Under the Dome: A Novel (123 page)

Directly above him, the sky is dark with fleeing birds.

The sight of them—birds with nowhere to go—is what breaks Carter’s paralysis. That, and the rising wind he feels against his face. There has been no wind in Chester’s Mill for six days, and this one is both hot and vile, stinking of gas and vaporized wood.

A huge smashed oak lands in Main Street, pulling down snarls of dead electrical cable.

Carter flees back down the corridor. Big Jim is standing at the head of the stairs, his heavy face pale and frightened and, for once, irresolute.

“Downstairs,” Carter says. “Fallout shelter. It’s coming. The fire’s coming. And when it gets here, it’s going to eat this town alive.”

Big Jim groans. “What did those idiots
do
?”

Carter doesn’t care. Whatever they did, it’s done. If they don’t move quickly, they will be done, too. “Is there air-purifying machinery down there, boss?”

“Yes.”

“Hooked to the gennie?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank Christ for that. Maybe we’ve got a chance.”

Helping Big Jim down the stairs to make him move more quickly, Carter only hopes they don’t cook alive down there.

The doors of Dipper’s roadhouse have been chocked open, but the force of the explosion breaks the chocks and sweeps the doors shut. The glass coughs inward and several of the people standing at the back of the dance floor are cut. Henry Morrison’s brother Whit suffers a slashed jugular.

The crowd stampedes toward the doors, the big-screen TV completely forgotten. They trample poor Whit Morrison as he lies
dying in a spreading pool of his own blood. They hit the doors, and more people are lacerated as they push through the jagged openings.

“Birds!” someone cries. “Ah, God, look at all them birds!”

But most of them look west instead of up—west, where burning doom is rolling down upon them below a sky that is now midnight-black and full of poison air.

Those who can run take a cue from the birds and begin trotting, jogging, or flat-out galloping straight down the middle of Route 117. Several others throw themselves into their cars, and there are multiple fender-benders in the gravel parking lot where, once upon an antique time, Dale Barbara took a beating. Velma Winter gets into her old Datsun pickup and, after avoiding the demolition derby in the parking lot, discovers her right-of-way to the road is blocked by fleeing pedestrians. She looks right—at the firestorm billowing toward them like some great burning dress, eating the woods between Little Bitch and downtown—and drives blindly ahead in spite of the people in her way. She strikes Carla Venziano, who is fleeing with her infant in her arms. Velma feels the truck jounce as it passes over their bodies, and resolutely blocks her ears to Carla’s shrieks as her back is broken and baby Steven is crushed to death beneath her. All Velma knows is that she has to get out of here. Somehow, she has to get out.

At the Dome, the reunions have been ended by an apocalyptic party-crasher. Those on the inside have something more important than relatives to occupy them now: the giant mushroom cloud that’s growing to the northwest of their position, rising on a muscle of fire already almost a mile high. The first feather of wind—the wind that has sent Carter and Big Jim fleeing for the fallout shelter—strikes them, and they cringe against the Dome, mostly ignoring the people behind them. In any case, the people behind them are retreating. They’re lucky; they
can.

Henrietta Clavard feels a cold hand wrap around hers. She turns and sees Petra Searles. Petra’s hair has come loose from the clips that were holding it and hangs against her cheeks.

“Got any more of that joy-juice?” Petra asks, and manages a ghastly let’s-party smile.

“Sorry, all out,” Henrietta says.

“Well—maybe it doesn’t matter.”

“Hang onto me, honey,” Henrietta says. “Just hang onto me. We’re going to be okay.”

But when Petra looks into the old woman’s eyes, she sees no belief and no hope. The party’s almost over.

Look, now. Look and see. Eight hundred people are crammed against the Dome, their heads tilted up and their eyes wide, watching as their inevitable end rushes toward them.

Here are Johnny and Carrie Carver, and Bruce Yardley, who worked at Food City. Here is Tabby Morrell, who owns a lumber-yard soon to be reduced to swirling ash, and his wife, Bonnie; Toby Manning, who clerked at the department store; Trina Cole and Donnie Baribeau; Wendy Goldstone with her friend and fellow teacher Ellen Vanedestine; Bill Allnut, who wouldn’t go get the bus, and his wife, Sarah, who is screaming for Jesus to save her as she watches the oncoming fire. Here are Todd Wendlestat and Manuel Ortega with their faces raised dumbly to the west, where the world is disappearing in smoke. Tommy and Willow Anderson, who will never book another band from Boston into their roadhouse. See them all, a whole town with its back to an invisible wall.

Behind them, the visitors go from backing up to retreat, and from retreat into full flight. They ignore the buses and pound straight down the highway toward Motton. A few soldiers hold position, but most throw their guns down, tear after the crowd, and look back no more than Lot looked back at Sodom.

Cox doesn’t flee. Cox approaches the Dome and shouts:
“You! Officer in charge!”

Henry Morrison turns, walks to the Colonel’s position, and braces his hands on a hard and mystic surface he can’t see. Breathing has become difficult; bad wind pushed by the firestorm hits the Dome, swirls, then backdrafts toward the hungry thing that’s coming: a
black wolf with red eyes. Here, on the Motton town line, is the lambfold where it will feed.

“Help us,” Henry says.

Cox looks at the firestorm and estimates it will reach the crowd’s current position in no more than fifteen minutes, perhaps as few as three. It’s not a fire or an explosion; in this closed and already polluted environment, it is a cataclysm.

“Sir, I cannot,” he says.

Before Henry can reply, Joe Boxer grabs his arm. He is gibbering.

“Quit it, Joe,” Henry says. “There’s nowhere to run and nothing to do but pray.”

But Joe Boxer does not pray. He is still holding his stupid little hockshop pistol, and after a final crazed look at the oncoming inferno, he puts the gun to his temple like a man playing Russian roulette. Henry makes a grab for it, but is too late. Boxer pulls the trigger. Nor does he die at once, although a gout of blood flies from the side of his head. He staggers away, waving the stupid little pistol like a handkerchief, screaming. Then he falls to his knees, throws his hands up once to the darkening sky like a man in the grip of a godhead revelation, and collapses face-first on the broken white line of the highway.

Henry turns his stunned face back to Colonel Cox, who is simultaneously three feet and a million miles away. “I’m so sorry, my friend,” Cox says.

Pamela Chen stumbles up.
“The bus!”
she screams to Henry over the building roar.
“We have to take the bus and drive straight through it! It’s our only chance!”

Henry knows this is no chance at all, but he nods, gives Cox a final look (Cox will never forget the cop’s hellish, despairing eyes), takes Pammie Chen’s hand, and follows her to Bus 19 as the smoky blackness races toward them.

The fire reaches downtown and explodes along Main Street like a blowtorch in a pipe. The Peace Bridge is vaporized. Big Jim and Carter cringe in the fallout shelter as the Town Hall implodes above them. The PD sucks its brick walls in, then spews them high into the
sky. The statue of Lucien Calvert is uprooted from its base in War Memorial Plaza. Lucien flies into the burning black with his rifle bravely raised. On the library lawn, the Halloween dummy with the jolly top hat and the garden trowel hands goes up in a sheet of flame. A great whooshing noise—it sounds like God’s own vacuum cleaner—has arisen as the oxygen-hungry fire sucks in good air to fill its single poisonous lung. The buildings along Main Street explode one after another, tossing their boards and goods and shingles and glass into the air like confetti on New Year’s Eve: the abandoned moviehouse, Sanders Hometown Drug, Burpee’s Department Store, the Gas & Grocery, the bookstore, the flower shop, the barber-shop. In the funeral parlor, the most recent additions to the roll of the dead begin roasting in their metal lockers like chickens in a Dutch oven. The fire finishes its triumphant run down Main Street by engulfing Food City, then rolls onward toward Dipper’s, where those still in the parking lot scream and clutch at each other. Their last sight on earth is of a firewall a hundred yards high running eagerly to meet them, like Albion to his beloved. Now the flames are rolling down the main roads, boiling their tar into soup. At the same time it is spreading into Eastchester, snacking on both yuppie homes and the few yuppies cowering inside. Michela Burpee will soon run for her cellar, but too late; her kitchen will explode around her and her last sight on earth will be her Amana refrigerator, melting.

The soldiers standing by the Tarker-Chester border—closest to the origin of this catastrophe—stumble backward as the fire beats impotent fists against the Dome, turning it black. The soldiers feel the heat bake through, raising the temperature twenty degrees in seconds, crisping the leaves on the nearest trees. One of them will later say, “It was like standing outside a glass ball with a nuclear explosion inside of it.”

Now the people cowering against the Dome begin to be bombarded by dead and dying birds as the fleeing sparrows, robins, grackles, crows, gulls, and even geese slam against the Dome they so quickly learned to avoid. And across Dinsmore’s field comes a stampede of the town’s dogs and cats. There are also skunks, woodchucks,
porcupines. Deer leap among them, and several clumsily galloping moose, and of course Alden Dinsmore’s cattle, eyes rolling and mooing their distress. When they reach the Dome they crash against it. The lucky animals die. The unlucky ones lie sprawled on pincushions of broken bones, barking and squealing and miaowing and bellowing.

Ollie Dinsmore sees Dolly, the beautiful Brown Swiss who once won him a 4-H blue ribbon (his mother named her, thought Ollie and Dolly was just so cute). Dolly gallops heavily toward the Dome with somebody’s Weimaraner nipping at her legs, which are already bloody. She hits the barrier with a crunch he can’t hear over the oncoming fire … except in his mind he
can
hear it, and somehow seeing the equally doomed dog pounce on poor Dolly and begin ripping at her defenseless udder is even worse than finding his father dead.

The sight of the dying cow that was once his darling breaks the boy’s paralysis. He doesn’t know if there’s even the slightest chance of surviving this terrible day, but he suddenly sees two things with utter clarity. One is the oxygen tank with his dead father’s Red Sox cap hung on it. The other is Grampy Tom’s oxygen mask dangling from the hook of the bathroom door. As Ollie runs for the farm where he’s lived his whole life—the farm that will soon cease to exist—he has only one completely coherent thought: the potato cellar. Buried under the barn and running beneath the hill behind it, the potato cellar may be safe.

The expatriates are still standing at the edge of the orchard. Barbie hasn’t been able to make them hear him, let alone move them. Yet he must get them back to the farmhouse and the vehicles. Soon.

From here they have a panoramic view of the whole town, and Barbie is able to judge the fire’s course the way a general might judge the most likely route of an invading army by aerial photographs. It’s sweeping southeast, and may stay on the western side of the Prestile. The river, although dry, should still serve as a natural firebreak. The explosive windstorm the fire has generated will also help to keep it
from the town’s northernmost quadrant. If the fire burns all the way to where the Dome borders on Castle Rock and Motton—the heel and sole of the boot—then those parts of Chester’s Mill bordering on TR-90 and northern Harlow may be saved. From fire, at least. But it’s not fire that concerns him.

What concerns him is that wind.

He feels it now, rushing over his shoulders and between his spread legs hard enough to ripple his clothes and blow Julia’s hair around her face. It’s rushing away from them to feed the fire, and because The Mill is now an almost completely closed environment, there will be very little good air to replace what is being lost. Barbie has a nightmare image of goldfish floating dead on the surface of an aquarium from which all the oxygen has been exhausted.

Julia turns to him before he can grab her and points at something below: a figure trudging along Black Ridge Road, pulling a wheeled object. From this distance Barbie can’t tell if the refugee is a man or a woman, and it doesn’t matter. Whoever it is will almost certainly die of asphyxiation long before reaching the highland.

He takes Julia’s hand and puts his lips to her ear. “We have to go. Grab Piper, and have her grab whoever’s next to her. Everybody—”

“What about him?”
she shouts, still pointing to the trudging figure. It might be a child’s wagon he or she’s pulling. It’s loaded with something that must be heavy, because the figure is bent over and moving very slowly.

Barbie has to make her understand, because time has grown short. “Never mind him. We’re going back to the farmhouse.
Now.
Everybody joins hands so nobody gets left behind.”

She tries to turn and look at him, but Barbie holds her still. He wants her ear—literally—because he has to make her understand. “If we don’t go now, it may be too late. We’ll run out of air.”

On Route 117, Velma Winter leads a parade of fleeing vehicles in her Datsun truck. All she can think about is the fire and smoke filling the rearview mirror. She’s doing seventy when she hits the Dome, which she has in her panic forgotten completely (just another bird, in other words, this one on the ground). The collision occurs at
the same spot where Billy and Wanda Debec, Nora Robichaud, and Elsa Andrews came to grief a week before, shortly after the Dome came down. The engine of Velma’s light truck shoots backward and tears her in half. Her upper body exits through the windshield, trailing intestines like party streamers, and splatters against the Dome like a juicy bug. It is the start of a twelve-vehicle pileup in which many die. The majority are only injured, but they will not suffer long.