Nov. 10, 2009— -- Stephen King's latest supernatural horror novel, "Under the Dome," is set in the small town of Chester's Mill, Maine, which is surrounded by a dangerous force field. The town's residents cope with the impending ecological crisis in different ways. The local politician, Big Jim Rennie, hopes to lord over a remote population. The opposing camp, which includes an Iraq War veteran, a newspaper editor and a bunch of teenage skateboarders, wants to solve the mystery of the dome.
Read the excerpt below, and then head to the "GMA" Library to find more good reads.
From two thousand feet, where Claudette Sanders was taking aflying lesson, the town of Chester's Mill gleamed in the morninglight like something freshly made and just set down. Cars trundledalong Main Street, flashing up winks of sun. The steeple of theCongo Church looked sharp enough to pierce the unblemished sky.The sun raced along the surface of Prestile Stream as the Seneca Voverflew it, both plane and water cutting the town on the samediagonal course.
"Chuck, I think I see two boys beside the Peace Bridge! Fishing!"Her very delight made her laugh. The flying lessons were courtesyof her husband, who was the town's First Selectman. Although ofthe opinion that if God had wanted man to fly, He would have givenhim wings, Andy was an extremely coaxable man, and eventuallyClaudette had gotten her way. She had enjoyed the experience fromthe first. But this wasn't mere enjoyment; it was exhilaration. Todaywas the first time she had really understood what made flying great.What made it cool.
Chuck Thompson, her instructor, touched the control yoke gently,then pointed at the instrument panel. "I'm sure," he said, "butlet's keep the shiny side up, Claudie, okay?"
"Not at all." He had been teaching people to do this for years, andhe liked students like Claudie, the ones who were eager to learn somethingnew. She might cost Andy Sanders some real money beforelong; she loved the Seneca, and had expressed a desire to have one justlike it, only new. That would run somewhere in the neighborhood ofa million dollars. Although not exactly spoiled, Claudie Sandershad undeniably expensive tastes which, lucky man, Andy seemed tohave no trouble satisfying.
Chuck also liked days like this: unlimited visibility, no wind,perfect teaching conditions. Nevertheless, the Seneca rocked slightlyas she overcorrected.
"You're losing your happy thoughts. Don't do that. Come to onetwenty.
Let's go out Route 119. And drop on down to nine hundred."
She did, the Seneca's trim once more perfect. Chuck relaxed.They passed above Jim Rennie's Used Cars, and then the townwas behind them. There were fields on either side of 119, and treesburning with color. The Seneca's cruciform shadow fled up theblacktop, one dark wing briefly brushing over an ant-man with apack on his back. The ant-man looked up and waved. Chuck wavedback, although he knew the guy couldn't see him.
"Beautiful goddam day!" Claudie exclaimed. Chuck laughed.
Their lives had another forty seconds to run.
The woodchuck came bumbling along the shoulder of Route 119,headed in the direction of Chester's Mill, although the town was stilla mile and a half away and even Jim Rennie's Used Cars was only aseries of twinkling sunflashes arranged in rows at the place where thehighway curved to the left. The chuck planned (so far as a woodchuckcan be said to plan anything) to head back into the woods long beforehe got that far. But for now, the shoulder was fine. He'd come fartherfrom his burrow than he meant to, but the sun had been warm on hisback and the smells were crisp in his nose, forming rudimentaryimages—not quite pictures—in his brain.
He stopped and rose on his back paws for an instant. His eyesweren't as good as they used to be, but good enough to make out ahuman up there, walking in his direction on the other shoulder.The chuck decided he'd go a little farther anyway. Humanssometimes left behind good things to eat.
He was an old fellow, and a fat fellow. He had raided manygarbage cans in his time, and knew the way to the Chester's Milllandfill as well as he knew the three tunnels of his own burrow; alwaysgood things to eat at the landfill. He waddled a complacent old fellow'swaddle, watching the human walking on the other side of theroad.
The man stopped. The chuck realized he had been spotted. To hisright and just ahead was a fallen birch. He would hide under there,wait for the man to go by, then investigate for any tasty—The chuck got that far in his thoughts—and another three waddlingsteps—although he had been cut in two. Then he fell apart onthe edge of the road. Blood squirted and pumped; guts tumbled intothe dirt; his rear legs kicked rapidly twice, then stopped.
His last thought before the darkness that comes to us all, chucksand humans alike: What happened?
All the needles on the control panel dropped dead.
"What the hell?" Claudie Sanders said. She turned to Chuck.
Her eyes were wide, but there was no panic in them, only bewilderment.There was no time for panic.
Chuck never saw the control panel. He saw the Seneca's nosecrumple toward him. Then he saw both propellers disintegrate.There was no time to see more. No time for anything. The Senecaexploded over Route 119 and rained fire on the countryside. It alsorained body parts. A smoking forearm—Claudette's—landed witha thump beside the neatly divided woodchuck.
It was October twenty-first.