Under the Dome

Mexico eighteen months ago. But he had an idea his term of service had just been extended, like it or not. Held over by popular demand, as the saying went.

“—whose specialty in Iraq was hunting down Al Qaeda bomb factories. Hunting them down and shutting them down.”

So. Basically just another gennie. He thought of all those he and Julia Shumway had passed on the way out here, roaring away in the dark, providing heat and light. Eating propane to do it. He realized that propane and storage batteries, even more than food, had become the new gold standard in Chester’s Mill. One thing he knew: people would burn wood. If it got cold and the propane was gone, they’d burn plenty. Hardwood, softwood, trashwood. And fuck the carcinogens.

“It won’t be like the generators working away in your part of the world tonight,” Cox said. “A thing that could do this… we don’t know what it would be like, or who could build such a thing.”

“But Uncle Sammy wants it,” Barbie said. He was gripping the phone almost tightly enough to crack it. “That’s actually the priority, isn’t it? Sir? Because a thing like that could change the world. The people of this town are strictly secondary. Collateral damage, in fact.”

“Oh, let’s not be melodramatic,” Cox said. “In this matter our interests coincide. Find the generator, if it’s there to be found. Find it the way you found those bomb factories, and then shut it down. Problem solved.”

“If it’s there.”

“If it’s there, roger that. Will you try?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not that I can see, but I’m career military. For us, free will isn’t an option.”

“Ken, this is one fucked-up fire drill.”

Cox was slow to reply. Although there was silence on the line (except for a faint high hum that might mean the proceedings were being recorded), Barbie could almost hear him reflecting. Then he said: “That’s true, but you still get all the good shit, you bitch.”

Barbie laughed. He couldn’t help it.

3

On the way back, passing the dark shape that was Christ the Holy Redeemer Church, he turned to Julia. In the glow of the dashboard lights, her face looked tired and solemn.

“I won’t tell you to keep quiet about any of this,” he said, “but I think you should hold one thing back.”

“The generator that may or may not be in town.” She took a hand off the wheel, reached back, and stroked Horace’s head, as if for comfort and reassurance.

“Yes.”

“Because if there’s a generator spinning the field—creating your Colonel’s Dome—then somebody must be running it. Somebody here.”

“Cox didn’t say that, but I’m sure it’s what he thinks.”

“I’ll withhold that. And I won’t e-mail any pictures.”

“Good.”

“They should run first in the Democrat anyway, dammit.” Julia continued stroking the dog. People who drove one-handed usually made Barbie nervous, but not tonight. They had both Little Bitch and 119 to themselves. “Also, I understand that sometimes the greater good is more important than a great story. Unlike the New York Times. ”

“Zing,” Barbie said.

“And if you find the generator, I won’t have to spend too many days shopping at Food City. I hate that place.” She looked startled. “Do you think it’ll even be open tomorrow?”

“I’d say yes. People can be slow to catch up with the new deal when the old deal changes.”

“I think I better do a little Sunday shopping,” she said thoughtfully.

“When you do, say hello to Rose Twitchell. She’ll probably have the faithful Anson Wheeler with her.” Remembering his earlier advice to Rose, he laughed and said, “Meat, meat, meat.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“If you have a generator at your house—”

“Of course I do, I live over the newspaper. Not a house; a very nice apartment. The generator was a tax deduction.” She said this proudly.

“Then buy meat. Meat and canned goods, canned goods and meat.”

She thought about it. Downtown was just ahead now. There were far fewer lights than usual, but still plenty. For how long? Barbie wondered. Then Julia asked, “Did your Colonel give you any ideas about how to find this generator?”

“Nope,” Barbie said. “Finding shit used to be my job. He knows that.” He paused, then asked: “Do you think there might be a Geiger counter in town?”

“I know there is. In the basement of the Town Hall. Actually the subbasement, I guess you’d say. There’s a fallout shelter there.”

“You’re shittin me!”

She laughed. “No shit, Sherlock. I did a feature story on it three years ago. Pete Freeman took the pictures. In the basement there’s a big conference room and a little kitchen. The shelter’s half a flight of stairs down from the kitchen. Pretty good-sized. It was built in the fifties, when the smart money was on us blowing ourselves to hell.”

“On the Beach,” Barbie said.

“Yep, see you that and raise you Alas, Babylon. It’s a pretty depressing place. Pete’s pictures reminded me of the Fuhrerbunker, just before the end. There’s a kind of pantry—shelves and shelves of canned goods—and half a dozen cots. Also some equipment supplied by the government. Including a Geiger counter.”

“The canned stuff must be extremely tasty after fifty years.”

“Actually, they rotate in new goods every so often. There’s even a small generator that went in after nine- eleven. Check the Town Report and you’ll see an appropriation item for the shelter every four years or so. Used to be three hundred dollars. Now it’s six hundred. You’ve got your Geiger counter.” She shifted her eyes to him briefly. “Of course, James Rennie sees all things Town Hall, from the attic to the fallout shelter, as his personal property, so he’ll want to know why you want it.”

“Big Jim Rennie isn’t going to know,” he said.

She accepted this without comment. “Would you like to come back to the office with me? Watch the President’s speech while I start comping the paper? It’ll be a quick and dirty job, I can tell you that. One story, half a dozen pictures for local consumption, no Burpee’s Autumn Sales Days circular.”

Barbie considered it. He was going to be busy tomorrow, not just cooking but asking questions. Starting the old job all over again, in the old way. On the other hand, if he went back to his place over the drugstore, would he be able to sleep?

“Okay. And I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I have excellent office-boy skills. I also make a mean cup of coffee.”

“Mister, you are on.” She raised her right hand off the wheel and Barbie slapped her five.

“Can I ask you one more question? Strictly not for publication?”

“Sure,” he said.

“This sci-fi generator. Do you think you’ll find it?”

Barbie thought it over as she pulled in beside the storefront that housed the Democrat ’s offices.

“No,” he said at last. “That would be too easy.”

She sighed and nodded. Then she grasped his fingers. “Would it help, do you think, if I prayed for your success?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Barbie said.