Under the Dome

  "I wonder if we'll still be having fun next Sunday," Barbie says. Linda Everett looks at him. It's not a friendly look. "Surely you think before then--"

  Rose interrupts her. "Look over there. That kid shouldn't be driving that damn rig so fast--he'll tip it over. I hate those ATVs."

  They all look at the little vehicle with the fat balloon tires, and watch as it cuts a diagonal through the October-white hay. Not toward them, exactly, but certainly toward the Dome. It's going too fast. A couple of the soldiers hear the approaching engine and finally turn around.

  "Oh Christ, don't let him crash," Linda Everett moaned.

  Rory Dinsmore doesn't crash. It would have been better if he had.

  11

  An idea is like a cold germ: sooner or later someone always catches it. The Joint Chiefs had already caught this one; it had been kicked around at several of the meetings attended by Barbie's old boss, Colonel James O. Cox. Sooner or later someone in The Mill was bound to be infected by the same idea, and it wasn't entirely surprising that the someone should turn out to be Rory Dinsmore, who was by far the sharpest tool in the Dinsmore family box ("I don't know where he gets it from," Shelley Dinsmore said when Rory brought home his first all-As rank card ... and she said it in a voice more worried than proud). If he'd lived in town--and if he'd had a computer, which he did not--Rory would undoubtedly have been a part of Scarecrow Joe McClatchey's posse.

  Rory had been forbidden to attend the carnival/prayer meeting/demonstration; instead of eating weird hotdogs and helping with the car-park operation, he was ordered by his father to stay at home and feed the cows. When that was done, he was to grease their udders with Bag Balm, a job he hated. "And once you got those teats nice and shiny," his father said, "you can sweep the barns and bust up some haybales."

  He was being punished for approaching the Dome yesterday after his father had expressly forbidden it. And actually knocking on it, for God's sake. Appealing to his mother, which often worked, did no good this time. "You could have been killed," Shelley said. "Also, your dad says you mouthed off."

  "Just told em the cook's name!" Rory protested, and for that his father once more had gone upside his head while Ollie looked on with smug and silent approval.

  "You're too smart for your own good," Alden said.

  Safely behind his father's back, Ollie had stuck out his tongue. Shelley saw, however ... and went upside Ollie 's head. She did not, however, forbid him the pleasures and excitements of that afternoon's makeshift fair.

  "And you leave that goddam go-cart alone," Alden said, pointing to the ATV parked in the shade between dairy barns 1 and 2. "You need to move hay, you carry it. It'll build you up a little." Shortly thereafter, the dim Dinsmores went off together, walking across the field toward Romeo's tent. The bright one was left behind with a hayfork and a jar of Bag Balm as big as a flowerpot.

  Rory went about his chores glumly but thoroughly; his racing mind sometimes got him in trouble, but he was a good son for all that, and the idea of ditching punishment-chores never crossed his mind. At first nothing crossed his mind. He was in that mostly empty-headed state of grace which is sometimes such fertile soil; it's the ground from which our brightest dreams and biggest ideas (both the good and the spectacularly bad) suddenly burst forth, often full-blown. Yet there is always a chain of association.

  As Rory began sweeping barn 1's main aisle (he would save the hateful udder-greasing for last, he reckoned), he heard a rapid poppow -pam that could only be a string of firecrackers. They sounded a little like gunshots. This made him think of his father's.30-.30 rifle, which was propped in the front closet. The boys were forbidden to touch it except under strict supervision--while shooting at targets, or in hunting season--but it wasn't locked up and the ammo was on the shelf above it.

  And the idea came. Rory thought: I could blow a hole in that thing. Maybe pop it. He had an image, bright and clear, of touching a match to the side of a balloon.

  He dropped the broom and ran for the house. Like many bright people (especially bright children), inspiration rather than consideration was his strong suit. If his older brother had had such an idea (unlikely), Ollie would have thought: If a plane couldn't bust through it, or a pulp-truck going full tilt, what chance does a bullet have? He might also have reasoned: I'm in dutch already for disobeying, and this is disobedience raised to the ninth power.

  Well ... no, Ollie probably wouldn't have thought that. Ollie's mathematical abilities had topped out at simple multiplication.

  Rory, however, was already taking college-track algebra, and knocking it dead. If asked how a bullet could accomplish what a truck or an airplane hadn't, he would have said the impact effect of a Winchester Elite XP3 would be far greater than either. It stood to reason. For one thing, the velocity would be greater. For another, the impact itself would be concentrated upon the point of a 180-grain bullet. He was sure it would work. It had the unquestionable elegance of an algebraic equation.

  Rory saw his smiling (but of course modest) face on the front page of USA Today ; being interviewed on Nightly News with Brian Williams ; sitting on a flower-bedecked float in a parade in his honor, with Prom Queen-type girls surrounding him (probably in strapless gowns, but possibly in bathing suits) as he waved to the crowd and confetti floated down in drifts. He would be THE BOY WHO SAVED CHESTER'S MILL!

  He snatched the rifle from the closet, got the step stool, and pawed a box of XP3s down from the shelf. He stuffed two cartridges into the breech (one for a backup), then raced back outside with the rifle held above his head like a conquering rebelista (but--give him this--he engaged the safety without even thinking about it). The key to the Yamaha ATV he had been forbidden to ride was hanging on the pegboard in barn 1. He held the key fob between his teeth while he strapped the rifle to the back of the ATV with a couple of bungee cords. He wondered if there would be a sound when the Dome popped. He probably should have taken the shooter's plugs from the top shelf of the closet, but going back for them was unthinkable; he had to do this now.

  That's how it is with big ideas.

  He drove the ATV around barn 2, pausing just long enough to size up the crowd in the field. Excited as he was, he knew better than to head for where the Dome crossed the road (and where the smudges of yesterday's collisions still hung like dirt on an unwashed windowpane). Someone might stop him before he could pop the Dome. Then, instead of being THE BOY WHO SAVED CHESTER'S MILL, he'd likely wind up as THE BOY WHO GREASED COW TITS FOR A YEAR. Yes, and for the first week he'd be doing it in a crouch, his ass too sore to sit down. Someone else would end up getting the credit for his big idea.

  So he drove on a diagonal that would bring him to the Dome five hundred yards or so from the tent, marking the place to stop by the crushed spots in the hay. Those, he knew, had been made by falling birds. He saw the soldiers stationed in that area turn toward the oncoming blat of the ATV. He heard shouts of alarm from the fair-and-prayer folks. The hymn-singing came to a discordant halt.

  Worst of all, he saw his father waving his dirty John Deere cap at him and bawling, "RORY OH GODDAMMIT YOU STOP!"

  Rory was in too deep to stop, and--good son or not--he didn't want to stop. The ATV struck a hummock and he bounced clear of the seat, holding on with his hands and laughing like a loon. His own Deere cap was spun around backward and he didn't even remember doing it. The ATV tilted, then decided to stay up. Almost there, now, and one of the fatigues-clad soldiers was also shouting at him to stop.

  Rory did, and so suddenly he almost somersaulted over the Yamaha's handlebars. He forgot to put the darned thing in neutral and it lurched forward, actually striking the Dome before stalling out. Rory heard the crimp of metal and the tinkle of the headlight as it shattered.

  The soldiers, afraid of being hit by the ATV (the eye which sees nothing to block an oncoming object triggers powerful instincts), fell off to either side, leaving a nice big hole and sparing Rory the need of telling them to move away from a possible explosive
blowout. He wanted to be a hero, but didn't want to hurt or kill anybody to do it.

  He had to hurry. The people closest to his stopping point were the ones in the parking lot and clustered around the Summer Blowout Sale tent, and they were running like hell. His father and brother were among them, both screaming at him to not do whatever he was planning to do.

  Rory yanked the rifle free of the bungee cords, socked the butt-plate into his shoulder, and aimed at the invisible barrier five feet above a trio of dead sparrows.

  "No, kid, bad idea!" one of the soldiers shouted.

  Rory paid him no mind, because it was a good idea. The people from the tent and the parking lot were close, now. Someone--it was Lester Coggins, who ran a lot better than he played guitar--shouted: "In the name of God, son, don't do that!"

  Rory pulled the trigger. No; only tried to. The safety was still on. He looked over his shoulder and saw the tall, thin preacher from the holy-roller church blow past his puffing, red-faced father. Lester's shirttail was out and flying. His eyes were wide. The cook from Sweetbriar Rose was right behind him. They were no more than sixty yards away now, and the Reverend looked like he was just getting into fourth gear.

  Rory thumbed off the safety.

  "No, kid, no!" the soldier cried again, simultaneously crouching on his side of the Dome and holding out his splayed hands.

  Rory paid no attention. It's that way with big ideas. He fired.

  It was, unfortunately for Rory, a perfect shot. The hi-impact slug struck the Dome dead on, ricocheted, and came back like a rubber ball on a string. Rory felt no immediate pain, but a vast sheet of white light filled his head as the smaller of the slug's two fragments thumbed out his left eye and lodged in his brain. Blood flew in a spray, then ran through his fingers as he dropped to his knees, clutching his face.

  12

  "I'm blind! I'm blind!" the boy was screaming, and Lester immediately thought of the scripture upon which his finger had landed: Madness and blindness and astonishment of the heart.

  "I'm blind! I'm blind!"

  Lester pried away the boy's hands and saw the red, welling socket. The remains of the eye itself were dangling on Rory's cheek. As he turned his head up to Lester, the splattered remains plopped into the grass.

  Lester had a moment to cradle the child in his arms before the father arrived and tore him away. That was all right. That was as it should be. Lester had sinned and begged guidance from the Lord. Guidance had been given, an answer provided. He knew now what he was to do about the sins he'd been led into by James Rennie.

  A blind child had shown him the way.

  THIS IS NOT AS BAD AS IT GETS

  1

  What Rusty Everett would recall later was confusion. The only image that stuck out with complete clarity was Pastor Coggins's naked upper body: fishbelly-white skin and stacked ribs.

  Barbie, however--perhaps because he'd been tasked by Colonel Cox to put on his investigator's hat again--saw everything. And his clearest memory wasn't of Coggins with his shirt off; it was of Melvin Searles pointing a finger at him and then tilting his head slightly--sign language any man recognizes as meaning We ain't done yet, Sunshine.

  What everyone else remembered--what brought the town's situation home to them as perhaps nothing else could--were the father's cries as he held his wretched, bleeding boy in his arms, and the mother screaming "Is he all right, Alden? IS HE ALL RIGHT?" as she labored her sixty-pounds-overweight bulk toward the scene.

  Barbie saw Rusty Everett push through the circle gathering around the boy and join the two kneeling men--Alden and Lester. Alden was cradling his son in his arms as Pastor Coggins stared with his mouth sagging like a gate with a busted hinge. Rusty's wife was right behind him. Rusty fell on his knees between Alden and Lester and tried to pull the boy's hands away from his face. Alden--not surprisingly, in Barbie's opinion--promptly socked him one. Rusty's nose started to bleed.

  "No! Let him help!" the PA's wife yelled.

  Linda, Barbie thought. Her name is Linda, and she's a cop.

  "No, Alden! No!" Linda put her hand on the farmer's shoulder and he turned, apparently ready to sock her. All sense had departed his face; he was an animal protecting a cub. Barbie moved forward to catch his fist if the farmer let it fly, then had a better idea.

  "Medic here!" he shouted, bending into Alden's face and trying to block Linda from his field of vision. "Medic! Medic, med--"

  Barbie was yanked backward by the collar of his shirt and spun around. He had just time enough to register Mel Searles--one of Junior's buddies--and to realize that Searles was wearing a blue uniform shirt and a badge. This is as bad as it gets, Barbie thought, but as if to prove him wrong, Searles socked him in the face, just as he had that night in Dipper's parking lot. He missed Barbie's nose, which had probably been his target, but mashed Barbie's lips back against his teeth.

  Searles drew back his fist to do it again, but Jackie Wettington--Mel's unwilling partner that day--grabbed his arm before he could. "Don't do it!" she shouted. "Officer, don't do it !"

  For a moment the issue was in doubt. Then Ollie Dinsmore, closely followed by his sobbing, gasping mother, passed between them, knocking Searles back a step.

  Searles lowered his fist. "Okay," he said. "But you're on a crime scene, asshole. Police investigation scene. Whatever."

  Barbie wiped his bleeding mouth with the heel of his hand and thought, This is not as bad as it gets. That's the hell of it--it's not.

  2

  The only part of this Rusty heard was Barbie shouting medic. Now he said it himself. "Medic, Mr. Dinsmore. Rusty Everett. You know me. Let me look at your boy."

  "Let him, Alden!" Shelley cried. "Let him take care of Rory!"

  Alden relaxed his grip on the kid, who was swaying back and forth on his knees, his bluejeans soaked with blood. Rory had covered his face with his hands again. Rusty took hold of them--gently, gently does it--and pulled them down. He had hoped it wouldn't be as bad as he feared, but the socket was raw and empty, pouring blood. And the brain behind that socket was hurt plenty. The news was in how the remaining eye cocked senselessly skyward, bulging at nothing.

  Rusty started to pull his shirt off, but the preacher was already holding out his own. Coggins's upper body, thin and white in front, striped with crisscrossing red welts in back, was running with sweat. He held the shirt out.

  "No," Rusty said. "Rip it, rip it."

  For a moment Lester didn't get it. Then he tore the shirt down the middle. The rest of the police contingent was arriving now, and some of the regular cops--Henry Morrison, George Frederick, Jackie Wettington, Freddy Denton--were yelling at the new Special Deputies to help move the crowd back, make some space. The new hires did so, and enthusiastically. Some of the rubberneckers were knocked down, including that famous Bratz-torturer Samantha Bushey. Sammy had Little Walter in a Papoose carrier, and when she went on her ass, both of them began to squall. Junior Rennie stepped over her without so much as a look and grabbed Rory's mom, almost pulling the wounded boy's mother off her feet before Freddy Denton stopped him.

  "No, Junior, no! It's the kid's mother! Let her loose!"

  "Police brutality!" Sammy Bushey yelled from where she lay in the grass. "Police brutal--"

  Georgia Roux, the newest hire in what had become Peter Randolph's police department, arrived with Carter Thibodeau (holding his hand, actually). Georgia pressed her boot against one of Sammy's breasts--it wasn't quite a kick--and said, "Yo, dyke, shut up."

  Junior let go of Rory's mother and went to stand with Mel, Carter, and Georgia. They were staring at Barbie. Junior added his eyes to theirs, thinking that the cook was like a bad goddamned penny that kept turning up. He thought Baarbie would look awfully good in a cell right next to Sloppy Sam's. Junior also thought that being a cop had been his destiny all along; it had certainly helped with his headaches.

  Rusty took half of Lester's torn shirt and ripped it again. He folded a piece, started to put it over the gaping wou
nd in the boy's face, then changed his mind and gave it to the father. "Hold it to the--"

  The words barely came out; his throat was full of blood from his mashed nose. Rusty hawked it back, turned his head, spat a half-clotted loogie into the grass, and tried again. "Hold it to the wound, Dad. Apply pressure. Hand to the back of his neck and squeeze. "

  Dazed but willing, Alden Dinsmore did as he was told. The makeshift pad immediately turned red, but the man seemed calmer nonetheless. Having something to do helped. It usually did.

  Rusty flung the remaining piece of shirt at Lester. "More!" he said, and Lester began ripping the shirt into smaller pieces. Rusty lifted Dinsmore's hand and removed the first pad, which was now soaked and useless. Shelley Dinsmore shrieked when she saw the empty socket. "Oh, my boy! My boy! "

  Peter Randolph arrived at a jog, huffing and puffing. Still, he was far ahead of Big Jim, who--mindful of his substandard ticker--was plodding down the slope of the field on grass the rest of the crowd had trampled into a broad path. He was thinking of what a cluster-mug this had turned out to be. Town gatherings would have to be by permit only in the future. And if he had anything to do with it (he would; he always did), permits would be hard to come by.