Under the Dome: A Novel (128 page)

But that buzzer could certainly get on a person’s nerves. Carter reckoned he could find the alarm and silence it, but then how would they know when the gennie was running dry?

Like a couple of rats trapped in an overturned bucket, that’s what we are.

He ran the numbers in his head. Six tanks left, each good for about eleven hours. But they could turn off the air-conditioner, and that might stretch it to twelve or even thirteen hours per tank. Stay on the safe side and say twelve. Twelve times six was … let’s see …

The
AAAAAAAA
made the math harder than it should have been, but he finally got there. Seventy-two hours between them and a miserable choking death down here in the dark. And why was it dark? Because no one had bothered to replace the batteries in the emergency lights, that was why. They probably hadn’t been changed for twenty years or more. The boss had been
saving money.
And why only seven little shitlicking tanks in the storage cubby when there had been about a zillion gallons out at WCIK, just waiting to blow up? Because the boss liked to have everything
right where he wanted it.

Sitting there, listening to the
AAAAAAA,
Carter remembered one of his dad’s sayings:
Hoard a penny and lose a dollar.
That was Rennie right down to the floor. Rennie the Emperor of Used Cars. Rennie the bigshot politician. Rennie the drug kingpin. How much had he made with his drug operation? A million dollars? Two? And did it matter?

He probably never would have spent it,
Carter thought,
and he’s sure as shit not gonna spend it now. Nothing to spend it on down here. He’s got all the sardines he can eat, and they’re free.

“Carter?” Big Jim’s voice came floating through the darkness. “Are you going to change that out, or are we just going to listen to it buzz?”

Carter opened his mouth to holler they were going to wait, that every minute counted, but just then the
AAAAAAA
finally quit. So did the
queep-queep-queep
of the air purifier.

“Carter?”

“I’m on it, boss.” With the flashlight clamped in his armpit, Carter pulled the empty, put the full one on a metal platform that was big enough to hold a tank ten times this one’s size, and hooked up the connector.

Every minute counted … or did it?
Why
did it, if it was going to come down to the same choking conclusion?

But the survival-watchman inside thought that was a bullshit question. The survival-watchman thought seventy-two hours was seventy-two hours, and every minute of those seventy-two hours counted. Because who knew what might happen? The military guys might finally figure out how to crack the Dome open. It might even disappear on its own, going as suddenly and inexplicably as it had come.

“
Carter?
What are you doing back there? My cotton-picking grandmother could move faster, and she’s dead!”

“Almost done.”

He made sure the connection was tight and put his thumb on the starter-button (thinking that if the little generator’s starter-battery was as old as the batteries that had been powering the emergency lights, they were in trouble). Then he paused.

It was seventy-two hours if it was the
two
of them. But if it was just him, he could stretch it to ninety or maybe even a hundred by shutting down the purifier until the air got really thick. He had broached this idea to Big Jim, who had vetoed it out of hand.

“Got a dickey heart,” he had reminded Carter. “The thicker the air is, the more likely it is to play up on me.”

“Carter?”
Loud and demanding. A voice that got up in his ears the way the smell of the boss’s sardines got up his nose.
“What’s going on back there?”

“All set, boss!” he called, and pushed the button. The starter-motor whirred, and the gennie fired up at once.

I have to think about this,
Carter told himself, but the survival-watchman thought differently. The survival-watchman thought that every minute lost was a minute wasted.

He was good to me,
Carter told himself.
He gave me responsibilities.

Dirty jobs he didn’t want to do himself is what he gave you. And a hole in the ground to die in. That too.

Carter made up his mind. He pulled his Beretta from its holster as he walked back into the main room. He considered putting it behind his back so the boss wouldn’t know, and decided against it. The man had called him
son,
after all, and might even have meant it. He deserved better than an unexpected shot in the back of the head and going out all unprepared.

10

It wasn’t dark at the far northeastern end of town; here the Dome was badly smudged but far from opaque. The sun glared through and turned everything a feverish pink.

Norrie ran to Barbie and Julia. The girl was coughing and out of breath, but she ran anyway.

“My grampy is having a heart attack!” she wailed, and then fell on her knees, hacking and gasping.

Julia put her arms around the girl and turned her face to the roaring fans. Barbie crawled to where the exiles were surrounding Ernie Calvert, Rusty Everett, Ginny Tomlinson, and Dougie Twitchell.

“Give them room, people!” Barbie snapped. “Give the guy some air!”

“That’s the problem,” Tony Guay said. “They gave him what was left … the stuff that was supposed to be for the kids … but—”

“Epi,” Rusty said, and Twitch handed him a syringe. Rusty injected it. “Ginny, start compressions. When you get tired, let Twitch take over. Then me.”

“I want to, too,” Joanie said. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she seemed composed enough. “I took a class.”

“I was in it too,” Claire said. “I’ll help.”

“And me,” Linda said quietly. “I took the refresher just last summer.”

It’s a small town and we all support the team,
Barbie thought. Ginny—her face still swollen from her own injuries—began chest compressions. She gave way to Twitch just as Julia and Norrie joined Barbie.

“Will they be able to save him?” Norrie asked.

“I don’t know,” Barbie said. But he
did
know; that was the hell of it.

Twitch took over from Ginny. Barbie watched as drops of sweat from Twitch’s forehead darkened Ernie’s shirt. After about five minutes he stopped, coughing breathlessly. When Rusty started to move in, Twitch shook his head. “He’s gone.” Twitch turned to Joanie and said, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Calvert.”

Joanie’s face trembled, then crumpled. She let out a cry of grief that turned into a coughing fit. Norrie hugged her, coughing again herself.

“Barbie,” a voice said. “A word?”

It was Cox, now dressed in brown camo and wearing a fleece jacket against the chill on the other side. Barbie didn’t like the somber expression on Cox’s face. Julia went with him. They leaned close to the Dome, trying to breathe slowly and evenly.

“There’s been an accident at Kirtland Air Force Base in New Mexico.” Cox kept his voice pitched low. “They were running final tests on the pencil nuke we meant to try, and … shit.”

“It
exploded
?” Julia asked, horrified.

“No, ma’am, melted down. Two people were killed, and another half dozen are apt to die of radiation burns and/or radiation poisoning. The point is, we lost the nuke. We lost the fucking nuke.”

“Was it a malfunction?” Barbie asked. Almost hoping that it had been, because that meant it wouldn’t have worked, anyway.

“No, Colonel, it did not. That’s why I used the word
accident.
They happen when people hurry, and we’ve been hurrying our collective ass off.”

“I’m so sorry for those men,” Julia said. “Do their relatives know yet?”

“Given your own situation, it’s very kind of you to think of that. They’ll be informed soon. The accident occurred at one o’clock this morning. Work has already begun on Little Boy Two. It should be ready in three days. Four at most.”

Barbie nodded. “Thank you, sir, but I’m not sure we have that long.”

A long thin wail of grief—a child’s wail—went up from behind them. As Barbie and Julia turned around, the wail turned into a series of harsh coughs and gasps for air. They saw Linda kneel beside her elder daughter and fold the girl into her arms.

“She can’t be dead!”
Janelle screamed.
“Audrey can’t be dead!”

But she was. The Everetts’ golden retriever had died in the night, quietly and without fuss, as the Little Js slept on either side of her.

11

When Carter came back into the main room, The Mill’s Second Selectman was eating cereal from a box with a cartoon parrot on the front. Carter recognized this mythical bird from many childhood breakfasts: Toucan Sam, the patron saint of Froot Loops.

Must be stale as hell,
Carter thought, and had a fleeting moment of pity for the boss. Then he thought of the difference between seventy-some hours of air and eighty or a hundred and hardened his heart.

Big Jim scrummed more cereal from the box, then saw the Beretta in Carter’s hand.

“Well,” he said.

“I’m sorry, boss.”

Big Jim opened his hand and let the Froot Loops cascade back into the box, but his hand was sticky and 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.