Under the Dome

some of the brightly colored cereal-rings clung to his fingers and palms. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and trickled from his receding hairline.

“Son, don’t do this.”

“I have to, Mr. Rennie. It’s not personal.”

Nor was it, Carter decided. Not even a little bit. They were trapped in here, that was all. And because it had happened as a result of Big Jim’s decisions, Big Jim would have to pay the price.

Big Jim set the box of Froot Loops on the floor. He did it with care, as if he were afraid the box might shatter if treated roughly. “Then what is it?”

“It just comes down to… air.”

“Air. I see.”

“I could have come in here with the gun behind my back and just put a bullet in your head, but I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to give you time to get ready. Because you’ve been good to me.”

“Then don’t make me suffer, son. If it’s not personal, you won’t make me suffer.”

“If you keep still, you won’t. It’ll be quick. Like shooting a wounded deer in the woods.”

“Can we talk about it?”

“No, sir. My mind is made up.”

Big Jim nodded. “All right, then. Can I have a word of prayer, first? Would you allow me that?”

“Yes, sir, you can pray if you want. But make it fast. This is hard on me too, you know.”

“I believe it is. You’re a good boy, son.”

Carter, who hadn’t cried since he was fourteen, felt a prickle in the corners of his eyes. “Calling me son won’t help you.”

“It does help me. And seeing you’re moved… that helps me, too.”

Big Jim shuffled his bulk off the couch and got on his knees. In the act of doing this, he knocked over the Froot Loops and uttered a sad little chuckle. “Wasn’t much of a last meal, I can tell you that.”

“No, probably not. I’m sorry.”

Big Jim, his back now to Carter, sighed. “But I’ll be eating roast beef at the Lord’s table in a minute or two, so that’s all right.” He raised a pudgy finger and pressed it high on the back of his neck. “Right here. The brain stem. All right?”

Carter swallowed what felt like a large dry ball of lint. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you want to get kneebound with me, son?”

Carter, who had gone prayerless even longer than he’d gone tearless, almost said yes. Then he remembered how sly the boss could be. He probably wasn’t being sly now, was probably beyond that, but Carter had seen the man at work and was taking no chances. He shook his head. “Say your prayer. And if you want to get all the way to amen, you really have to make it a short one.”

On his knees, back to Carter, Big Jim clasped his hands on the cushion of the sofa, which was still dimpled from the weight of his not inconsiderable fanny. “Dear God, this is Your servant, James Rennie. I guess I’m coming to you, like it or not. The cup has been raised to my lips, and I can’t—”

A large dry sob escaped him.

“Turn out the light, Carter. I don’t want to be crying in front of you. That’s not how a man should die.”

Carter extended the gun until it was almost touching the nape of Big Jim’s neck. “Okay, but that was your last request.” Then he turned out the light.

He knew it was a mistake the instant he did it, but by then it was too late. He heard the boss move, and he was Christing quick for a big man with a bad heart. Carter fired, and in the muzzle-flash he saw a bullet-hole appear in the dented sofa cushion. Big Jim was no longer kneeling in front of it, but he couldn’t have gone far, no matter how quick he was. As Carter thumbed the button of the flash-light, Big Jim drove forward with the butcher knife he had filched from the drawer next to the fallout shelter’s stove, and six inches of steel slid into Carter Thibodeau’s stomach.

He screamed in agony and fired again. Big Jim felt the bullet buzz close by his ear, but he didn’t pull back. He also had a survival-watchman, one that had served him extremely well over the years, and it was saying now that if he drew back he would die. He staggered to his feet, pulling the knife upward as he rose, eviscerating the stupid boy who had thought he could get the best of Big Jim Rennie.

Carter screamed again as he was split open. Beads of blood sprayed Big Jim’s face, driven by what he devoutly hoped was the boy’s last breath. He pushed Carter back. In the beam of the dropped flashlight, Carter staggered away, crunching through spilled Froot Loops and holding his belly. Blood poured over his fingers. He pawed at the shelves and fell to his knees in a rain of Vigo Sardines, Snow’s Clam Fry-Ettes, and Campbell’s Soups. For a moment he stayed that way, as if he had reconsidered and decided to say a prayer after all. His hair hung in his face. Then he lost his grip and went down.

Big Jim considered the knife, but that was too labor-intensive for a man suffering from heart problems (he promised himself again that he would get that taken care of as soon as this crisis was over). He picked up Carter’s gun instead, and walked to the foolish boy.

“Carter? Are you still with us?”

Carter moaned, tried to turn over, gave up.

“I’m going to put one high up in the back of your neck, just as you suggested. But I want to give you one final piece of advice first. Are you listening?”

Carter groaned again. Big Jim took this for assent.

“The advice is this: Never give a good politician time to pray.”

Big Jim pulled the trigger.

12

“I think he’s dying!” Private Ames shouted. “I think the kid’s dying!”

Sergeant Groh knelt beside Ames and peered through the dirty slot at the bottom of the Dome. Ollie Dinsmore was lying on his side with his lips almost pressed against a surface they could now see, thanks to the filth still clinging to it. In his best drill sergeant’s voice, Groh yelled: “Yo! Ollie Dinsmore! Front and center!”

Slowly, the boy opened his eyes and looked at the two men crouched less than a foot away but in a colder, cleaner world. “What?” he whispered.

“Nothing, son,” Groh said. “Go back to sleep.”

Groh turned to Ames. “Unbunch your panties, Private. He’s fine.”

“He’s not. Just look at him!”

Groh took Ames by the arm and helped him—not unkindly—to his feet. “No,” he agreed in a low voice. “He’s not even slightly okay, but he’s alive and sleeping and right now that’s the best we can ask for. He’ll use up less oxygen that way. You go get yourself something to eat. Did you get any breakfast?”

Ames shook his head. The thought of breakfast hadn’t even crossed his mind. “I want to stay in case he comes back around.” He paused, then plunged. “I want to be here if he dies.”

“He’s not going to for awhile,” Groh said. He had no idea if this was true or not. “Get something out of the truck, even if it’s only a slice of bologna wrapped in a slice of bread. You look like shit, soldier.”

Ames jerked his head toward the boy sleeping on charred ground with his mouth and nose cocked to the Dome. His face was streaked with filth, and they could barely see the rise and fall of his chest. “How long do you think he’s got, Sarge?”

Groh shook his head. “Probably not long. Someone in the group on the other side already died this morning, and several of the others aren’t doing well. And it’s better over there. Cleaner. You have to prepare yourself.”

Ames felt close to tears. “Kid lost his whole family.”

“Go get yourself something to eat. I’ll watch until you come back.”

“But after that I can stay?”

“The kid wants you, Private, the kid gets you. You can stay until the end.”

Groh watched Ames double-time to the table near the helicopter, where some food was laid out. Out here, it