Under the Dome

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 waistband 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, its 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.