Under the Dome

They were still coughing as they ran to the Odyssey, but Sam wasn’t. He was slumped over the wheel, eyes open, breathing shallowly. His lower face was bearded with blood, and when Barbie pulled him back, he saw that the old man’s blue shirt had turned a muddy purple.

“Can you carry him?” Julia asked. “Can you carry him to where the soldiers are?”

The answer was almost certainly no, but Barbie said, “I can try.”

“Don’t,” Sam whispered. His eyes shifted toward them. “Hurts too much.” Fresh blood seeped from his mouth with each word. “Did you do it?”

“Julia did,” Barbie said. “I don’t know exactly how, but she did.”

“Part of it was the man in the gym,” she said. “The one the hackermonster shot.”

Barbie’s mouth dropped open, but she didn’t notice. She put her arms around Sam and kissed him on each cheek. “And you did it, too, Sam. You drove us out here, and you saw the little girl on the bandstand.”

“You ’us no little girl in my dream,” Sam said. “You ’us grown up.”

“The little girl was still there, though.” Julia touched her chest. “Still here, too. She lives.”

“Help me out of the van,” Sam whispered. “I want to smell some fresh air before I die.”

“You’re not going to—”

“Hush, woman. We both know better’n that.”

They both took an arm, gently lifted him from behind the wheel, and laid him on the ground.

“Smell that air,” he said. “Good Lord.” He breathed in deeply, then coughed out a spray of blood. “I’m gettin a whiff of honeysuckle.”

“Me too,” she said, and brushed his hair back from his brow.

He put his hand over hers. “Were they… were they sorry?”

“There was only one,” Julia said. “If there had been more, it never would have worked. I don’t think you can fight a crowd that’s bent on cruelty. And no—she wasn’t sorry. She took pity, but she wasn’t sorry.”

“Not the same things, are they?” the old man whispered.

“No. Not at all.”

“Pity’s for strong people,” he said, and sighed. “I can only be sorry. What I done was because of the booze, but I’m still sorry. I’d take it back if ever I could.”

“Whatever it was, you made up for it in the end,” Barbie said. He took Sam’s left hand. The wedding ring hung on the third finger, grotesquely large for the scant flesh.

Sam’s eyes, faded Yankee blue, shifted to him, and he tried to smile. “Maybe I did… for the doin. But I was happy in the doin. I don’t think you can ever make up for a thing like—” He began to cough again, and more blood flew from his mostly toothless mouth.

“Stop now,” Julia said.

“Stop trying to talk.” They were kneeling on either side of him. She looked at Barbie. “Forget about carrying him. He tore something inside. We’ll have to go for help.”

“Oh, the sky!” Sam Verdreaux said.

That was the last. He sighed his chest flat, and there was no next breath to lift it. Barbie moved to close his eyes but Julia took his hand and stopped him.

“Let him look,” she said. “Even if he’s dead, let him look as long as he can.”

They sat beside him. There was birdsong. And somewhere, Horace was still barking.

“I suppose I ought to go and find my dog,” Julia said.

“Yes,” he said. “The van?”

She shook her head. “Let’s walk. I think we can handle half a mile if we go slow—don’t you?”

He helped her up. “Let’s find out,” he said.

18

As they walked, hands linked above the grassy crown of the old supply road, she told him as much as she could about what she called “being inside the box.”

“So,” he said when she had finished. “You told her about the terrible things we’re capable of—or showed them to her—and she still let us go.”

“They know all about terrible things,” she said.

“That day in Fallujah is the worst memory of my life. What makes it so bad is…” He tried to think how Julia had put it. “I was the doer instead of the one done by.”

“You didn’t do it,” she said. “That other man did.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Barbie said. “The guy’s just as dead no matter who did it.”

“Would it have happened if there had only been two or three of you in that gym? Or if it had been just you been alone?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then blame fate. Or God. Or the universe. But stop blaming yourself.”

He might not ever be able to do that, but he understood what Sam had said at the end. Sorrow for a wrong was better than nothing, Barbie supposed, but no amount of after-the-fact sorrow could ever atone for joy taken in destruction, whether it was burning ants or shooting prisoners.

He had felt no joy in Fallujah. On that score he could find himself innocent. And that was good.

Soldiers were running toward them. They might have another minute alone. Perhaps two.

He stopped and took her by the arms.

“I love you for what you did, Julia.”

“I know you do,” she said calmly.

“What you did was very brave.”

“Do you forgive me for stealing from your memories? I didn’t mean to; it just happened.”

“Totally forgiven.”

The soldiers were closer. Cox was running with the rest, Horace dancing at his heels. Soon Cox would be here, he’d ask how Ken was, and with that question the world would reclaim them.

Barbie looked up at the blue sky, breathed deeply of the clearing air. “I can’t believe it’s gone.”

“Will it ever come back, do you think?”

“Maybe not to this planet, and not because of that bunch. They’ll grow up and leave their playroom, but the box will stay. And other kids will find it. Sooner or later, the blood always hits the wall.”

“That’s awful.”

“Maybe, but can I tell you something my mother used to say?”

“Of course.”

He recited, “‘For every night, twice the bright.’”

Julia laughed. It was a lovely sound.

“What did the leatherhead girl say to you at the end?” he asked. “Tell me quick, because they’re almost here and this belongs just to us.”

She seemed surprised that he didn’t know. “She said what Kayla said. ‘Wear it home, it’ll look like a dress.’”

“She was talking about the brown sweater?”

She took his hand again. “No. About our lives. Our little lives.”

He thought it over. “If she gave it to you, let’s put it on.”

Julia pointed. “Look who’s coming!”

Horace had seen her. He put on speed and wove through the running men and, once he was past them, dropped low to the ground and hit fourth gear. A large grin wreathed his chops. His ears were laid back flat to his skull. His shadow raced along beside him on the soot-stained grass. Julia knelt and held out her arms.

“Come to mama, sweetheart!” she shouted.

He leaped. She caught him and sprawled backward, laughing. Barbie helped her to her feet.

They walked back into the world together, wearing the gift that had been given them: just life.

Pity was not love, Barbie reflected… but if you were a child, giving clothes to someone who was naked had