Under the Dome

behind his tree, Andy could see two men in the lead truck. Probably the Bowies.

For a long time Chef didn’t move. Andy was beginning to think he’d changed his mind and meant to let them take the propane after all. Then Chef stepped out and triggered off two quick rounds.

Stoned or not, Chef’s aim was good. Both front tires of the lead truck went flat. The front end pogoed up and down three or four times, and then the truck came to a halt. The one behind almost rear-ended it. Andy could hear the faint sound of music, some hymn, and guessed that whoever was driving the second truck hadn’t heard the gunshots over the radio. The cab of the lead truck, meanwhile, looked empty. Both men had ducked down out of sight.

Chef Bushey, still barefooted and wearing nothing but his RIBBIT pjs (the garage door opener was hooked over the sagging waist-band like a beeper), stepped out from behind his tree. “Stewart Bowie!” he called. “Fern Bowie! Come on out of there and talk to me!” He leaned GOD’S WARRIOR against the oak.

Nothing from the cab of the lead truck, but the driver’s door of the second truck opened and Roger Killian got out. “What’s the holdup?” he bawled. “I got to get back and feed my chick—” Then he saw Chef. “Hey there, Philly, what’s up?”

“Get down!” one of the Bowies bawled. “Crazy sonofabitch is shooting!”

Roger looked at Chef, then at the AK-47 leaning against the tree. “Maybe he was, but he’s put the gun down. Besides, it’s just him. What’s the deal, Phil?”

“I’m Chef now. Call me Chef.”

“Okay, Chef, what’s the deal?”

“Come on out, Stewart,” Chef called. “You too, Fern. Nobody’s going to get hurt here, I guess.”

The doors of the lead truck opened. Without turning his head, Chef said: “Sanders! If either of those two fools has a gun, you open up. Never mind single-shot; turn em into taco cheese.”

But neither Bowie had a gun. Fern had his hands hoisted.

“Who you talkin to, buddy?” Stewart asked.

“Step out here, Sanders,” Chef said.

Andy did. Now that the threat of immediate carnage seemed to have passed, he was starting to enjoy himself. If he’d thought to bring one of Chef’s fry-daddies with him, he was sure he’d be enjoying himself even more.

“Andy?” Stewart said, astounded. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been drafted into the Lord’s army. And you are bitter men. We know all about you, and you have no place here.”

“Huh?” Fern said. He lowered his hands. The nose of the lead truck was slowly canting toward the road as the big front tires continued to deflate.

“Well said, Sanders,” Chef told him. Then, to Stewart: “All three of you get in that second truck. Turn it around and haul your sorry asses back to town. When you get there, tell that apostate son of the devil that WCIK is ours now. That includes the lab and all the supplies.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Phil?”

“Chef. ”

Stewart made a flapping gesture with one hand. “Call yourself whatever you want, just tell me what this is ab—”

“I know your brother’s stupid,” Chef said, “and Mr. Chicken there probably can’t tie his own shoes without a blueprint—”

“Hey!” Roger cried. “Watch your mouth!”

Andy raised his AK. He thought that, when he got a chance, he would paint CLAUDETTE on the stock. “No, you watch yours.”

Roger Killian went pale and fell back a step. That had never happened when Andy spoke at a town meeting, and it was very gratifying.

Chef went on talking as if there had been no interruption. “But you’ve got at least half a brain, Stewart, so use it. Leave that truck setting right where it is and go back to town in t’other one. Tell Rennie this out here doesn’t belong to him anymore, it belongs to God. Tell him Star Wormwood has blazed, and if he doesn’t want the Apocalypse to come early, he better leave us alone.” He considered. “You can also tell him we’ll keep putting out the music. I doubt he’s worried about that, but there’s some in town might find it a comfort.”

“Do you know how many cops he’s got now?” Stewart asked.

“I don’t give a tin shit.”

“I think about thirty. By tomorrow it’s apt to be fifty. And half the damn town’s wearing blue support- armbands. If he tells em to posse up, it won’t be no trouble.”

“It won’t be no help, either,” Chef said. “Our faith is in the Lord, and our strength is that of ten.”

“Well,” Roger said, flashing his math skills, “that’s twenty, but you’re still outnumbered.”

“Shut up, Roger,” Fern said.

Stewart tried again. “Phil—Chef, I mean—you need to chill the fuck out, because this ain’t no thang. He don’t want the dope, just the propane. Half the gennies in town are out. By the weekend it’ll be three-quarters. Let us take the propane.”

“I need it to cook with. Sorry.”

Stewart looked at him as if he had gone mad. He probably has, Andy thought. We probably both have. But of course Jim Rennie was mad, too, so that was a wash.

“Go on, now,” Chef said. “And tell him that if he tries sending troops against us, he will regret it.”

Stewart thought this over, then shrugged. “No skin off my rosy red chinchina. Come on, Fern. Roger, I’ll drive.”

“Fine by me,” Roger Killian said. “I hate all them gears.” He gave Chef and Andy a final look rich with mistrust, then started back to the second truck.

“God bless you fellas,” Andy called.

Stewart threw a sour dart of a glance back over his shoulder. “God bless you, too. Because God knows you’re gonna need it.”

The new proprietors of the largest meth lab in North America stood side by side, watching the big orange truck back down the road, make a clumsy K-turn, and drive away.

“Sanders!”

“Yes, Chef?”

“I want to pep up the music, and immediately. This town needs some Mavis Staples. Also some Clark Sisters. Once I get that shit cued up, let’s smoke.”

Andy’s eyes filled with tears. He put his arm around the former Phil Bushey’s bony shoulders and hugged. “I love you, Chef.”

“Thanks, Sanders. Right back atcha. Just keep your gun loaded. From now on we’ll have to stand watches.”

15

Big Jim was sitting at his son’s bedside as approaching sunset turned the day orange. Douglas Twitchell had come in to give Junior a shot. Now the boy was deeply asleep. In some ways, Big Jim knew, it would be better if Junior died; alive and with a tumor pressing down on his brain, there was no telling what he might do or say. Of course the kid was his own flesh and blood, but there was the greater good to think about; the good of the town. One of the extra pillows in the closet would probably do it—

That was when his phone rang. He looked at the name in the window and frowned. Something had gone wrong. Stewart would hardly be calling so soon if it were otherwise. “What.”

He listened with growing astonishment. Andy out there? Andy with a gun?

Stewart was waiting for him to answer. Waiting to be told what to do. Get in line,