Under the Dome: A Novel

by Stephen King

  “Going back to Main,” he reported. “Okay, now she’s going up the hill … now she’s crossing over again….”

  Benny held an imaginary microphone. “Video at eleven.”

  Joe ignored this. “Now she’s going onto my street.” He turned to Benny and Norrie. “Do you think she’s going to see my mom?”

  “Mill Street’s four blocks long, dude,” Benny said. “What are the chances?”

  Joe felt relieved even though he could think of no reason why Mrs. Perkins’s going to see his mom would be a bad thing. Except his mother was all worried about Dad being out of town, and Joe would sure hate to see her more upset than she already was. She had almost forbidden him to go on this expedition. Thank God Miz Shumway had talked her out of that idea, mostly by telling her that Dale Barbara had mentioned Joe specifically for this job (which Joe—Benny and Norrie, too—preferred to think of as “the mission”).

  “Mrs. McClatchey,” Julia had said, “if anyone can put this gadget to use, Barbie thinks it’s probably your son. It could be very important.”

  That had made Joe feel good, but looking at his mother’s face—worried, drawn—made him feel bad. It hadn’t even been three days since the Dome had come down, but she’d lost weight. And the way she kept holding his dad’s picture, that made him feel bad, too. It was like she thought he’d died instead of just being holed up in a motel somewhere, probably drinking beer and watching HBO.

  She had agreed with Miz Shumway, though. “He’s a smart boy about gadgets, all right. He always has been.” She looked him over from head to foot, and sighed. “When did you get so tall, Son?”

  “I don’t know,” he had replied truthfully.

  “If I let you do this, will you be careful?”

  “And take your friends with you,” Julia said.

  “Benny and Norrie? Sure.”

  “Also,” Julia had added, “be a little discreet. Do you know what that means, Joe?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I sure do.”

  It meant don’t get caught.

  3

  Brenda disappeared into the screening trees that lined Mill Street. “Okay,” Benny said. “Let’s go.” He carefully crushed his cigarette in the makeshift ashtray, then lifted the shopping bag out of the bike’s wire carrier. Inside the bag was the old-fashioned yellow Geiger counter, which had gone from Barbie to Rusty to Julia … and finally to Joe and his posse.

  Joe took the juice lid and crushed out his own smoke, thinking he would like to try again when he had more time to concentrate on the experience. On the other hand, it might be better not to. He was addicted to computers, the graphic novels of Brian K. Vaughan, and skateboarding. Maybe that was enough monkeys for one back.

  “People are gonna come by,” he said to Benny and Norrie. “Probably lots of people, once they get tired of playing in the supermarket. We’ll just have to hope they don’t pay any attention to us.”

  In his mind he heard Miz Shumway telling his mom how important this could be to the town. She didn’t have to tell him ; he probably understood it better than they did.

  “But if any cops come by …” Norrie said.

  Joe nodded. “Back into the bag it goes. And out comes the Frisbee.”

  “You really think there’s some kind of alien generator buried under the town common?” Benny asked.

  “I said there might be,” Joe replied, more sharply than he had intended. “Anything’s possible.”

  In truth, Joe thought it more than possible; he thought it likely. If the Dome wasn’t supernatural in origin, then it was a force field. A force field had to be generated. It looked like a QED situation to him, but he didn’t want to get their hopes up too high. Or his own, for that matter.

  “Let’s start looking,” Norrie said. She ducked under the sagging yellow police tape. “I just hope you two prayed enough.”

  Joe didn’t believe in praying for things he could do for himself, but he had sent up a brief one on a different subject: that if they found the generator, Norrie Calvert would give him another kiss. A nice long one.

  4

  Earlier that morning, during their pre-exploration meeting in the McClatchey living room, Scarecrow Joe had taken off his right sneaker, then the white athletic sock beneath.

  “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat,” Benny said cheerfully.

  “Shut up, stupid,” Joe replied.

  “Don’t call your friend stupid,” Claire McClatchey said, but she gave Benny a reproachful look.

  Norrie added no repartee of her own, only watched with interest as Joe laid the sock on the living room rug and smoothed it out with the flat of his hand.

  “This is Chester’s Mill,” Joe said. “Same shape, right?”

  “You are correctamundo,” Benny agreed. “It’s our fate to live in a town that looks like one of Joe McClatchey’s athletic socks.”

  “Or the old woman’s shoe,” Norrie put in.

  “ ‘There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,’ ” Mrs. McClatchey recited. She was sitting on the couch with the picture of her husband in her lap, just as she had been when Miz Shumway came by with the Geiger counter late yesterday afternoon. “‘She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.’”

  “Good one, Mom,” Joe said, trying not to grin. The middle-school version had been revised to She had so many children her cunt fell off.

  He looked down at the sock again. “So does a sock have a middle?”

  Benny and Norrie thought it over. Joe let them. The fact that such a question could interest them was one of the things he dug about them.

  “Not like a circle or square has a center,” Norrie said at last. “Those are geometric shapes.”

  Benny said, “I guess a sock is also a geometric shape—technically—but I don’t know what you’d call it. A socktagon?”

  Norrie laughed. Even Claire smiled a little.

  “On the map, The Mill’s closer to a hexagon,” Joe said, “but never mind that. Just use common sense.”

  Norrie pointed to the place on the sock where the foot-shaped bottom flowed into the tube top. “There. That’s the middle.”

  Joe dotted it with the tip of his pen.

  “I’m not sure that’ll come out, mister.” Claire sighed. “But you need new ones anyway, I suppose.” And, before he could ask the next question, she said: “On a map, that would be about where the town common is. Is that where you’re going to look?”

  “It’s where we’re going to look first, ” Joe said, a little deflated at having his explicatory thunder stolen.

  “Because if there’s a generator,” Mrs. McClatchey mused, “you think it should be in the middle of the township. Or as close to it as possible.”

  Joe nodded.

  “Cool, Mrs. McClatchey,” Benny said. He raised one hand. “Give me five, mother of my soul-brother.”

  Smiling wanly, still holding the picture of her husband, Claire McClatchey slapped Benny five. Then she said, “At least the town common’s a safe place.” She paused to consider that, frowning slightly. “I hope so, anyway, but who really knows?”

  “Don’t worry,” Norrie said. “I’ll watch out for them.”

  “Just promise me that if you do find something, you’ll let the experts handle things,” Claire said.

  Mom, Joe thought, I think maybe we’re the experts. But he didn’t say it. He knew it would bum her out even more.

  “Word up,” Benny said, and held his hand up again. “Five more, o mother of my—”

  This time she kept both hands on the picture. “I love you, Benny, but sometimes you tire me out.”

  He smiled sadly. “My mom says the exact same thing.”

  5

  Joe and his friends walked downhill to the bandstand that stood in the center of the common. Behind them, the Prestile murmured. It was lower now, dammed up by the Dome where it crossed into Chester’s Mill from the northwest. If the Dome was still in place tomorrow, Joe thought it would be not
hing but a mudslick.

  “Okay,” Benny said. “Enough with the Freddy Fuckaround. Time for the board-bangers to rescue Chester’s Mill. Let’s fire that baby up.”

  Carefully (and with real reverence), Joe lifted the Geiger counter out of the shopping bag. The battery that powered it had been a long-dead soldier and the terminals had been thick with gunk, but a little baking soda took care of the corrosion, and Norrie had found not just one but three six-volt dry cells in her father’s tool closet. “He’s kind of a freak when it comes to batteries,” she had confided, “and he’s gonna kill himself trying to learn boarding, but I love him.”

  Joe put his thumb on the power switch, then looked at them grimly. “You know, this thing could read zilch everywhere we take it and there still might be a generator, just not one that emits alpha or beta wa—”

  “Do it, for God’s sakes!” Benny said. “The suspense is killin me.”

  “He’s right,” Norrie said. “Do it.”

  But here was an interesting thing. They had tested the Geiger counter plenty around Joe’s house, and it worked fine—when they tried it on an old watch with a radium dial, the needle jerked appreciably. They’d each taken a turn. But now that they were out here—on-site, so to speak—Joe felt frozen. There was sweat on his forehead. He could feel it beading up and getting ready to trickle down.

  He might have stood there quite awhile if Norrie hadn’t put her hand over his. Then Benny added his. The three of them ended up pushing the slide-switch together. The needle in the COUNTS PER SECOND window immediately jumped to +5, and Norrie clutched Joe’s shoulder. Then it settled back to +2, and she relaxed her hold. They had no experience with radiation counters, but they all guessed they were seeing no more than a background count.

  Slowly, Joe walked around the bandstand with the Geiger-Müller tube held out on its coiled phone receiver–type cord. The power lamp glowed a bright amber, and the needle jiggled a little bit from time to time, but mostly it stayed close to the zero end of the dial. The little jumps they saw were probably being caused by their own movements. He wasn’t surprised—part of him knew it couldn’t be so easy—but at the same time, he was bitterly disappointed. It was amazing, really, how well disappointment and lack of surprise complimented each other; they were like the Olsen Twins of emotion.

  “Let me,” Norrie said. “Maybe I’ll have better luck.”

  He gave it over without protest. Over the next hour or so, they crisscrossed the town common, taking turns with the Geiger counter. They saw a car turn down Mill Street, but didn’t notice Junior Rennie—who was feeling better again—behind the wheel. Nor did he notice them. An ambulance sped down Town Common Hill in the direction of Food City with its lights flashing and its siren wailing. This they looked at briefly, but were again absorbed when Junior reappeared shortly after, this time behind the wheel of his father’s Hummer.

  They never used the Frisbee they had brought as camouflage; they were too preoccupied. Nor did it matter. Few of the townspeople heading back to their homes bothered looking into the Common. A few were hurt. Most were carrying liberated foodstuffs, and some were wheeling loaded shopping carts. Almost all looked ashamed of themselves.

  By noon, Joe and his friends were ready to give up. They were also hungry. “Let’s go to my house,” Joe said. “My mom’ll make us something to eat.”

  “Great,” Benny said. “Hope it’s chop suey. Your ma’s chop suey is tight.”

  “Can we go through the Peace Bridge and try the other side first?” Norrie asked.

  Joe shrugged. “Okay, but there’s nothing over there but woods. Also, it’s moving away from the center.”

  “Yes, but …” She trailed off.

  “But what?”

  “Nothing. Just an idea. It’s probably stupid.”

  Joe looked at Benny. Benny shrugged and handed her the Geiger counter.

  They went back to the Peace Bridge and ducked under the sagging police tape. The walkway was dim, but not too dim for Joe to look over Norrie’s shoulder and see the Geiger counter’s needle stir as they passed the halfway point, walking single file so as not to test the rotted boards under their feet too much. When they came out on the other side, a sign informed them YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE CHESTER’S MILL TOWN COMMON, EST. 1808. A well-worn path led up a slope of oak, ash, and beech. Their fall foliage hung limply, looking sullen rather than gay.

  By the time they reached the foot of this path, the needle in the COUNTS PER SECOND window stood between +5 and +10. Beyond +10, the meter’s calibration rose steeply to +500 and then to +1000. The top end of the dial was marked in red. The needle was miles below that, but Joe was pretty sure its current position indicated more than just a background count.

  Benny was looking at the faintly quivering needle, but Joe was looking at Norrie.

  “What were you thinking about?” he asked her. “Don’t be afraid to spill it, because it doesn’t seem like such a stupid idea, after all.”

  “No,” Benny agreed. He tapped the COUNTS PER SECOND window. The needle jumped, then settled back to +7 or 8.

  “I was thinking a generator and a transmitter are practically the same thing,” Norrie said. “And a transmitter doesn’t have to be in the middle, just high up.”

  “The CIK tower isn’t,” Benny said. “Just sits in a clearing, pumpin out the Jesus. I’ve seen it.”

  “Yeah, but that thing’s, like, super-powerful,” Norrie replied. “My Dad said it’s a hundred thousand watts, or something. Maybe what we’re looking for has a shorter range. So then I thought, ‘What’s the highest part of the town?’”

  “Black Ridge,” Joe said.

  “Black Ridge,” she agreed, and held up a small fist.

  Joe bumped her, then pointed. “That way, two miles. Maybe three.” He turned the Geiger-Müller tube in that direction and they all watched, fascinated, as the needle rose to +10.

  “I’ll be fucked,” Benny said.

  “Maybe when you’re forty,” Norrie said. Tough as ever … but blushing. Just a little.

  “There’s an old orchard out on the Black Ridge Road,” Joe said. “You can see the whole Mill from it—TR-90, too. That’s what my dad says, anyway. It could be there. Norrie, you’re a genius.” He didn’t have to wait for her to kiss him, after all. He did the honors, although daring no more than the corner of her mouth.

  She looked pleased, but there was still a frown line between her eyes. “It might not mean anything. The needle’s not exactly going crazy. Can we go out there on our bikes?”

  “Sure!” Joe said.

  “After lunch,” Benny added. He thought of himself as the practical one.

  6

  While Joe, Benny, and Norrie were eating lunch at the McClatchey house (it was indeed chop suey) and Rusty Everett, assisted by Barbie and the two teenage girls, were treating supermarket-riot casualties at Cathy Russell, Big Jim Rennie sat in his study, going over a list and checking off items.

  He saw his Hummer roll back up the driveway, and checked off another item: Brenda dropped off with the others. He thought he was ready—as ready as he could be, anyway. And even if the Dome disappeared this afternoon, he thought his butt was covered.

  Junior came in and dropped the Hummer’s keys on Big Jim’s desk. He was pale and needed a shave worse than ever, but he no longer looked like death on a cracker. His left eye was red, but not flaming.

  “All set, Son?”

  Junior nodded. “Are we going to jail?” He spoke with an almost disinterested curiosity.

  “No,” Big Jim said. The idea that he might go to jail had never crossed his mind, not even when the Perkins witch had shown up here and started making her accusations. He smiled. “But Dale Barbara is.”

  “No one’s going to believe he killed Brenda Perkins.”

  Big Jim continued to smile. “They will. They’re frightened, and they will. It’s how these things work.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because I’m
a student of history. You ought to try it sometime.” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Junior why he had left Bowdoin—had he quit, flunked out, or been asked to leave? But this wasn’t the time or the place. Instead he asked his son if he was up to one more errand.

  Junior rubbed at his temple. “I guess. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “You’ll need help. You could take Frank, I suppose, but I’d prefer the Thibodeau lad, if he’s able to move around today. Not Sear-les, though. A good fellow, but stupid.”

  Junior said nothing. Big Jim wondered again what was wrong with the boy. But did he really want to know? Perhaps when this crisis was over. In the meantime, he had many pots and skillets on the stove, and dinner would be served soon.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Let me check one thing first.” Big Jim picked up his cell. Each time he did this, he expected to find it as useless as tits on a bull, but it was still working. At least for in-town calls, which was all he cared about. He selected PD. It rang three times at the cop-shop before Stacey Moggin picked up. She sounded harried, not at all like her usual businesslike self. Big Jim wasn’t surprised by that, given the morning’s festivities; he could hear quite an uproar in the background.

  “Police,” she said. “If this isn’t an emergency, please hang up and call back later. We’re awfully bus—”

  “It’s Jim Rennie, hon.” He knew that Stacey hated being called hon. Which was why he did it. “Put on the Chief. Chop-chop.”

  “He’s trying to break up a fistfight in front of the main desk right now,” she said. “Maybe you could call back la—”

  “No, I can’t call back later,” Big Jim said. “Do you think I’d be calling if this wasn’t important? Just go over there, hon, and Mace the most aggressive one. Then you send Pete into his office to—”