Under the Dome

Big Jim raised a blunt-fingered hand to the declining sun that seemed to be spreading across the western sky like a great poisoned egg. “You think all this is our fault, somehow. That God is punishing us for propping up the town when times were hard. That’s just not true, pal. This isn’t God’s work. If you wanted to say getting beat in Vietnam was God’s work—God’s warning that America was losing her spiritual way—I’d have to agree with you. If you were to say that nine-eleven was the Supreme Being’s response to our Supreme Court telling little children they could no longer start their day with a prayer to the God Who made them, I’d have to go along. But God punishing Chester’s Mill because we didn’t want to end up just another moribund wide spot in the road, like Jay or Millinocket?” He shook his head. “Nosir. No.”

“We also put some pretty good change in our own pockets,” Andy said timidly.

This was true. They had done more than prop up their own businesses and extend a helping hand to the little brown brothers; Andy had his own account in the Cayman Islands. And for every dollar Andy had—or the Bowies, for that matter—he was willing to bet that Big Jim had put away three. Maybe even four.

“‘The workman is worthy of his hire,’” Big Jim said in a pedantic but kindly tone. “Matthew ten-ten.” He neglected to cite the previous verse: Provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purses.

He looked at his watch. “Speaking of work, pal, we better get moving. Got a lot to decide.” He started walking. Andy followed, not taking his eyes off the sunset, which was still bright enough to make him think of infected flesh. Then Big Jim stopped again.

“Anyway, you heard Stewart—we’re shut down out there. ‘All done and buttoned up,’ as the little boy said after he made his first wee. He told the Chef himself.”

“That guy,” Andy said dourly.

Big Jim chuckled. “Don’t you worry about Phil. We’re shut down and we’re going to stay shut down until the crisis is over. In fact, this might be a sign that we’re supposed to close up shop forever. A sign from the Almighty.”

“That would be good,” Andy said. But he had a depressing insight: if the Dome disappeared, Big Jim would change his mind, and when he did, Andy would go along. Stewart Bowie and his brother Fernald would, too. Eagerly. Partly because the money was so unbelievable—not to mention tax-free—and partly because they were in too deep. He remembered something some long-ago movie star had said: “By the time I discovered I didn’t like acting, I was too rich to quit.”

“Don’t worry so much,” Big Jim said. “We’ll start moving the propane back into town in a couple of weeks, whether this Dome situation resolves itself or not. We’ll use the town sand-trucks. You can drive a standard shift, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Andy said glumly.

“And”—Big Jim brightened as an idea struck him—“we can use Stewie’s hearse! Then we can move some of the canisters even sooner!”

Andy said nothing. He hated the idea that they had appropriated (that was Big Jim’s word for it) so much propane from various town sources, but it had seemed the safest way. They were manufacturing on a large scale, and that meant a lot of cooking and a lot of venting the bad gasses. Big Jim had pointed out that buying propane in large amounts could raise questions. Just as buying large amounts of the various over-the-counter drugs that went into the crap might be noticed and cause trouble.

Owning a drugstore had helped with that, although the size of his orders for stuff like Robitussin and Sudafed had made Andy horribly nervous. He’d thought that would be their downfall, if their downfall came. He had never considered the huge cache of propane tanks behind the WCIK studio building until now.

“By the way, we’ll have plenty of electricity in the Town Hall tonight.” Big Jim spoke with the air of one springing a pleasant surprise. “I had Randolph send my boy and his friend Frankie over to the hospital to grab one of their tanks for our gennie.”

Andy looked alarmed. “But we already took—”

“I know,” Rennie said soothingly. “I know we did. Don’t you worry about Cathy Russell, they’ve got enough for the time being.”

“You could have gotten one from the radio station… there’s so much out there…”

“This was closer,” Big Jim said. “And safer. Pete Randolph’s our guy, but that doesn’t mean I want him to know about our little business. Now or ever.”

This made Andy even more certain that Big Jim didn’t really want to give up the factory.

“Jim, if we start sneaking LP back into town, where will we say it was? Are we going to tell folks the Gas Fairy took it, then changed his mind and gave it back?”

Rennie frowned. “Do you think this is funny, pal?”

“No! I think it’s scary!”