Under the Dome

Three heavy blows boxed him low in the back. He saw a splash of red hit the door and had time to think, We should have remembered the body armor. Then he crumpled, still holding onto the knob with one hand as the world rushed away from him. Everything he was and everything he’d ever known diminished to a single burning-bright point of light. Then it went out. His hand slipped off the knob. He died on his knees, leaning against the door.

17

Melvin Searles didn’t think either. Mel had seen Marty Arsenault, George Frederick, and Stubby Norman cut down in front of him, he had felt at least one bullet whicker right in front of his motherfucking eyes, and those kinds of things were not conducive to thought.

Mel just ran.

He blundered back through the trees, oblivious to the branches that whipped against his face, falling once and getting back up, finally bursting into the clearing where the trucks were. Firing one up and driving it away would have been the most reasonable course of action, but Mel and reason had parted company. He probably would have sprinted straight down the access road to Little Bitch if the other survivor of the backdoor raiding-party hadn’t grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him against the trunk of a large pine.

It was Aubrey Towle, the bookstore owner’s brother. He was a big, shambling, pale-eyed man who sometimes helped his brother Ray stocking the shelves but rarely said much. There were people in town who thought Aubrey was simpleminded, but he didn’t look simple now. Nor did he look panicked.

“I’m going back and get that sonofawhore,” he informed Mel.

“Good luck to you, buddy,” Mel said. He pushed away from the tree and turned toward the access road again.

Aubrey Towle shoved him back harder this time. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, then pointed his Heckler & Koch rifle at Mel’s midsection. “You ain’t going anywhere.”

From behind them came another rattle of gunfire. And screams.

“Do you hear that?” Mel asked. “You want to go back into that?”

Aubrey looked at him patiently. “You don’t have to come with me, but you’re going to cover me. Do you understand that? You do that or I’ll shoot you myself.”

18

Chief Randolph’s face split in a taut grin. “The enemy is engaged at the rear of our objective. All according to plan. Roll, Stewart. Straight up the driveway. We’ll disembark and cut through the studio.”

“What if they’re in the barn?” Stewart asked.

“Then we’ll still be able to hit them from behind. Now roll! Before we miss it!”

Stewart Bowie rolled.

19

Andy heard the gunfire from behind the storage building, but Chef didn’t whistle and so he stayed where he was, snug behind his tree. He hoped everything was going all right back there, because now he had his own problems: a town truck preparing to turn into the station’s driveway.

Andy circled his tree as it came, always keeping the oak between him and the truck. It stopped. The doors opened and four men got out. Andy was pretty sure that three of them were the ones who’d come out here before… and about Mr. Chicken there was no doubt. Andy would have recognized those beshitted green gumrubber boots anywhere. Bitter men. Andy had no intention of letting them blindside The Chef.

He emerged from behind the tree and began walking straight up the middle of the driveway, CLAUDETTE held across his chest in the port arms position. His feet crunched on the gravel, but there was plenty of sound-cover: Stewart had left the truck running and loud gospel music was pouring from the studio.

He raised the Kalashnikov, but made himself wait. Let them bunch together, if they’re going to. As they approached the front door of the studio, they did indeed bunch together.

“Well, it’s Mr. Chicken and all his friends,” Andy said in a passable John Wayne drawl. “How you doing, boys?”

They started to turn. For you, Chef, Andy thought, and opened fire.

He killed both Bowie brothers and Mr. Chicken with his first fusillade. Randolph he only winged. Andy popped the clip as Chef Bushey had taught him, grabbed another from the waistband of his pants, and slammed it home. Chief Randolph was crawling toward the door of the studio with blood pouring down his right arm and leg. He looked back over his shoulder, his peering eyes huge and bright in his sweaty face.

“Please, Andy,” he whispered. “Our orders weren’t to hurt you, only to bring you back so you could work with Jim.”

“Right,” Andy said, and actually laughed. “Don’t bullshit a bull-shitter. You were going to take all this—”

A long, stuttering blast of gunfire erupted behind the studio. Chef might be in trouble, might need him. Andy raised CLAUDETTE.

“Please don’t kill me!” Randolph screamed. He put a hand over his face.

“Just think about the roast beef dinner you’ll be eating with Jesus,” Andy said. “Why, three seconds from now you’ll be spreading your napkin.”