He has ridden out with Pamela Chen, the only one of the new "special deputies" he completely trusts, and when he sees the size of the crowd, he tells her to call the hospital. He wants the ambulance out here, standing by. She comes back five minutes later with news Henry finds both incredible and completely unsurprising. One of the patients answered the phone at reception, Pamela says--a young woman who came in early this morning with a broken wrist. She says all the medical personnel are gone, and the ambulance is gone, too.
"Well that's just great," Henry says. "I hope your first aid skills are up to snuff, Pammie, because you may have to use them."
"I can give CPR," she says.
"Good." He points to Joe Boxer, the Eggo-loving dentist. Boxer is wearing a blue armband and self-importantly waving people to either side of the road (most pay no attention). "And if someone gets a toothache, that self-important prick can pull it for them."
"If they've got the cash to pay," Pamela says. She has had experience of Joe Boxer, when her wisdom teeth came in. He said something about "trading one service for another" while eying her breasts in a way she didn't care for at all.
"I think there's a Red Sox hat in the back of my car," Henry says. "If so, would you take it over there?" He points to the woman Ollie has already noticed, the one with the bareheaded baby. "Put it on the kid and tell that woman she's an idiot."
"I'll take the hat but I won't tell her any such thing," Pamela says quietly. "That's Mary Lou Costas. She's seventeen, she's been married for a year to a trucker who's almost twice her age, and she's probably hoping he comes to see her."
Henry sighs. "She's still an idiot, but I guess at seventeen we all are."
And still they come. One man appears to have no water, but he is carrying a large boombox that's blaring WCIK gospel. Two of his friends are unfurling a banner. The words on it are flanked by gigantic, clumsily drawn Q-Tips. PLEASE RES-Q US, the sign reads.
"This is going to be bad," Henry says, and of course he is right, but he has no idea how bad.
The growing crowd waits in the sun. The ones with weak bladders wander into the underbrush west of the road to pee. Most get scratched up before finding relief. One overweight woman (Mabel Alston; she also suffers from what she calls the dia-betties) sprains her ankle and lies there hollering until a couple of men come over and get her on remaining good foot. Lennie Meechum, the town postmaster (at least until this week, when delivery of the U.S. mail was canceled for the foreseeable future), borrows a cane for her. Then he tells Henry that Mabel needs a ride back to town. Henry says he can't spare a car. She'll have to rest in the shade, he says.
Lennie waves his arms at both sides of the road. "In case you didn't notice, it's cow-pasture on one side and brambles on the other. No shade to speak of."
Henry points to the Dinsmore dairy barn. "Plenty of shade there."
"It's a quarter of a mile away!" Lennie says indignantly.
It's an eighth of a mile at most, but Henry doesn't argue. "Put her in the front seat of my car."
"Awful hot in the sun," Lennie says. "She'll need the fac'try air."
Yes, Henry knows she'll need the air-conditioning, which means running the motor, which means burning gasoline. There's no shortage of that right now--assuming they can pump it out of the tanks at the Gas & Grocery, that is--and he supposes they'll have to worry about later later.
"Key's in the ignition," he says. "Turn it to low cool, do you understand?"
Lennie says he does and heads back to Mabel, but Mabel's not ready to move, although sweat is pouring down her cheeks and her face is bright red. "I didn't go yet!" she bawls. "I got to go !"
Leo Lamoine, one of the new officers, strolls up to Henry. This is company Henry could do without; Leo has the brain of a turnip. "How'd she get out here, sport?" he asks. Leo Lamoine is the kind of man who calls everyone "sport."
"I don't know, but she did," Henry says wearily. He's getting a headache. "Round up some women to take her behind my police car and hold her up while she piddles."
"Which ones, sport?"
"Big ones," Henry says, and walks away before the sudden strong urge to punch Leo Lamoine in the nose can overpower him.
"What kind of police force is this?" a woman asks as she and four others escort Mabel to the rear of unit Three, where Mabel will pee while holding onto the bumper, the others standing in front of her for modesty's sake.
Thanks to Rennie and Randolph, your fearless leaders, the unprepared kind, Henry would like to reply, but he doesn't. He knows his mouth got him into trouble the night before, when he spoke in favor of Andrea Grinnell's being heard. What he says is: "The only one you've got."
To be fair, most people are, like Mabel's female honor guard, more than willing to help one another. Those who have remembered to bring water share it with those who did not, and most drink sparingly. There are idiots in every crowd, though, and those in this one pig the water freely and without thought. Some folks munch cookies and crackers that will leave them thirstier later on. Mary Lou Costas's baby begins to cry fretfully beneath the Red Sox cap, which is much too big for her. Mary Lou has brought a bottle of water, and she now begins to dab the baby's overheated cheeks and neck with it. Soon the bottle will be empty.
Henry grabs Pamela Chen and again points to Mary Lou. "Take that bottle and fill it from what we brought," he says. "Try not to let too many people see you, or it'll all be gone before noon."
She does as told, and Henry thinks, There's one at least who might actually make a good smalltown cop, if she ever wanted the job.
Nobody bothers to watch where Pamela is going. That's good. When the buses come, these folks will forget all about being hot and thirsty, for a while. Of course, after the visitors go ... and with a long walk back to town staring them in the face ...
An idea hits him. Henry scopes out his "officers" and sees a lot of dumbbells but few people he trusts; Randolph has taken most of the halfway decent ones on some sort of secret mission. Henry thinks it has to do with the drug operation Andrea accused Rennie of running, but he doesn't care what it is. All he knows is that they aren't here and he can't run this errand himself.
But he knows who could, and hails him over.
"What do you want, Henry?" Bill Allnut asks.
"Have you got your keys to the school?"
Allnut, who's been the Middle School janitor for thirty years, nods. "Right here." The key ring hanging from his belt glitters in the hazy sun. "Always carry em, why?"
"Take unit Four," Henry says. "Go back to town as fast as you can without running over any latecomers. Get one of the schoolbuses and bring it out here. One of the forty-four seaters."
Allnut doesn't look pleased. His jaw sets in a Yankee way Henry--a Yankee himself--has seen all his life, knows well, and hates. It's a penurious look that says I gutta take care of m'self, chummy. "You can't get all these people in one schoolbus, are you nuts?"
"Not all," Henry says, "just the ones who won't be able to make it back on their own." He's thinking of Mabel and the Corso girl's overheated baby, but of course by three this afternoon there will be more who can't walk all the way back to town. Or maybe at all.
Bill Allnut's jaw sets even more firmly; now his chin is sticking out like the prow of a ship. "Nossir. My two sons and their wives are coming, they said so. They're bringing their kids. I don't want to miss em. And I ain't leaving m'wife. She's all upset."
Henry would like to shake the man for his stupidity (and outright throttle him for his selfishness). Instead he demands Allnut's keys and asks to be shown which one opens the motor pool. Then he tells Allnut to go back to his wife.
"I'm sorry, Henry," Allnut says, "but I gut to see m'kids n grand-kids. I deserve to. I didn't ask the lame, the halt, n the blind to come out here, and I shouldn't have to pay for their stupidity."
"Ayup, you're a fine American, no question about that," Henry says. "Get out of my sight."
Allnut opens his mouth to protest, thinks better
of it (perhaps it's something he sees on Officer Morrison's face), and shuffles away. Henry yells for Pamela, who does not protest when told she's to go back to town, only asks where, what, and why. Henry tells her.
"Okay, but ... are those schoolbuses standard shift? Because I can't drive a standard."
Henry shouts the question to Allnut, who is standing at the Dome with his wife Sarah, both of them eagerly scanning the empty highway on the other side of the Motton town line.
"Number Sixteen is a standard!" Allnut shouts back. "All the rest are automatics! And tell her to mind the interlock! Them buses won't start unless the driver fastens his seatbelt!"
Henry sends Pamela on her way, telling her to hurry as much as prudence will allow. He wants that bus ASAP.
At first the people at the Dome stand, anxiously watching the empty road. Then most of them sit down. Those who have brought blankets spread them. Some shade their heads from the hazy sun with their signs. Conversation lags, and Wendy Goldstone can be heard quite clearly when she asks her friend Ellen where the crickets are--there's no singing in the high grass. "Or have I gone deaf?" she asks.
She hasn't. The crickets are either silent or dead.
In the WCIK studio, the airy (and comfortably cool) center space resounds to the voice of Ernie "The Barrel" Kellogg and His Delight Trio rocking out on "I Got a Telephone Call from Heaven and It Was Jesus on the Line." The two men aren't listening; they're watching the TV, as transfixed by the split-screen images as Marta Edmunds (who's on her second Bud and has forgotten all about the corpse of old Clayton Brassey under the sheet). As transfixed as everyone in America, and--yes--the world beyond.
"Look at them, Sanders," Chef breathes.
"I am," Andy says. He's got CLAUDETTE on his lap. Chef has offered him a couple of hand grenades as well, but this time Andy has declined. He's afraid he might pull the pin on one and then freeze. He saw that in a movie once. "It's amazing, but don't you think we better get ready for our company?"
Chef knows Andy's right, but it's hard to look away from the side of the screen where the copter is tracking the buses and the large video truck that leads the parade. He knows every landmark they're passing; they are recognizable even from above. The visitors are getting close now.
We're all getting close now, he thinks.
"Sanders!"
"What, Chef?"
Chef hands him a Sucrets tin. "The rock will not hide them; the dead tree gives no shelter, nor the cricket relief. Just which book that's in slips my mind."
Andy opens the tin, sees six fat home-rolled cigarettes crammed in there, and thinks: These are soldiers of ecstasy. It is the most poetic thought of his life, and makes him feel like weeping.
"Can you give me an amen, Sanders?"
"Amen."
The Chef uses the remote control to turn off the TV. He'd like to see the buses arrive--stoned or not, paranoid or not, he's as fond of a happy reunion story as anyone--but the bitter men might come at any time.
"Sanders!"
"Yes, Chef."
"I'm going to get the Christian Meals on Wheels truck out of the garage and park it on the far side of the supply building. I can settle in behind it and have a clear view of the woods." He picks up GOD'S WARRIOR. The grenades attached to it dangle and swing. "The more I think of it, the more sure I am that's the way they'll come. There's an access road. They probably think I don't know about it, but"--Chef's red eyes gleam--"the Chef knows more than people think."
"I know. I love you, Chef."
"Thank you, Sanders. I love you, too. If they come from the woods, I'll let them get out in the open and then cut them down like wheat at harvest-time. But we can't put all our eggs in one basket. So I want you to go out front to where we were the other day. If any of them come that way--"
Andy raises CLAUDETTE.
"That's right, Sanders. But don't be hasty. Draw out as many as you can before you start shooting."
"I will." Sometimes Andy is struck by the feeling that he must be living in a dream; this is one of those times. "Like wheat at harvest-time."
"Yea verily. But listen, because this is important, Sanders. Don't come right away if you hear me start shooting. And I won't come right away if I hear you start. They might guess we're not together, but I'm wise to that trick. Can you whistle?"
Andy sticks a couple of fingers in his mouth and lets loose a piercing whistle.
"That's good, Sanders. Amazing, in fact."
"I learned it in grammar school." When life was much simpler, he does not add.
"Don't do it unless you're in danger of being overwhelmed. Then I'll come. And if you hear me whistle, run like hell to reinforce my position."
"Okay."
"Let's have a smoke on it, Sanders, what do you say?"
Andy seconds the motion.
On Black Ridge, at the edge of the McCoy orchard, seventeen exiles from town stand against the smudged skyline like Indians in a John Ford Western. Most are staring in fascinated silence at the silent parade of people moving out Route 119. They are almost six miles distant, but the size of the crowd makes it impossible to miss.
Rusty's the only one who's looking at something closer, and it fills him with a relief so great it seems to sing. A silver Odyssey van is speeding along Black Ridge Road. He stops breathing as it approaches the edge of the trees and the glow-belt, which is now invisible again. There is time for him to think how horrible it would be if whoever is driving--Linda, he assumes--blacked out and the van crashed, but then it's past the danger point. There might have been the smallest swerve, but he knows even that could have been his imagination. They'll be here soon.
They are standing a hundred yards to the left of the box, but Joe McClatchey thinks he can feel it, just the same: a little pulse that digs at his brain each time the lavender light shines out. That might just be his mind playing tricks on him, but he doesn't think so.
Barbie is standing next to him, with his arm around Miz Shumway. Joe taps him on the shoulder and says, "This feels bad, Mr. Barbara. All those people together. This feels awful. "
"Yes," Barbie says.
"They're watching. The leatherheads. I can feel them."
"So can I," Barbie says.
"Me too," Julia says, in a voice almost too low to hear.
In the conference room of the Town Hall, Big Jim and Carter Thibodeau watch silently as the split-screen image on the TV gives way to a shot at ground level. At first the image is jerky, like video of an approaching tornado or the immediate aftermath of a car-bombing. They see sky, gravel, and running feet. Someone mutters, "Come on, hurry up."
Wolf Blitzer says, "The pool-coverage truck has arrived. They're obviously hurrying, but I'm sure that in a moment ... yes. Oh my goodness, look at that."
The camera steadies on the hundreds of Chester's Mill residents at the Dome just as they rise to their feet. It's like watching a large group of open-air worshippers rising from prayer. The ones at the front are being jostled against the Dome by the ones behind; Big Jim sees flattened noses, cheeks, and lips, as if the townspeople are being pressed against a glass wall. He feels a moment of vertigo and realizes why: this is the first time he's seeing from the outside. For the first time the enormity of it and the reality of it strike home. For the first time he is truly frightened.
Faintly, slightly deadened by the Dome, comes the sound of pistol shots.
"I think I'm hearing gunfire," Wolf says. "Anderson Cooper, do you hear gunfire? What's happening?"
Faintly, sounding like a call from a satellite phone originating deep in the Australian outback, Cooper comes back: "Wolf, we're not there yet, but I've got a small monitor and it looks like--"
"I see it now," Wolf says. "It appears to be--"
"It's Morrison," Carter says. "The guy's got guts, I'll say that much."
"He's out as of tomorrow," Big Jim replies.
Carter looks at him, eyebrows raised. "What he said at the meeting last night?"
Big Jim p
oints a finger at him. "I knew you were a bright boy."
At the Dome, Henry Morrison isn't thinking about last night's meeting, or bravery, or even doing his duty; he's thinking that people are going to be crushed against the Dome if he doesn't do something, and quick. So he fires his gun into the air. Taking the cue, several other cops--Todd Wendlestat, Rance Conroy, and Joe Boxer--do the same.
The shouting voices (and the cries of pain from the people at the front who are being squashed) give way to shocked silence, and Henry uses his bullhorn: "SPREAD OUT! SPREAD OUT, GODDAMMIT! THERE'S ROOM FOR EVERYONE IF YOU JUST SPREAD THE FUCK OUT !"
The profanity has an even more sobering effect on them than the gunshots, and although the most stubborn ones remain on the highway (Bill and Sarah Allnut are prominent among them; so are Johnny and Carrie Carver), the others begin to spread along the Dome. Some head to the right, but the majority shuffle to the left, into Alden Dinsmore's field, where the going's easier. Henrietta and Petra are among them, weaving slightly from liberal applications of Canada Dry Rocket.
Henry holsters his weapon and tells the other officers to do the same. Wendlestat and Conroy comply, but Joe Boxer continues to hold his snubnosed.38--a Saturday-night special if Henry has ever seen one.
"Make me," he sneers, and Henry thinks: It's all a nightmare. I'll wake up soon in my own bed and I'll go to the window and stand there looking out at a beautiful crisp fall day.
Many of those who have chosen to stay away from the Dome (a disquieting number have remained in town because they're beginning to experience respiratory problems) are able to watch on television. Thirty or forty have gravitated to Dipper's. Tommy and Willow Anderson are at the Dome, but they've left the roadhouse open and the big-screen TV on. The people who gather on the honky-tonk hardwood floor to watch do so quietly, although there is some weeping. The HDTV images are crystal clear. They are heartbreaking.