Under the Dome

Freddy had thought about this. He'd also thought about the Honor Wall, where photographs of the three Chester's Mill cops who had died in the line of duty since World War II were hung. He had no urge to have his own photo on that wall, and since Chief Randolph hadn't given him specific orders on this subject, he felt free to issue his own.

'If their hands are up, they live,' he said. 'If they're unarmed, they live. Anything else, they fucking die. Anyone got a problem with that?'

No one did. It was eleven fifty-six. Almost showtime.

He surveyed his men (plus Lauren Conree, so hard-faced and small-busted she almost could have passed for one), pulled in a deep breath, and said: 'Follow me. Single-file. We'll stop at the edge of the woods and scope things out.'

Randolph's concerns about poison ivy and poison oak proved groundless, and the trees were spaced widely enough to make the going quite easy, even loaded down with ordnance. Freddy thought his little force moved through the clumps of juniper they couldn't avoid with admirable stealth and silence. He was starting to feel that this was going to be all right. In fact, he was almost looking forward to it. Now that they were actually on the move, the butterflies in his stomach had flown away.

Easy does it, he thought. Easy and quiet. Then, bang! They'll never know what hit em.

12

Chef, crouched behind the blue panel truck parked in the high grass at the rear of the supply building, heard them almost as soon as they left the clearing where the old Verdreaux homestead was gradually sinking back into the earth. To his drug-jacked ears and Condition Red brain, they sounded like a herd of buffalo looking for the nearest waterhole.

He scurried to the front of the truck and knelt with his gun braced on the bumper. The grenades which had been hung from the barrel of GOD'S WARRIOR now lay on the ground behind him. Sweat gleamed on his skinny, pimple-studded back. The door opener was clipped to the waistband of his RIBBIT pajamas.

Be patient, he counseled himself. You don't know how many there are. Let them get out into the open before you start shooting, then mow them down in a hurry.

He scattered several extra clips for GOD'S WARRIOR in front of him and waited, hoping to Christ Andy wouldn't have to whistle. Hoping he wouldn't either. It was possible they could still get out of this and live to fight another day.

13

Freddy Denton reached the edge of the woods, pushed a fir bough aside with the barrel of his rifle, and peered out. He saw an overgrown hayfield with the radio tower in the middle of it, emitting a low hum he seemed to feel in the fillings of his teeth. A fence posted with signs reading HIGH VOLTAGE surrounded it. To the far left of his position was the one-story brick studio building. In between was a big red barn… He assumed the barn was for storage. Or making drugs. Or both.

Marty Arsenault eased in beside him. Circles of sweat darkened his uniform shirt. His eyes looked terrified. 'What's that truck doing there?' he asked, pointing with the barrel of his gun.

'That's the Meals On Wheels truck,' Freddy said. 'For shut-ins and Such. Haven't you seen that around town?'

'Seen it and helped load it,' Marty said. 'I gave up the Catholics for Holy Redeemer last year. How come it's not inside the barn?' He said ham the Yankee way, making it sound like the cry of a discontented sheep.

'How do I know and why would I care?' Freddy asked. 'They're in the studio.'

'How do you know?'

'Because that's where the TV is, and the big show out at the Dome is on all the channels.'

Marty raised his HK. 'Let me put a few rounds in that truck just to be sure. It could be booby-trapped. Or they could be inside it.'

Freddy pushed the barrel down. 'Jesus-please-us, are you crazy? They don't know we're here and you just want to give it away? Did your mother have any kids that lived?'

'Fuck you,' Marty said. He considered. 'And fuck your mother, too.'

Freddy looked back over his shoulder. 'Come on, you guys. We'll cut across the field to the studio. Look through the back windows and make sure of their positions.' He grinned. 'Smooth sailing.'

Aubrey Towle, a man of few words, said: 'We'll see.'

14

In the truck that had remained on Little Bitch Road, Fern Bowie said, 'I don't hear nothing.'

'You will,' Randolph said. 'Just wait.'

It was twelve oh-two.

15

Chef watched as the bitter men broke cover and began moving diagonally across the field toward the rear of the studio. Three were wearing actual police uniforms; the other four had on blue shirts that Chef guessed were supposed to be uniforms. He recognized Lauren Conree (an old customer from his pot-peddling days) and Stubby Norman, the local junkman. He also recognized Mel Searles, another old customer and a friend of Junior's. Also a friend of the late Frank DeLesseps, which probably meant he was one of the guys who had raped Sandy. Well, he wouldn't be raping anyone else—not after today.

Seven. On this side, at least. On Sanders's, who knew?