by Stephen King
Joe looked at Linda solemnly. "Does Mr. Rennie know where we went this morning, Miz Everett? Does he know about the box? I don't think he should know about the box."
"What box?"
"The one we found on Black Ridge," Norrie said. "We only saw the light it puts out; Rusty went right up and looked at it."
"It's the generator," Benny said. "Only he couldn't shut it off. He couldn't even lift it, although he said it was real small."
"I don't know anything about this," Linda said.
"Then neither does Rennie," Joe said. He looked as if the weight of the world had just slipped off his shoulders.
"How do you know?"
"Because he would have sent the cops to question us," Joe said.
"And if we didn't answer the questions, they'd take us to jail."
At a distance, there came a pair of faint reports. Claire cocked her head and frowned. "Were those firecrackers or gunshots?"
Linda didn't know, and because they hadn't come from town--they were too faint for that--she didn't care. "Kids, tell me what happened on Black Ridge. Tell me everything. What you saw and what Rusty saw. And later tonight there's some other people you may have to tell. It's time we put together everything we know. In fact, it's past time."
Claire opened her mouth to say she didn't want to get involved, then didn't. Because there was no choice. None, at least, that she could see.
14
The WCIK studio was set well back from Little Bitch Road, and the driveway leading to it (paved, and in far better shape than the road itself) was almost a quarter of a mile long. At the Little Bitch end, it was flanked by a pair of hundred-year oaks. Their fall foliage, in a normal season brilliant enough to qualify for a calendar or tourism brochure, now hung limp and brown. Andy Sanders stood behind one of these crenellated trunks. Chef was behind the other. They could hear the approaching diesel roar of big trucks. Sweat ran into Andy's eyes and he wiped it away.
"Sanders!"
"What?"
"Is your safety off?"
Andy checked. "Yes."
"All right, listen and get it right the first time. If I tell you to start shooting, spray those motherfuckers! Top to bottom, fore and aft! If I don't tell you to shoot, just stand there. Have you got that?"
"Y-Yes."
"I don't think there's going to be any killing."
Thank God, Andy thought.
"Not if it's just the Bowies and Mr. Chicken. But I can't be sure. If I do have to make a play, will you back me?"
"Yes." No hesitation.
"And keep your finger off that damn trigger or you're apt to blow your own head off."
Andy looked down, saw his finger was indeed curled around the trigger of the AK, and removed it in a hurry.
They waited. Andy could hear his heartbeat in the middle of his head. He told himself it was stupid to be afraid--if not for a fortuitous phone call, he'd already be dead--but it did no good. Because a new world had opened in front of him. He knew it might turn out to be a false world (hadn't he seen what dope had done to Andi Grinnell?), but it was better than the shitty world he'd been living in.
God, please let them just go away, he prayed. Please.
The trucks appeared, rolling slow and blowing dark smoke into the muted remains of the day. Peeking from behind his tree, Andy could see two men in the lead truck. Probably the Bowies.
For a long time Chef didn't move. Andy was beginning to think he'd changed his mind and meant to let them take the propane after all. Then Chef stepped out and triggered off two quick rounds.
Stoned or not, Chef's aim was good. Both front tires of the lead truck went flat. The front end pogoed up and down three or four times, and then the truck came to a halt. The one behind almost rear-ended it. Andy could hear the faint sound of music, some hymn, and guessed that whoever was driving the second truck hadn't heard the gunshots over the radio. The cab of the lead truck, meanwhile, looked empty. Both men had ducked down out of sight.
Chef Bushey, still barefooted and wearing nothing but his RIBBIT pjs (the garage door opener was hooked over the sagging waist-band like a beeper), stepped out from behind his tree. "Stewart Bowie!" he called. "Fern Bowie! Come on out of there and talk to me!" He leaned GOD'S WARRIOR against the oak.
Nothing from the cab of the lead truck, but the driver's door of the second truck opened and Roger Killian got out. "What's the holdup?" he bawled. "I got to get back and feed my chick--" Then he saw Chef. "Hey there, Philly, what's up?"
"Get down!" one of the Bowies bawled. "Crazy sonofabitch is shooting!"
Roger looked at Chef, then at the AK-47 leaning against the tree. "Maybe he was, but he's put the gun down. Besides, it's just him. What's the deal, Phil?"
"I'm Chef now. Call me Chef."
"Okay, Chef, what's the deal?"
"Come on out, Stewart," Chef called. "You too, Fern. Nobody's going to get hurt here, I guess."
The doors of the lead truck opened. Without turning his head, Chef said: "Sanders! If either of those two fools has a gun, you open up. Never mind single-shot; turn em into taco cheese."
But neither Bowie had a gun. Fern had his hands hoisted.
"Who you talkin to, buddy?" Stewart asked.
"Step out here, Sanders," Chef said.
Andy did. Now that the threat of immediate carnage seemed to have passed, he was starting to enjoy himself. If he'd thought to bring one of Chef's fry-daddies with him, he was sure he'd be enjoying himself even more.
"Andy?" Stewart said, astounded. "What are you doing here?"
"I've been drafted into the Lord's army. And you are bitter men. We know all about you, and you have no place here."
"Huh?" Fern said. He lowered his hands. The nose of the lead truck was slowly canting toward the road as the big front tires continued to deflate.
"Well said, Sanders," Chef told him. Then, to Stewart: "All three of you get in that second truck. Turn it around and haul your sorry asses back to town. When you get there, tell that apostate son of the devil that WCIK is ours now. That includes the lab and all the supplies."
"What the fuck are you talking about, Phil?"
"Chef. "
Stewart made a flapping gesture with one hand. "Call yourself whatever you want, just tell me what this is ab--"
"I know your brother's stupid," Chef said, "and Mr. Chicken there probably can't tie his own shoes without a blueprint--"
"Hey!" Roger cried. "Watch your mouth!"
Andy raised his AK. He thought that, when he got a chance, he would paint CLAUDETTE on the stock. "No, you watch yours."
Roger Killian went pale and fell back a step. That had never happened when Andy spoke at a town meeting, and it was very gratifying.
Chef went on talking as if there had been no interruption. "But you've got at least half a brain, Stewart, so use it. Leave that truck setting right where it is and go back to town in t'other one. Tell Rennie this out here doesn't belong to him anymore, it belongs to God. Tell him Star Wormwood has blazed, and if he doesn't want the Apocalypse to come early, he better leave us alone." He considered. "You can also tell him we'll keep putting out the music. I doubt he's worried about that, but there's some in town might find it a comfort."
"Do you know how many cops he's got now?" Stewart asked.
"I don't give a tin shit."
"I think about thirty. By tomorrow it's apt to be fifty. And half the damn town's wearing blue support-armbands. If he tells em to posse up, it won't be no trouble."
"It won't be no help, either," Chef said. "Our faith is in the Lord, and our strength is that of ten."
"Well," Roger said, flashing his math skills, "that's twenty, but you're still outnumbered."
"Shut up, Roger," Fern said.
Stewart tried again. "Phil--Chef, I mean--you need to chill the fuck out, because this ain't no thang. He don't want the dope, just the propane. Half the gennies in town are out. By the weekend it'll be three-quarters. Let us take the propane."
&nb
sp; "I need it to cook with. Sorry."
Stewart looked at him as if he had gone mad. He probably has, Andy thought. We probably both have. But of course Jim Rennie was mad, too, so that was a wash.
"Go on, now," Chef said. "And tell him that if he tries sending troops against us, he will regret it."
Stewart thought this over, then shrugged. "No skin off my rosy red chinchina. Come on, Fern. Roger, I'll drive."
"Fine by me," Roger Killian said. "I hate all them gears." He gave Chef and Andy a final look rich with mistrust, then started back to the second truck.
"God bless you fellas," Andy called.
Stewart threw a sour dart of a glance back over his shoulder. "God bless you, too. Because God knows you're gonna need it."
The new proprietors of the largest meth lab in North America stood side by side, watching the big orange truck back down the road, make a clumsy K-turn, and drive away.
"Sanders!"
"Yes, Chef?"
"I want to pep up the music, and immediately. This town needs some Mavis Staples. Also some Clark Sisters. Once I get that shit cued up, let's smoke."
Andy's eyes filled with tears. He put his arm around the former Phil Bushey's bony shoulders and hugged. "I love you, Chef."
"Thanks, Sanders. Right back atcha. Just keep your gun loaded. From now on we'll have to stand watches."
15
Big Jim was sitting at his son's bedside as approaching sunset turned the day orange. Douglas Twitchell had come in to give Junior a shot. Now the boy was deeply asleep. In some ways, Big Jim knew, it would be better if Junior died; alive and with a tumor pressing down on his brain, there was no telling what he might do or say. Of course the kid was his own flesh and blood, but there was the greater good to think about; the good of the town. One of the extra pillows in the closet would probably do it--
That was when his phone rang. He looked at the name in the window and frowned. Something had gone wrong. Stewart would hardly be calling so soon if it were otherwise. "What."
He listened with growing astonishment. Andy out there? Andy with a gun ?
Stewart was waiting for him to answer. Waiting to be told what to do. Get in line, pal, Big Jim thought, and sighed. "Give me a minute. I need to think. I'll call you back."
He ended the call and considered this new problem. He could take a bunch of cops out there tonight. In some ways it was an attractive idea: whip them up at Food City, then lead the raid himself. If Andy died, so much the better. That would make James Rennie, Senior, the entire town government.
On the other hand, the special town meeting was tomorrow night. Everyone would come, and there would be questions. He was sure he could lay the meth lab off on Barbara and the Friends of Barbara (in Big Jim's mind, Andy Sanders had now become an official Friend of Barbara), but still ... no.
No.
He wanted his flock scared, but not in an outright panic. Panic wouldn't serve his purpose, which was to establish complete control of the town. And if he let Andy and Bushey stay where they were for a little while, what harm? It might even do some good. They'd grow complacent. They might fancy themselves forgotten, because drugs were full of Vitamin Stupid.
Friday, on the other hand--the day after tomorrow--was that cotton-picker Cox's designated Visitors Day. Everybody would stream out to the Dinsmore farm again. Burpee would no doubt set up another hotdog stand. While that clustermug was going on, and while Cox was conducting his one-man press conference, Big Jim himself could lead a force of sixteen or eighteen police up to the radio station and wipe those two troublesome stoners out.
Yes. That was the answer.
He called Stewart back and told him to leave well enough alone.
"But I thought you wanted the propane," Stewart said.
"We'll get it," Big Jim said. "And you can help us take care of those two, if you want to."
"You're damn right I want to. That sonofabitch--sorry, Big Jim--that sonofabuck Bushey needs a payback."
"He'll get it. Friday afternoon. Clear your schedule."
Big Jim felt fine again, heart beating slowly and steadily in his chest, nary a stutter or flutter. And that was good, because there was so much to do, starting with tonight's police pep talk at Food City: just the right environment in which to impress the importance of order on a bunch of new cops. Really, there was nothing like a scene of destruction to get people playing follow-the-leader.
He started out of the room, then went back and kissed his sleeping son's cheek. Getting rid of Junior might become necessary, but for the time being, that too could wait.
16
Another night is falling on the little town of Chester's Mill; another night under the Dome. But there is no rest for us; we have two meetings to attend, and we also ought to check up on Horace the Corgi before we sleep. Horace is keeping Andrea Grinnell company tonight, and although he is for the moment biding his time, he has not forgotten the popcorn between the couch and the wall.
So let us go then, you and I, while the evening spreads out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table. Let us go while the first discolored stars begin to show overhead. This is the only town in a four-state area where they're out tonight. Rain has overspread northern New England, and cable-news viewers will soon be treated to some remarkable satellite photographs showing a hole in the clouds that exactly mimics the sock-shape of Chester's Mill. Here the stars shine down, but now they're dirty stars because the Dome is dirty.
Heavy showers fall in Tarker's Mills and the part of Castle Rock known as The View; CNN's meteorologist, Reynolds Wolf (no relation to Rose Twitchell's Wolfie), says that while no one can as yet be entirely sure, it seems likely that the west-to-east airflow is pushing the clouds against the western side of the Dome and squeezing them like sponges before they can slide away to the north and south. He calls it "a fascinating phenomenon."
Suzanne Malveaux, the anchor, asks him what the long-term weather under the Dome might be like, if the crisis continues.
"Suzanne," Reynolds Wolf says, "that's a great question. All we know for sure is that Chester's Mill isn't getting any rain tonight, although the surface of the Dome is permeable enough so that some moisture may be seeping through where the showers are heaviest. NOAA meteorologists tell me the long-term prospects of precip under the Dome aren't good. And we know their principal waterway, Prestile Stream, has pretty much dried up." He smiles, showing a great set of TV teeth. "Thank God for artesian wells!"
"You bet, Reynolds," Suzanne says, and then the Geico gekko appears on the TV screens of America.
That's enough cable news; let us float through certain half-deserted streets, past the Congo church and the parsonage (the meeting there hasn't started yet, but Piper has loaded up the big coffee urn, and Julia is making sandwiches by the light of a hissing Coleman lamp), past the McCain house surrounded by its sad sag of yellow police tape, down Town Common Hill and past the Town Hall, where janitor Al Timmons and a couple of his friends are cleaning and sprucing up for the special town meeting tomorrow night, past War Memorial Plaza, where the statue of Lucien Calvert (Norrie's great-grandfather; I probably don't have to tell you that) keeps his long watch.
We'll stop for a quick check on Barbie and Rusty, shall we? There'll be no problem getting downstairs; there are only three cops in the ready room, and Stacey Moggin, who's on the desk, is sleeping with her head pillowed on her forearm. The rest of the PD is at Food City, listening to Big Jim's latest stemwinder, but it wouldn't matter if they were all here, because we are invisible. They would feel no more than a faint draft as we glide past them.
There's not much to see in the Coop, because hope is as invisible as we are. The two men have nothing to do but wait until tomorrow night, and hope that things break their way. Rusty's hand hurts, but the pain isn't as bad as he thought it might be, and the swelling isn't as bad as he feared. Also, Stacey Moggin, God bless her heart, snuck him a couple of Excedrin around five PM.
For the time being, thes
e two men--our heroes, I suppose--are sitting on their bunks and playing Twenty Questions. It's Rusty's turn to guess.
"Animal, vegetable, or mineral?" he asks.
"None of them," Barbie replies.
"How can it be none of them? It has to be one."
"It's not," Barbie says. He is thinking of Poppa Smurf.
"You're jacking me up."
"I'm not."
"You have to be."
"Quit bitching and start asking."
"Can I have a hint?"
"No. That's your first no. Nineteen to go."
"Wait a goddam minute. That's not fair."
We'll leave them to shift the weight of the next twenty-four hours as best they can, shall we? Let us make our way past the still-simmering heap of ashes that used to be the Democrat (alas, no longer serving "The Little Town That Looks Like A Boot"), past Sanders Hometown Drug (scorched but still standing, although Andy Sanders will never pass through its doors again), past the bookstore and LeClerc's Maison des Fleurs, where all the fleurs are now dead or dying. Let us pass under the dead stoplight marking the intersection of Routes 119 and 117 (we brush it; it sways slightly, then stills again), and cross the Food City parking lot. We are as silent as a child's sleeping breath.
The supermarket's big front windows have been covered with plywood requisitioned from Tabby Morrell's lumberyard, and the worst of the gluck on the floor has been mopped up by Jack Cale and Ernie Calvert, but Food City is still a godawful mess, with boxes and dry goods strewn from hell to breakfast. The remaining merchandise (what hasn't been carted away to various town pantries or stored in the motor pool behind the PD, in other words) is scattered helterskelter on the shelves. The soft-drink cooler, beer cooler, and ice cream freezer are busted in. There's the high stink of spilled wine. This leftover chaos is exactly what Big Jim Rennie wants his new--and awfully young, for the most part--cadre of enforcement officers to see. He wants them to realize the whole town could look like this, and he's canny enough to know he doesn't need to say it right out loud. They will get the point: this is what happens when the shepherd fails in his duty and the flock stampedes.
