fold her hands but put them together palm to palm, as she had as a child, kneeling in flannel pajamas beside her bed and reciting the mantra of God bless Mom, God bless Dad, God bless my goldfish who doesn’t have a name yet.

  “God, this is Brenda. I don’t want him back … well, I do, but I know You can’t do that. Only give me the strength to bear this, okay? And I wonder if maybe … I don’t know if this is blasphemy or not, probably it is, but I wonder if You could let him talk to me one more time. Maybe let him touch me one more time, like he did this morning.”

  At the thought of it—his fingers on her skin in the sunshine—she cried even harder.

  “I know You don’t deal in ghosts—except of course for the Holy one—but maybe in a dream? I know it’s a lot to ask, but … oh God, there’s such a hole in me tonight. I didn’t know there could be such holes in a person, and I’m afraid I’ll fall in. If You do this for me, I’ll do something for You. All You have to do is ask. Please, God, just a touch. Or a word. Even if it’s in a dream.” She took a deep, wet breath. “Thank you. Thy will be done, of course. Whether I like it or not.” She laughed weakly. “Amen.”

  She opened her eyes and got up, holding the desk for support. One hand nudged the computer, and the screen brightened at once. He was always forgetting to turn it off, but at least he kept it plugged in so the battery wouldn’t run down. And he kept his electronic desktop far neater than she did; hers was always cluttered with downloads and electronic sticky-notes. On Howie’s desktop, always just three files stacked neatly below the hard-disc icon: CURRENT, where he kept reports of ongoing investigations; COURT, where he kept a list of who (including himself) was down to testify, and where, and why. The third file was MORIN ST. MANSE, where he kept everything having to do with the house. It occurred to her that if she opened that one she might find something about the generator, and she needed to know about that so she could keep it running as long as possible. Henry Morrison from the PD would probably be happy to change the current propane canister, but what if there were no spares? If that were the case, she should buy more at Burpee’s or the Gas & Grocery before they were all gone.

  She put her fingertip on the mousepad, then paused. There was a fourth file on the screen, lurking way down in the lefthand corner. She had never seen it before. Brenda tried to remember the last time she’d happened to look at the desktop of this computer, and couldn’t.

  VADER, the filename read.

  Well, there was only one person in town Howie referred
to as Vader, as in Darth: Big Jim Rennie.

  Curious, she moved the cursor to the file and double-clicked it, wondering if it was password protected.

  It was. She tried WILDCATS, which opened his CURRENT file (he hadn’t bothered to protect COURT), and it worked. In the file were two documents. One was labeled ONGOING INVESTIGATION. The other was a PDF doc titled LETTER FROM SMAG. In Howie-speak, that stood for State of Maine Attorney General. She clicked on it.

  Brenda scanned the AG’s letter with growing amazement as the tears dried on her cheeks. The first thing her eye happened on was the salutation: not Dear Chief Perkins but Dear Duke.

  Although the letter was couched in lawyer-speak rather than Howie-speak, certain phrases leaped out at her as if in boldface type. Misappropriation of town goods and services was the first. Selectman Sanders’s involvement seems all but certain was the next. Then This malfeasance is wider and deeper than we could have imagined three months ago.

  And near the bottom, seeming not just in boldface but in capital letters: MANUFACTURE AND SALE OF ILLEGAL DRUGS.

  It appeared that her prayer had been answered, and in a completely unexpected way. Brenda sat down in Howie’s chair, clicked ONGOING INVESTIGATION in the VADER file, and let her late husband talk to her.

  7

  The President’s speech—long on comfort, short on information—wrapped up at 12:21 AM. Rusty Everett watched it in the third-floor lounge of the hospital, made a final check of the charts, and went home. He had ended days more tired than this during his medical career, but he had never been more disheartened or worried about the future.

  The house was dark. He and Linda had discussed buying a generator last year (and the year before), because Chester’s Mill always lost its power four or five days each winter, and usually a couple of times in the summer as well; Western Maine Power was not the most reliable of service providers. The bottom line had been that they just couldn’t afford it. Perhaps if Lin went full-time with the cops, but neither of them wanted that with the girls still small.