Under the Dome

Rommie shrugged, then began loading in cartons of supplies, lining the walls of the van and leaving the middle open for the passengers they hoped to have later. A tree of sweat was growing on the back of his shirt. “We just gotta hope if we do it quick and quiet, the big meetin covers for us. Don’t have much choice.”

“Will Julia and Mrs. McClatchey get lead on their car windows?” Norrie asked.

“Yuh. This afternoon. I’ll help em. And den they’ll have to leave their cars behind the store. Can’t go sportin round town with lead-lined car windows—people’d ask questions.”

“What about that Escalade of yours?” Ernie asked. “That’d swallow the rest of these supplies without so much as a burp. Your wife could drive it out h—”

“Misha won’t come,” Rommie said. “Won’t have nuthin t’do widdit, her. I asked, did all but get down on my knees n beg, but I might as well have been a gust of wind blowin round the house. I guess I already knew, because I didn’t tell her no more than she knew already… which isn’t much, but won’t keep her out of trouble if Rennie comes down on her. But she won’t see it, her.”

“Why won’t she?” Norrie asked, eyes wide, aware that the question might be rude only after it was out and she saw her grampa frown.

“Because she’s one stubborn honey. I told her she might get hurt. ‘Like to see em try,’ she said. That’s my Misha. Well, hell. If I get a chance later on, I may sneak down and see if she change her mind. They say it’s a woman’s prerogative. Come on, let’s put in a few more of those boxes. And don’t cover up the guns, Ernie. We might need em.”

“I can’t believe I got you into this, kiddo,” Ernie said.

“It’s okay, Grampa. I’d rather be in than out.” And this much, at least, was true.

9

BONK. Silence.

BONK. Silence.

BONK. Silence.

Ollie Dinsmore sat cross-legged four feet from the Dome with his old Boy Scout pack beside him. The pack was full of rocks he’d picked up in the dooryard—so full, in fact, that he’d staggered down here rather than walked, thinking that the canvas bottom would tear out of the pack and spill his ammo. But it hadn’t, and here he was. He selected another rock—a nice smooth one, polished by some ancient glacier—and threw it overhand at the Dome, where it struck what appeared to be thin air and bounced back. He picked it up and threw it again.

BONK. Silence.

The Dome had one thing going for it, he thought. It might be the reason his brother and his mother were dead, but by the hairy old Jesus, one load of ammunition was enough to last all day.

Rock boomerangs, he thought, and smiled. It was a real smile, but it made him look somehow terrible, because his face was far too thin. He hadn’t been eating much, and he thought it would be a good long while before he felt like eating again. Hearing a shot and then finding your mother lying beside the kitchen table with her dress flipped up to show her underpants and half her head blown off… a thing like that did nothing for a fellow’s appetite.

BONK. Silence.

The other side of the Dome was a hive of activity; a tent city had sprung up. Jeeps and trucks scooted to and fro, and hundreds of military guys went buzzing around while their superiors shouted orders and cussed them out, often in the same breath.

In addition to the tents that had already been erected, three long new ones were being put up. The signs already planted in front of them read VISITORS’ HOSPITALITY STATION 1, VISITORS’ HOSPITALITY STATION 2, and FIRST AID STATION. Another tent, even longer, had a sign in front of it reading LIGHT REFRESHMENTS. And shortly after Ollie sat down and began tossing his trove of rocks at the Dome, two flatbed trucks loaded with Port-A-Potties had arrived. Now ranks of cheery-looking blue shithouses stood over there, well away from the area where relatives would stand to speak with loved ones they could look at but not touch.

The stuff that had come out of his mother’s head had looked like moldy strawberry jam, and what Ollie couldn’t understand was why she’d done it that way, and in that place. Why in the room where they ate most of their meals? Had she been so far gone that she hadn’t realized she had another son, who might eat again (assuming he didn’t starve to death first) but who would never forget the horror of what lay there on the floor?

Yep, he thought. That far gone. Because Rory was always her favorite, her pet. She hardly knew I was around, unless I forgot to feed the cows or swab out the stalls when they were afield. Or if I brought home a D on my rank card. Because he never got nothing but As.

He threw a rock.

BONK. Silence.

There were several Army guys putting up pairs of signs over there near the Dome. The ones facing in toward The Mill read