Under the Dome: A Novel (99 page)

“Stop it, Sanders, you’re hysterical.”

“They’re coming! The bitter men! Just like you said!”

Chef considered this. “Did someone call and give you a heads-up?”

“No, it was a vision! I blacked out and had a vision!”

Chef’s eyes widened. Suspicion gave way to respect. He looked from Andy to Little Bitch Road, and then back to Andy again. “What did you see? How many? Is it all of them, or just a few, like before?”

“I … I … I …”

Chef shook him again, but much more gently this time. “Calm down, Sanders. You’re in the Lord’s army now, and—”

“A Christian soldier!”

“Right, right, right. And I’m your superior. So report.”

“They’re coming in two trucks.”

“Only two?”

“Yes.”

“Orange?”

“Yes!”

Chef hitched up his pjs (they subsided to their former position almost immediately) and nodded. “Town trucks. Probably those same three dumbwits—the Bowies and Mr. Chicken.”

“Mr.—?”

“Killian, Sanders, who else? He smokes the glass but doesn’t understand the
purpose
of the glass. He’s a fool. They’re coming for more propane.”

“Should we hide? Just hide and let them take it?”

“That’s what I did before. But not this time. I’m done hiding and letting people take things. Star Wormwood has blazed. It’s time for men of God to hoist their flag. Are you with me?”

And Andy—who under the Dome had lost everything that had ever meant anything to him—did not hesitate. “Yes!”

“To the end, Sanders?”

“To the end!”

“Where-at did you put your gun?”

As best as Andy could recollect, it was in the studio, leaning against the poster of Pat Robertson with his arm around the late Lester Coggins.

“Let’s get it,” Chef said, picking up GOD’S WARRIOR and checking the clip. “And from now on you carry it with you, have you got that?”

“Okay.”

“Box of ammo in there?”

“Yep.” Andy had toted one of these crates in just an hour ago. At least he thought it had been an hour ago; fry-daddies had a way of bending time at the edges.

“Just a minute,” Chef said. He went down the side of the supply building to the box of Chinese grenades and brought back three. He
gave two to Andy and told him to put them in his pockets. Chef hung the third grenade from the muzzle of GOD’S WARRIOR by the pull-ring. “Sanders, I was told that you get seven seconds after you yank the pin to get rid of these cocksuckers, but when I tried one in the gravel-pit back yonder, it was more like four. You can’t trust your Oriental races. Remember that.”

Andy said he would.

“All right, come on. Let’s get your weapon.”

Hesitantly, Andy asked: “Are we going to take them out?”

Chef looked surprised. “Not unless we have to, no.”

“Good,” Andy said. In spite of everything, he didn’t really want to hurt anyone.

“But if they force the issue, we’ll do what’s necessary. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Andy said.

Chef clapped him on the shoulder.

13

Joe asked his mother if Benny and Norrie could spend the night. Claire said it was okay with her if it was okay with their parents. It would, in fact, be something of a relief. After their adventure on Black Ridge, she liked the idea of having them under her eye. They could make popcorn on the woodstove and continue the raucous game of Monopoly they’d begun an hour ago. It was
too
raucous, actually; their chatter and catcalls had a nervy, whistling-past-the-graveyard quality she didn’t care for.

Benny’s mother agreed, and—somewhat to her surprise—so did Norrie’s. “Good deal,” Joanie Calvert said. “I’ve been wanting to get schnockered ever since this happened. Looks like tonight’s my chance. And Claire? Tell that girl to hunt up her grandfather tomorrow and give him a kiss.”

“Who’s her grandfather?”

“Ernie. You know Ernie, don’t you? Everybody knows Ernie.

He worries about her. So do I, sometimes. That skateboard.” There was a shudder in Joanie’s voice.

“I’ll tell her.”

Claire had no more than hung up when there was a knock at the door. At first she didn’t know who the middle-aged woman with the pale, strained face was. Then she realized it was Linda Everett, who ordinarily worked the school-crossing beat and ticketed cars that overstayed their welcome in the two-hour parking zones on Main Street. And she wasn’t middle-aged at all. She just looked that way now.

“Linda!” Claire said. “What’s wrong? Is it Rusty? Has something happened to Rusty?” She was thinking of radiation … at least in the front of her mind. In the back, even worse ideas slithered around.

“He’s been arrested.”

The Monopoly game in the dining room had ceased. The participants now stood together in the living room doorway, gazing at Linda solemnly.

“It’s a whole laundry list of charges, including criminal complicity in the murders of Lester Coggins and Brenda Perkins.”

“No!”
Benny cried.

Claire thought of telling them to leave the room and decided it would be hopeless. She thought she knew why Linda was here, and understood it, but still hated her a little for coming. And Rusty, too, for getting the kids involved. Except they were all involved, weren’t they? Under the Dome, involvement was no longer a matter of choice.

“He got in Rennie’s way,” Linda said. “That’s what it’s really about. That’s what it’s
all
about now, as far as Big Jim’s concerned: who’s in his way and who isn’t. He’s forgotten entirely what a terrible situation we’re in here. No, it’s worse than that. He’s
using
the situation.”

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.”

“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.”