Under the Dome

“Thank you, Sanders. I love you, too. If they come from the woods, I’ll let them get out in the open and then cut them down like wheat at harvest-time. But we can’t put all our eggs in one basket. So I want you to go out front to where we were the other day. If any of them come that way—”

Andy raises CLAUDETTE.

“That’s right, Sanders. But don’t be hasty. Draw out as many as you can before you start shooting.”

“I will.” Sometimes Andy is struck by the feeling that he must be living in a dream; this is one of those times. “Like wheat at harvest-time.”

“Yea verily. But listen, because this is important, Sanders. Don’t come right away if you hear me start shooting. And I won’t come right away if I hear you start. They might guess we’re not together, but I’m wise to that trick. Can you whistle?”

Andy sticks a couple of fingers in his mouth and lets loose a piercing whistle.

“That’s good, Sanders. Amazing, in fact.”

“I learned it in grammar school.” When life was much simpler, he does not add.

“Don’t do it unless you’re in danger of being overwhelmed. Then I’ll come. And if you hear me whistle, run like hell to reinforce my position.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s have a smoke on it, Sanders, what do you say?”

Andy seconds the motion.

On Black Ridge, at the edge of the McCoy orchard, seventeen exiles from town stand against the smudged skyline like Indians in a John Ford Western. Most are staring in fascinated silence at the silent parade of people moving out Route 119. They are almost six miles distant, but the size of the crowd makes it impossible to miss.

Rusty’s the only one who’s looking at something closer, and it fills him with a relief so great it seems to sing. A silver Odyssey van is speeding along Black Ridge Road. He stops breathing as it approaches the edge of the trees and the glow-belt, which is now invisible again. There is time for him to think how horrible it would be if whoever is driving—Linda, he assumes—blacked out and the van crashed, but then it’s past the danger point. There might have been the smallest swerve, but he knows even that could have been his imagination. They’ll be here soon.

They are standing a hundred yards to the left of the box, but Joe McClatchey thinks he can feel it, just the same: a little pulse that digs at his brain each time the lavender light shines out. That might just be his mind playing tricks on him, but he doesn’t think so.

Barbie is standing next to him, with his arm around Miz Shumway. Joe taps him on the shoulder and says, “This feels bad, Mr. Barbara. All those people together. This feels awful. ”

“Yes,” Barbie says.

“They’re watching. The leatherheads. I can feel them.”

“So can I,” Barbie says.

“Me too,” Julia says, in a voice almost too low to hear.

In the conference room of the Town Hall, Big Jim and Carter Thibodeau watch silently as the split-screen image on the TV gives way to a shot at ground level. At first the image is jerky, like video of an approaching tornado or the immediate aftermath of a car-bombing. They see sky, gravel, and running feet. Someone mutters, “Come on, hurry up.”

Wolf Blitzer says, “The pool-coverage truck has arrived. They’re obviously hurrying, but I’m sure that in a moment… yes. Oh my goodness, look at that.”

The camera steadies on the hundreds of Chester’s Mill residents at the Dome just as they rise to their feet. It’s like watching a large group of open-air worshippers rising from prayer. The ones at the front are being jostled against the Dome by the ones behind; Big Jim sees flattened noses, cheeks, and lips, as if the townspeople are being pressed against a glass wall. He feels a moment of vertigo and realizes why: this is the first time he’s seeing from the outside. For the first time the enormity of it and the reality of it strike home. For the first time he is truly frightened.

Faintly, slightly deadened by the Dome, comes the sound of pistol shots.

“I think I’m hearing gunfire,” Wolf says. “Anderson Cooper, do you hear gunfire? What’s happening?”

Faintly, sounding like a call from a satellite phone originating deep in the Australian outback, Cooper comes back: “Wolf, we’re not there yet, but I’ve got a small monitor and it looks like—”

“I see it now,” Wolf says. “It appears to be—”

“It’s Morrison,” Carter says. “The guy’s got guts, I’ll say that much.”

“He’s out as of tomorrow,” Big Jim replies.

Carter looks at him, eyebrows raised. “What he said at the meeting last night?”

Big Jim points a finger at him. “I knew you were a bright boy.”

At the Dome, Henry Morrison isn’t thinking about last night’s meeting, or bravery, or even doing his duty; he’s thinking that people are going to be crushed against the Dome if he doesn’t do something, and quick. So he fires his gun into the air. Taking the cue, several other cops—Todd Wendlestat, Rance Conroy, and Joe Boxer—do the same.