Under the Dome

“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!”

“I’ve got a plan. We’ll announce a town fuel supply depot, and ration propane from it as needed. Heating oil too, if we can figure out how to use it with the power out. I hate the idea of rationing—it’s un-American to the core—but this is like the story of the grasshopper and the ant, you know. There are cotton-pickers in town who’d use up everything in a month, then yell at us to take care of em at the first sign of a cold snap!”

“You don’t really think this will go on for a month, do you?”

“Of course not, but you know what the oldtimers say: hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”

Andy thought of pointing out that they’d already used a fair amount of the town’s supplies to make crystal meth, but he knew what Big Jim would say: How could we possibly have known?

They couldn’t have, of course. Who in their right mind would ever have expected this sudden contraction of all resources? You planned for more than enough. It was the American way. Not nearly enough was an insult to the mind and the spirit.

Andy said, “You’re not the only one who won’t like the idea of rationing.”

“That’s why we have a police force. I know we all mourn Howie Perkins’s passing, but he’s with Jesus now and we’ve got Pete Randolph. Who’s going to be better for the town in this situation. Because he listens. ” He pointed a finger at Andy. “The people in a town like this—people everywhere, really—aren’t much more than children when it comes to their own self-interest. How many times have I said that?”

“Lots,” Andy said, and sighed.

“And what do you have to make children do?”

“Eat their vegetables if they want their dessert.”

“Yes! And sometimes that means cracking the whip.”

“That reminds me of something else,” Andy said. “I was talking to Sammy Bushey out at Dinsmore’s field— one of Dodee’s friends? She said some of the cops were pretty rough out there. Darn rough. We might want to talk to Chief Randolph about that.”

Jim frowned at him. “What did you expect, pal? Kid gloves? There was darn near a riot out there. We almost had a cotton-picking riot right here in Chester’s Mill!”

“I know, you’re right, it’s just that—”

“I know the Bushey girl. Knew her whole family. Drug users, car thieves, scofflaws, loan-dodgers and tax- dodgers. What we used to call poor white trash, before it became politically incorrect. Those are the people we have to watch out for right now. The very people. They’re the ones who’ll tear this town apart, given half a chance. Is that what you want?”

“No, course not—”

But Big Jim was in full flight. “Every town has its ants—which is good—and its grasshoppers, which aren’t so good but we can live with them because we understand them and can make them do what’s in their own best interests, even if we have to squeeze em a little. But every town also has its locusts, just like in the Bible, and that’s what people like the Busheys are. On them we’ve got to bring the hammer down. You might not like it and I might not like it, but personal freedom’s going to have to take a hike until this is over. And we’ll sacrifice, too. Aren’t we going to shut down our little business?”

Andy didn’t want to point out that they really had no choice, since they had no way of shipping the stuff out of town anyway, but settled for a simple yes. He didn’t want to discuss things any further, and he dreaded the upcoming meeting, which might drag on until midnight. All he wanted was to go home to his empty house and have a stiff drink and then lie down and think about Claudie and cry himself to sleep.

“What matters right now, pal, is keeping things on an even keel. That means law and order and oversight. Our oversight, because we’re not grasshoppers. We’re ants. Soldier ants.”

Big Jim considered. When he spoke again, his tone was all business. “I’m rethinking our decision to let Food City continue on a business-as-usual basis. I’m not saying we’re going to shut it down—at least not yet—but we’ll have to watch it pretty closely over the next couple of days. Like a cotton-picking hawk. Same with the Gas and Grocery. And it might not be a bad idea if we were to appropriate some of the more perishable food for our own personal—”

He stopped, squinting at the Town Hall steps. He didn’t believe what he saw and raised a hand to block the sunset. It was still there: Brenda Perkins and that gosh-darned troublemaker Dale Barbara. Not side by side, either. Sitting between them, and talking animatedly to Chief Perkins’s widow, was Andrea Grinnell, the Third Selectman. They appeared to be passing sheets of paper from hand to hand.

Big Jim did not like this.

At all.

2

He started forward, meaning to put a stop to the conversation no matter the subject. Before he could get half a dozen steps, a kid ran up to him. It was one of the Killian boys. There were about a dozen Killians living on a ramshackle chicken farm out by the Tarker’s Mills town line. None of the kids was very bright—which they came by honestly, considering the parents from whose shabby loins they had sprung—but all were members in good standing at Holy Redeemer; all Saved, in other words. This one was Ronnie… at least Rennie thought so, but it was hard to be sure. They all had the same bullet heads, bulging brows, and beaky noses.

The boy was wearing a tattered WCIK tee-shirt and carrying a note. “Hey, Mr. Rennie!” he said. “Gorry, I been lookin all over town for you!”

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to talk right now, Ronnie,” Big Jim said. He was still looking at the trio sitting on the Town Hall steps. The Three Gosh-Darn Stooges. “Maybe tomor—”

“It’s Richie, Mr. Rennie. Ronnie’s my brother.”

“Richie. Of course. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Big Jim strode on.

Andy took the note from the boy and caught up to Rennie before he could get to the trio sitting on the steps. “You better look at this.”

What Big Jim looked at first was Andy’s face, more pinched and worried than ever. Then he took the note.

James—

I must see you tonight. God has spoken to me. Now I must speak to you before I speak to the town. Please reply. Richie Killian will carry your message to me.

Reverend Lester Coggins

Not Les; not even Lester. No. Reverend Lester Coggins. This was not good. Why oh why did everything have to happen at the same time?

The boy was standing in front of the bookstore, looking in his faded shirt and baggy, slipping-down jeans like a gosh-darn orphan. Big Jim beckoned to him. The kid raced forward eagerly. Big Jim took his pen from his pocket (written in gold down the barrel: YOU’LL LUV THE FEELIN’ WHEN BIG JIM’S DEALIN’) and scribbled a three-word reply: Midnight. My house. He folded it over and handed it to the boy.

“Take that back to him. And don’t read it.”

“I won’t! No way! God bless you, Mr. Rennie.”

“You too, son.” He watched the boy speed off.