Under the Dome

A few people chuckled at this, then looked around at each other as if coming to. In aisle 7, Carla Venziano, shamefaced, helped Henrietta Clavard to her feet. There’s plenty of Texmati for both of us, Carla thought. What in God’s name was I thinking?

Barbie nodded at Rose to go on, mouthing Coffee. In the distance, he could hear the sweet warble of an approaching ambulance.

“WHEN YOU’RE DONE, COME TO SWEETBRIAR FOR COFFEE. IT’S FRESH AND IT’S ON THE HOUSE.”

A few people clapped. Some leatherlungs yelled, “Who wants coffee? We got BEER!” Laughter and whoops greeted this sally.

Julia twitched Barbie’s sleeve. Her forehead was creased in what Barbie thought was a very Republican frown. “They’re not shopping; they’re stealing.”

“Do you want to editorialize or get them out of here before someone gets killed over a bag of Blue Mountain Dry Roast?” he asked.

She thought it over and nodded, her frown giving way to that inward-turning smile he was coming to like a great deal. “You have a point, Colonel,” she said.

Barbie turned to Rose, made a cranking gesture, and she started in again. He began to walk the two women up and down the aisles, starting with the mostly denuded deli and dairy section, on the look-out out for anyone who might be cranked up enough to offer interference. There was no one. Rose was gaining confidence, and the market was quieting. People were leaving. Many were pushing carts laden with loot, but Barbie still took it as a good sign. The sooner they were out the better, no matter how much shit they took with them… and the key was for them to hear themselves referred to as shoppers rather than stealers. Give a man or woman back his self-respect, and in most cases—not all, but most—you also give back that person’s ability to think with at least some clarity.

Anson Wheeler joined them, pushing a shopping cart full of supplies. He looked slightly shamefaced, and his arm was bleeding. “Someone hit me with a jar of olives,” he explained. “Now I smell like an Italian sandwich.”

Rose handed the bullhorn to Julia, who began broadcasting the same message in the same pleasant voice: Finish up, shoppers, and leave in orderly fashion.

“We can’t take that stuff,” Rose said, pointing at Anson’s cart. “But we need it, Rosie,” he said. He sounded apologetic but firm. “We really do.”

“We’ll leave some money, then,” she said. “If no one’s stolen my purse out of the truck, that is.”

“Um… I don’t think that’ll work,” Anson said. “Some guys were stealing the money out of the registers.” He had seen which guys, but didn’t want to say. Not with the editor of the local paper walking next to him.

Rose was horrified. “What’s happening here? In the name of God, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” Anson said.

Outside, the ambulance pulled up, the siren dying to a growl. A minute or two later, while Barbie, Rose, and Julia were still canvassing the aisles with the bullhorn (the crowd was thinning out now), someone behind them said, “That’s enough. Give me that.”

Barbie was not surprised to see acting chief Randolph, tricked out to the nines in his dress uniform. Here he was, a day late and a dollar short. Right on schedule.

Rose was working the bullhorn, extolling the virtues of free coffee at Sweetbriar. Randolph plucked it from her hand and immediately began giving orders and making threats.

“LEAVE NOW! THIS IS CHIEF PETER RANDOLPH, ORDERING YOU TO LEAVE NOW! DROP WHAT YOU ARE HOLDING AND LEAVE NOW! IF YOU DROP WHAT YOU’RE HOLDING AND LEAVE NOW, YOU MAY AVOID CHARGES!”

Rose looked at Barbie, dismayed. He shrugged. It didn’t matter. The spirit of the mob had departed. The cops who were still ambulatory—even Carter Thibodeau, staggering but on his feet—started hustling people out. When the “shoppers” wouldn’t drop their loaded baskets, the cops struck several to the ground, and Frank DeLesseps overturned a loaded shopping cart. His face was grim and pale and angry.

“Are you going to make those boys stop that?” Julia asked Randolph.

“No, Ms. Shumway, I am not,” Randolph said. “Those people are looters and they’re being treated as such.”

“Whose fault is that? Who closed the market?”

“Get out of my way,” Randolph said. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Shame you weren’t here when they broke in,” Barbie remarked.

Randolph looked at him. The glance was unfriendly yet satisfied. Barbie sighed. Somewhere a clock was ticking. He knew it, and Randolph did, too. Soon the alarm would ring. If not for the Dome, he could run. But, of course, if not for the Dome, none of this would be happening.