Under the Dome

by Stephen King

The Dome, she thought. He didn’t call it the barrier there at the end; he called it the Dome.

“Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead,”

Pretty Little Liars definitely used this one.

During the first fifty-five hours of the Dome’s existence, over two dozen children suffered seizures.

With Phil Bushey, aka The Chef, the cause was too much of his own product.

At the top of Black Ridge, in the apple orchard that overlooked all of Chester’s Mill, a brilliant mauve light flashed. Every fifteen seconds, it flashed again.

personally recommended by a man named Jack Reacher, the toughest goddam Army cop that ever served, in my humble opinion.”

the generator had created a radiation belt to discourage explorers such as himself. To protect itself.

Creatures—not human beings, creatures—were using it to keep them prisoner, but that wasn’t all. They were also using it to observe.

“Jack Reacher says hello.” “Is that where you got this number?” “That and a recommendation. A recommendation from Reacher goes a long way.

“Halloween’s still five days away,” Claire said. Barbie said, “I don’t think so.”

“The Bushey girl,” Big Jim said. “How was she? Was she good?”

Carter hesitated, then said: “A little dry at first, but she oiled up a-country fair.” Big Jim laughed. The sound was metallic, like the sound of coins dropping into the tray of a slot machine.

Four people have either lied about their various electronic medical devices or forgotten about them. Three of these die immediately; the fourth, who didn’t see his battery-powered hearing-aid implant on the list of forbidden devices, will linger in a coma for a week before expiring of multiple brain hemorrhages.

“The advice is this: Never give a good politician time to pray.” Big Jim pulled the trigger.

Sorrow for a wrong was better than nothing, Barbie supposed, but no amount of after-the-fact sorrow could ever atone for joy taken in destruction, whether it was burning ants or shooting prisoners.

“She said what Kayla said. ‘Wear it home, it’ll look like a dress.’ ” “She was talking about the brown sweater?” She took his hand again. “No. About our lives. Our little lives.”