Under the Dome

“I lean toward extraterrestrial,” Marty said. He knocked on the Dome without wincing; he’d already gotten his little shock from it. “So do most of the scientists working on this right now—if we can be said to be working when we’re not actually doing anything. It’s the Sherlock Rule: When you eliminate the impossible, the answer, no matter how improbable, is what remains.”

“Has anyone or anything landed in a flying saucer and demanded to be taken to our leader?” Julia asked.

“No,” Cox said.

“Would you know if something had?” Barbie asked, and thought: Are we having this discussion? Or am I dreaming it?

“Not necessarily,” Cox said, after a brief hesitation.

“It could still be meteorological,” Marty said. “Hell, even biological—a living thing. There’s a school of thought that this thing is actually some kind of E. coli hybrid.”

“Colonel Cox,” Julia said quietly, “are we something’s experiment? Because that’s what I feel like.”

Lissa Jamieson, meanwhile, was looking back toward the nice houses of the Eastchester burblet. Most of the lights there were out, either because the people who lived there had no generators or were saving them.

“That was a gunshot,” she said. “I’m sure that was a gunshot.”

FEELING IT

1

Other than town politics, Big Jim Rennie had only one vice, and that was high school girls’ basketball—Lady Wildcats basketball, to be exact. He’d had season tickets ever since 1998, and attended at least a dozen games a year. In 2004, the year the Lady Wildcats won the State Class D championship, he attended all of them. And although the autographs people noticed when they were invited into his home study were inevitably those of Tiger Woods, Dale Earnhardt, and Bill “Spaceman” Lee, the one of which he was proudest—the one he treasured—was Hanna Compton’s, the little sophomore point guard who had led the Lady Wildcats to that one and only gold ball.

When you’re a season ticket holder, you get to know the other season ticket holders around you, and their reasons for being fans of the game. Many are relatives of the girls who play (and often the spark-plugs of the Booster Club, putting on bake sales and raising money for the increasingly expensive “away” games). Others are basketball purists, who will tell you—with some justification—that the girls’ games are just better. Young female players are invested in a team ethic that the boys (who love to run and gun, dunk, and shoot from way downtown) rarely match. The pace is slower, allowing you to see inside the game and enjoy every pick-and-roll or give-and-go. Fans of the girls’ game relish the very low scores that boys’ basketball fans sneer at, claiming that the girls’ game puts a premium on defense and foul shooting, which are the very definition of old-school hoops.

There are also guys who just like to watch long-legged teenage girls run around in short pants.

Big Jim shared all these reasons for enjoying the sport, but his passion sprang from another source entirely, one he never vocalized when discussing the games with his fellow fans. It would not have been politic to do so.

The girls took the sport personally, and that made them better haters.

The boys wanted to win, yes, and sometimes a game could get hot if it was against a traditional rival (in the case of The Mills Wildcats sports teams, the despised Castle Rock Rockets), but mostly with the boys it was about individual accomplishments. Showing off, in other words. And when it was over, it was over.

The girls, on the other hand, loathed losing. They took loss back to the locker room and brooded over it. More importantly, they loathed and hated it as a team. Big Jim often saw that hate rear its head; during a loose ball-brawl deep in the second half with the score tied, he could pick up that No you don’t, you little bitch, that ball is MINE vibe. He picked it up and fed on it.

Before 2004, the Lady Wildcats made the state tournament only once in twenty years, that appearance a one-and-done affair against Buckfield. Then had come Hanna Compton. The greatest hater of all time, in Big Jim’s opinion.

As the daughter of Dale Compton, a scrawny pulp-cutter from Tarker’s Mills who was usually drunk and always argumentative, Hanna had come by her out-of-my-face ’tude naturally enough. As a freshman she had played JV for most of the season; Coach swung her up to varsity only for the last two games, where she’d outscored everyone and left her opposite number from the Richmond Bobcats writhing on the hardwood after a hard but clean defensive play.

When that game was over, Big Jim had collared Coach Wood-head. “If that girl doesn’t start next year, you’re crazy,” he said.

“I’m not crazy,” Coach Woodhead had replied.