Under the Dome

Junior and Frankie looked at each other. Two nights alone in the dark. The girl maybe nine, the boy about five. Junior didn’t like to think about that.

“Did you have anything to eat?” Frankie asked Alice Appleton. “Sweetheart? Anything at all?”

“There was a onion in the vegetable draw,” she whispered. “We each had half. With sugar.”

“Oh, fuck,” Frankie said. Then: “I didn’t say that. You didn’t hear me say that. Just a second.” He went back to the car, opened the passenger door, and began to rummage in the glove compartment.

“Where were you going, Alice?” Junior asked.

“To town. To look for Mommy and to find something to eat. We were going to walk past the next camp and then cut through the woods.” She pointed vaguely north. “I thought that would be quicker.”

Junior smiled, but he was cold inside. She wasn’t pointing toward Chester’s Mill; she was pointing in the direction of TR-90. At nothing but miles of tangled second-growth and boggy sumps. Plus the Dome, of course. Out there, Alice and Aidan would almost certainly have died of starvation; Hansel and Gretel minus the happy ending.

And we came so close to turning around. Jesus.

Frankie returned. He had a Milky Way. It looked old and squashed, but it was still in the wrapper. The way the children fixed their eyes on it made Junior think of the kids you saw on the news sometimes. That look on American faces was unreal, horrible.

“It’s all I could find,” Frankie said, stripping off the wrapper. “We’ll get you something better in town.”

He broke the Milky Way in two and gave a piece to each child. The candy was gone in five seconds. When he had finished his piece, the boy stuck his fingers knuckle-deep into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed rhythmically in and out as he sucked them.

Like a dog licking grease off a stick, Junior thought.

He turned to Frankie. “Never mind waiting until we get back to town. We’re gonna stop at the cabin where the old man and the chick were. And whatever they got, these kids are going to get it.”

Frankie nodded and picked up the boy. Junior picked up the little girl. He could smell her sweat, her fear. He stroked her hair as if he could stroke that oily reek away.

“You’re all right, honey,” he said. “You and your brother both.

You’re all right. You’re safe.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

Her arms tightened around his neck. It was one of the best things Junior had ever felt in his life.

4

The western side of Chester’s Mill was the least populated part of town, and by quarter of nine that morning it was almost entirely clear. The only police car left on Little Bitch was Unit 2. Jackie Wettington was driving and Linda Everett was riding shotgun. Chief Perkins, a smalltown cop of the old school, would never have sent two women out together, but of course Chief Perkins was no longer in charge, and the women themselves enjoyed the novelty. Men, especially male cops with their endless yee-haw banter, could be tiring.

“Ready to go back?” Jackie asked. “Sweetbriar’ll be closed, but we might be able to beg a cup of coffee.”

Linda didn’t reply. She was thinking about where the Dome cut across Little Bitch. Going out there had been unsettling, and not just because the sentries were still standing with their backs turned, and hadn’t budged when she gave them a good morning through the car’s roof speaker. It was unsettling because there was now a great big red X spray-painted on the Dome, hanging in midair like a sci-fi hologram. That was the projected point of impact. It seemed impossible that a missile fired from two or three hundred miles away could hit such a small spot, but Rusty had assured her that it could.

“Lin?”

She came back to the here and now. “Sure, I’m ready if you are.”

The radio crackled. “Unit Two, Unit Two, do you read, over?”

Linda unracked the mike. “Base, this is Two. We hear you, Stacey, but reception out here isn’t very good, over?”

“Everybody says the same,” Stacey Moggin replied. “It’s worse near the Dome, better as you get closer to town. But you’re still on Little Bitch, right? Over.”

“Yes,” Linda said. “Just checked the Killians and the Bouchers. Both gone. If that missile busts through, Roger Killian’s going to have a lot of roast chickens, over.”

“We’ll have a picnic. Pete wants to talk to you. Chief Randolph, I mean. Over.”

Jackie pulled the cruiser to the side of the road. There was a pause with static crackling in it, then Randolph came on. He didn’t bother with any overs, never had.

“Did you check the church, Unit Two?”

“Holy Redeemer?” Linda asked. “Over.”

“That’s the only one I know out there, Officer Everett. Unless a Hindu mosque grew overnight.”

Linda didn’t think Hindus were the ones who worshipped in mosques, but this didn’t seem like the right time for corrections. Randolph sounded tired and grouchy. “Holy Redeemer wasn’t in our sector,” she said. “That one belonged to a couple of the new cops. Thibodeau and Searles, I think. Over.”