Under the Dome

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.”