Under the Dome: A Novel by Stephen King Page B

that those body parts (it was the green-clad leg his mind’s eye kept trying to look at) had belonged to Dodee’s
mother
… the First Selectman’s
wife
…
    “Me too,” Rose said, and put her cigarette out in the ketchup. It made a
pfisss
sound, and for one awful moment Barbie thought he was going to throw up. He turned his head and gazed out the window onto Main Street, although there was nothing to see from in here. From in here it was all dark.
    “President’s gonna speak at midnight,” Anson announced from the counter. From behind him came the low, constant groan of the dishwasher. It occurred to Barbie that the big old Hobart might bedoing its last chore, at least for a while. He would have to convince Rosie of that. She’d be reluctant, but she’d see sense. She was a bright and practical woman.
    Dodee Sanders’s mother. Jesus. What are the odds?
    He realized that the odds were actually not that bad. If it hadn’t been Mrs. Sanders, it might well have been someone else he knew.
It’s a small town, baby, and we all support the team.
    “No President for me tonight,” Rose said. “He’ll have to God-bless-America on his own. Five o’clock comes early.” Sweetbriar Rose didn’t open until seven on Sunday mornings, but there was prep. Always prep. And on Sundays, that included cinnamon rolls. “You boys stay up and watch if you want to. Just make sure we’re locked up tight when you leave. Front
and
back.” She started to rise.
    “Rose, we need to talk about tomorrow,” Barbie said.
    “Fiddle-dee-dee, tomorrow’s another day. Let it go for now, Barbie. All in good time.” But she must have seen something on his face, because she sat back down. “All right, why the grim look?”
    “When’s the last time you got propane?”
    “Last week. We’re almost full. Is that all you’re worried about?”
    It wasn’t, but it was where his worries started. Barbie calculated. Sweetbriar Rose had two tanks hooked together. Each tank had a capacity of either three hundred and twenty-five or three hundred and fifty gallons, he couldn’t remember which. He’d check in the morning, but if Rose was right, she had over six hundred gallons on hand. That was good. A bit of luck on a day that had been spectacularly unlucky for the town as a whole. But there was no way of knowing how much bad luck could still be ahead. And six hundred gallons of propane wouldn’t last forever.
    “What’s the burn rate?” he asked her. “Any idea?”
    “Why does that matter?”
    “Because right now your generator is running this place. Lights, stoves, fridges, pumps. The furnace, too, if it gets cold enough to kick on tonight. And the gennie is eating propane to do it.”
    They were quiet for a moment, listening to the steady roar of the almost-new Honda behind the restaurant.
    Anson Wheeler came over and sat down. “The gennie sucks two gallons of propane an hour at sixty percent utilization,” he said.
    “How do you know that?” Barbie asked.
    “Read it on the tag. Running everything, like we have since around noon, when the power went out, it probably ate three an hour. Maybe a little more.”
    Rose’s response was immediate. “Anse, kill all the lights but the ones in the kitchen. Right now. And turn the furnace thermostat down to fifty.” She considered. “No, turn it off.”
    Barbie smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. She got it. Not everyone in The Mill would. Not everyone in The Mill would
want
to.
    “Okay.” But Anson looked doubtful. “You don’t think by tomorrow morning … tomorrow afternoon at the latest … ?”
    “The President of the United States is going to make a TV speech,” Barbie said. “At midnight. What do
you
think, Anse?”
    “I think I better turn off the lights,” he said.
    “And the thermostat, don’t forget that,” Rose said. As he hurried away, she said to Barbie: “I’ll do the same in my place when I go up.” A widow for ten years or more, she lived over her