Under the Dome: A Novel

by Stephen King

  Julia said, “The leaves over here look … I don’t know … listless, somehow. Limp.”

  “It’s just because they’ve got a wind on their side and we’ve only got a puff of breeze,” Barbie said, then wondered if that was really it. Or all of it. But what good did it do to speculate about the current air quality in Chester’s Mill, when there was nothing they could do about it? “Go on, Joe. Do your thing.”

  They had swung by the McClatchey house in Julia’s Prius to get Joe’s PowerBook. (Mrs. McClatchey had made Barbie swear he would keep her son safe, and Barbie had so sworn.) Now Joe pointed at the road. “Here?”

  Barbie raised his hands to the sides of his face and sighted at the red X. “Little to the left. Can you try it? See how it looks?”

  “Yeah.” Joe opened the PowerBook and turned it on. The Mac power-up chime sounded as pretty as ever, but Barbie thought he had never seen anything quite so surreal as the silver computer sitting on the patched asphalt of Little Bitch Road with its screen up. It seemed to summarize the last three days perfectly.

  “Battery’s fresh, so it should run for at least six hours,” Joe said.

  “Won’t it go to sleep?” Julia asked.

  Joe gave her an indulgent Mother, please look. Then he turned back to Barbie. “If the missile roasts my Pro, do you promise to buy me another one?”

  “Uncle Sam will buy you another one,” Barbie promised. “I’ll put in the requisition myself.”

  “Sweet.”

  Joe bent over the PowerBook. There was a little silver barrel mounted atop the screen. This, Joe had told them, was some current compu-miracle called iSight. He ran his finger over the computer’s touchpad, hit ENTER, and suddenly the screen filled with a brilliant image of Little Bitch Road. From ground level, each little bump and irregularity in the tar looked like a mountain. At mid-range, Barbie could see the Marine sentries up to their knees.

  “Sir, does he have a picture, sir?” one of them asked.

  Barbie looked up. “Let’s put it this way, Marine—if I was doing inspection, you’d be doing push-ups with my foot in your ass. There’s a scuff on your left boot. Unacceptable on a noncombat assignment.”

  The Marine looked down at his boot, which was indeed scuffed. Julia laughed. Joe did not. He was absorbed. “It’s too low. Miz Shumway, have you got something in the car we can use to—?” He raised his hand about three feet off the road.

  “I do,” she said.

  “And get me my little gym bag, please.” He fiddled some more with the PowerBook, then held out his hand. “Cell?”

  Barbie handed it to him. Joe hit the tiny buttons with blinding speed. Then: “Benny? Oh, Norrie, okay. You guys there? … Good. Never been in a beerjoint before, I bet. You ready? … Excellent. Stand by.” He listened, then grinned. “Are you kidding? Dude, according to what I’m getting, the jack is awesome. They’re blasting the Wi-Fi. Gotta jet.” He snapped the phone closed and handed it back to Barbie.

  Julia came back with Joe’s gym bag and a carton containing undistributed sheets of the Democrat ’s Sunday extra edition. Joe set the PowerBook on the carton (the sudden rise in the image from ground level made Barbie a bit dizzy), then checked it and pronounced it totally rad. He rummaged in the gym bag, brought out a black box with an antenna, and plugged it into the computer. The soldiers were clustered on their side of the Dome, watching with interest. Now I know how a fish feels in an aquarium, Barbie thought.

  “Looks okay,” Joe murmured. “I got a green bulb.”

  “Shouldn’t you call your—”

  “If it’s working, they’ll call me,” Joe said. Then: “Uh-oh, this could be trouble.”

  Barbie thought he was referring to the computer, but the boy wasn’t even looking at it. Barbie followed his gaze and saw the green Chief of Police car. It wasn’t moving fast, but the bubblegums were pulsing. Pete Randolph got out from behind the wheel. Emerging from the passenger side (the cruiser rocked a little when his weight left the springs) came Big Jim Rennie.

  “Just what in the heck do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

  The phone in Barbie’s hand buzzed. He handed it to Joe without taking his eyes from the approaching Selectman and Chief of Police.

  14

  The sign over the door of Dipper’s said WELCOME TO THE BIGGEST DANCE FLOOR IN MAINE!, and for the first time in the roadhouse’s history, that floor was crowded at eleven forty-five in the morning. Tommy and Willow Anderson greeted people at the door as they arrived, a little like ministers welcoming parishioners to church. In this case, the First Church of Rock Bands Direct from Boston.

  At first the audience was quiet, because there was nothing on the big screen but one blue word: WAITING. Benny and Norrie had plugged in their equipment and switched the TV’s feed to Input 4. Then, suddenly, Little Bitch Road appeared in living color, complete with brightly colored leaves swirling down around the Marine sentries.

  The crowd broke into applause and cheers.

  Benny gave Norrie a high five, but that wasn’t enough for Norrie; she kissed him on the mouth, and hard. It was the happiest moment of Benny’s life, even better than staying vertical while doing a full-pipe roughie.

  “Call him!” Norrie demanded.

  “Right on,” Benny said. His face felt as if it might actually catch fire and burn, but he was grinning. He punched REDIAL and held the phone to his ear. “Dude, we got it! The picture’s so radical it—”

  Joe cut him off. “Houston, we have a problem.”

  15

  “I don’t know what you folks think you’re doing,” Chief Randolph said, “but I want an explanation, and that thing’s shut down until I get one.” He pointed at the PowerBook.

  “Pardon me, sir,” one of the Marines said. He was wearing a second lieutenant’s stripes. “That’s Colonel Barbara, and he has official government sanction for this operation.”

  To this, Big Jim offered his most sarcastic smile. A vein in his neck was throbbing. “This man is a colonel of nothing but troublemakers. He cooks in the local restaurant.”

  “Sir, my orders—”

  Big Jim shook his finger at the second lieutenant. “In Chester’s Mill, the only official government we’re recognizing right now is our own, soldier, and I am its representative.” He turned to Randolph. “Chief, if that kid won’t turn it off, pull the plug.”

  “It has no plug that I can see,” Randolph said. He was looking from Barbie to the Marine second lieutenant to Big Jim. He had begun to sweat.

  “Then put a boot through the darn screen! Just kill it!”

  Randolph stepped forward. Joe, looking scared but determined, stepped in front of the PowerBook on the carton. He still had the cell phone in his hand. “You better not! It’s mine, and I’m not breaking any laws!”

  “Get back, Chief,” Barbie said. “That’s an order. If you still recognize the government of the country you live in, you’ll obey it.”

  Randolph looked around. “Jim, maybe—”

  “Maybe nothing,” Big Jim said. “Right now this is the country you live in. Kill that cotton-picking computer. ”

  Julia stepped forward, grabbed the PowerBook, and turned it so that the iVision camera was taking in the new arrivals. Tendrils of hair had escaped her businesslike bun and hung against her pink cheeks. Barbie thought she looked extraordinarily beautiful.

  “Ask Norrie if they see!” she told Joe.

  Big Jim’s smile froze into a grimace. “Woman, put that down!”

  “Ask them if they see!”

  Joe spoke into the phone. Listened. Then said: “They do. They’re seeing Mr. Rennie and Officer Randolph. Norrie says they want to know what’s happening.”

  There was dismay on Randolph’s face; fury on Rennie’s. “ Who wants to know?” Randolph asked.

  Julia said, “We’ve set up a live feed to Dipper’s—”

  “That sinpit!” Big Jim said. His hands were clenched. Barbie estimated the man was probably a hundred pounds o
verweight, and he grimaced when he moved his right arm—as if he’d strained it—but he looked like he could still hit. And right now he looked mad enough to take a swing … although whether at him, Julia, or the boy, he didn’t know. Maybe Rennie didn’t, either.

  “People have been gathering there since quarter of eleven,” she said. “News travels fast.” She smiled with her head cocked to one side. “Would you like to wave to your constituency, Big Jim?”

  “It’s a bluff,” Big Jim said.

  “Why would I bluff about something so easy to check?” She turned to Randolph. “Call one of your cops and ask them where the big gathering in town is this morning.” Then back to Jim again. “If you shut this down, hundreds of people will know you closed off their view of an event that vitally concerns them. One their lives may depend on, in fact.”

  “You had no sanction!”

  Barbie, ordinarily quite good at controlling himself, felt his temper fraying. It wasn’t that the man was stupid; he clearly wasn’t. And that was exactly what was making Barbie mad.

  “What is your problem, exactly? Do you see any danger here? Because I don’t. The idea is to set this thing up, leave it broadcasting, then clear out.”

  “If the missile doesn’t work, it could cause a panic. Knowing something failed is one thing; actually seeing it fail is another. They’re apt to do any darn old thing.”

  “You have a very low opinion of the people you govern, Selectman.”

  Big Jim opened his mouth to retort—something like And they have justified it time and again would have been Barbie’s guess—but then remembered that a good portion of the town was watching this confrontation on the big-screen TV. Possibly in HD. “I’d like you to wipe that sarcastic smile off your face, Barbara.”

  “Are we now policing expressions, too?” Julia asked.

  Scarecrow Joe covered his mouth, but not before Randolph and Big Jim saw the kid’s grin. And heard the snicker that escaped from between his fingers.

  “People,” the second lieutenant said, “you had better clear the scene. Time is passing.”

  “Julia, turn that camera on me,” Barbie said.

  She did so.

  16

  Dipper’s had never been so packed, not even at the memorable New Year’s Eve show in 2009 featuring the Vatican Sex Kittens. And it had never been so silent. Over five hundred people stood shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, watching as the camera on Joe’s PowerBook Pro did a dizzying one-eighty and came to rest on Dale Barbara.

  “There’s my boy,” Rose Twitchell murmured, and smiled.

  “Hello there, folks,” Barbie said, and the picture was so good that several people hello ’d back. “I’m Dale Barbara, and I’ve been recommissioned as a colonel in the United States Army.”

  A general ripple of surprise greeted this.

  “The video deal out here on Little Bitch Road is entirely my responsibility, and as you may have gathered, there has been a difference of opinion between myself and Selectman Rennie about whether or not to continue the feed.”

  This time the ripple was louder. And not happy.

  “We have no time to argue the fine points of command this morning,” Barbie continued. “We’re going to train the camera on the point where the missile is supposed to hit. Whether or not the broadcast continues is in the hands of your Second Selectman. If he kills the feed, take it up with him. Thanks for your attention.”

  He walked out of the picture. For a moment the gathering on the dance floor had a view of nothing but woods, then the image rotated again, sank, and settled on the floating X. Beyond it, the sentries were packing the last of their gear into two big trucks.

  Will Freeman, owner and operator of the local Toyota dealership (and no friend of James Rennie) spoke directly to the TV. “Leave it alone, Jimmy, or there’s gonna be a new Selectman in The Mill by the end of the week.”

  There was a general rumble of agreement. The townspeople stood quietly, watching and waiting to see if the current program—both dull and unbearably exciting—would continue, or if the transmission would end.

  17

  “What do you want me to do, Big Jim?” Randolph asked. He took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped the back of his neck.

  “What do you want to do?” Big Jim responded.

  For the first time since he’d taken the keys to the green Chief’s car, Pete Randolph thought he would be quite willing to turn them over to someone else. He sighed and said, “I want to let this alone.”

  Big Jim nodded as if to say Be it on your own head. Then he smiled—if, that is, a pulling-back of the lips can be so characterized. “Well, you’re the Chief.” He turned back to Barbie, Julia, and Scarecrow Joe. “We’ve been outmaneuvered. Haven’t we, Mr. Barbara?”

  “I assure you that there’s no maneuvering going on here, sir,” Barbie said.

  “Bull … pucky. This is a bid for power, pure and simple. I’ve seen plenty in my time. I’ve seen them succeed … and I’ve seen them fail.” He stepped closer to Barbie, still favoring his sore right arm. Up close, Barbie could smell cologne and sweat. Rennie was breathing harshly. He lowered his voice. Perhaps Julia didn’t hear what came next. But Barbie did.

  “You’re all in the pot, sonny. Every cent. If the missile punches through, you win. If it just bounces off … beware me. ” For a moment his eyes—almost buried in their deep folds of flesh, but glinting with cold, clear intelligence—caught Barbie’s and held them. Then he turned away. “Come on, Chief Randolph. This situation is complicated enough, thanks to Mr. Barbara and his friends. Let’s go back to town. We’ll want to get your troops in place in case of a riot.”

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Julia said. Big Jim flapped a hand at her without turning around.

  “Do you want to go to Dipper’s, Jim?” Randolph asked. “We’ve got time.”

  “I wouldn’t set foot in that whore-hole,” Big Jim said. He opened the passenger door of the cruiser. “What I want is a nap. But I won’t get one, because there’s a lot to do. I’ve got big responsibilities. I didn’t ask for them, but I have them.”

  “Some men are great, and some men have greatness thrust upon them, isn’t that so, Jim?” Julia asked. She was smiling her cool smile.

  Big Jim turned to her, and the expression of naked hate on his face made her fall back a step. Then Rennie dismissed her. “Come on, Chief.”

  The cruiser headed back toward The Mill, its lights still flashing in the hazy, oddly summery light.

  “Whew,” Joe said. “Scary dude.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Barbie said.

  Julia was surveying Barbie, all traces of her smile gone. “You had an enemy,” she said. “Now you have a blood-foe.”

  “I think you do, too.”

  She nodded. “For both our sakes, I hope this missile thing works.”

  The second lieutenant said, “Colonel Barbara, we’re leaving. I’d feel much more comfortable if I saw you three doing the same.”

  Barbie nodded and for the first time in years snapped off a salute.

  18

  A B-52 which had taken off from Carswell Air Force Base in the early hours of that Monday morning had been on-station above Burlington, Vermont, since 1040 hours (the Air Force believes in showing up early for the prom whenever possible). The mission was code-named GRAND ISLE. The pilot-commander was Major Gene Ray, who had served in both the Gulf and Iraq wars (in private conversations he referred to the latter as “Big Dubya’s fuck-a-monkey show”). He had two Fasthawk Cruise missiles in his bomb bay. It was a good stick, the Fasthawk, more reliable and powerful than the old Tomahawk, but it felt very weird to be planning to shoot a live one at an American target.

  At 1253, a red light on his control panel turned amber. The COMCOM took control of the plane from Major Ray and began to turn it into position. Below him, Burlington disappeared under the wings.

  Ray spoke into his headset. “It’s just about show-tim
e, sir.”

  In Washington, Colonel Cox said: “Roger that, Major. Good luck. Blast the bastard.”

  “It’ll happen,” Ray said.

  At 1254, the amber light began to pulse. At 1254:55, it turned green. Ray flicked the switch marked 1. There was no sensation and only a faint whoosh from below, but he saw the Fasthawk begin its flight on vid. It quickly accelerated to its maximum speed, leaving a jet contrail like a fingernail scratch across the sky.

  Gene Ray crossed himself, finishing with a kiss at the base of his thumb. “Go with God, my son,” he said.

  The Fasthawk’s maximum speed was thirty-five hundred miles an hour. Fifty miles from its target—about thirty miles west of Conway, New Hampshire, and now on the east side of the White Mountains—its computer first calculated and then authorized final approach. The missile’s speed dropped from thirty-five hundred miles an hour to eighteen hundred and fifty as it descended. It locked on Route 302, which is North Conway’s Main Street. Pedestrians looked up uneasily as the Fasthawk passed overhead.

  “Isn’t that jet way too low?” a woman in the parking lot of Settlers Green Outlet Village asked her shopping companion, shading her eyes. If the Fasthawk’s guidance system could have talked, it might have said, “You ain’t seen nothin yet, sweetheart.”

  It passed over the Maine–New Hampshire border at three thousand feet, trailing a sonic boom that rattled teeth and broke windows. When the guidance system picked up Route 119, it slipped first to a thousand feet, then down to five hundred. By now the computer was in high gear, sampling the guidance system’s data and making a thousand course corrections a minute.

  In Washington, Colonel James O. Cox said, “Final approach, people. Hang onto your false teeth.”