PLAY THAT DEAD BAND SONG 2 page

“Yuh. Now scat. I’ll call you if I decide to open this afternoon.”

“Okay.” Toby’s eyes gleamed. “Maybe we could have a Dome Sale. You know what they say—when life hands you lemons, make lemonade.”

“Maybe, maybe,” Rommie said, but he doubted there would be any such sale. This morning he was much less interested than he had been in unloading shoddy goods at prices that looked like bargains. He felt that he had undergone big changes in the last three days—not so much of character as of perspective. Some of it had to do with fighting the fire and the camaraderie afterward. That had been the real town at work, he thought. The town’s better nature. And a lot of it had to do with the murder of his once-upon-a-time lover, Brenda Perkins … whom Rommie still thought of as Brenda Morse. One hot ticket she’d been, and if he discovered who had cooled her off—assuming that Rusty was right about it not being Dale Barbara—that person would pay. Rommie Burpee would see to that personally.

At the back of his cavernous store was the Home Repairs section, conveniently located next to the Do-It-Yourself section. Rommie grabbed a set of heavy-duty metal snips from the latter, then entered the former and proceeded to the farthest, darkest, and dustiest corner of his retail kingdom. Here he found two dozen fifty-pound rolls of Santa Rosa lead sheeting, ordinarily used for roofing, flashing, and chimney insulation. He loaded two of the rolls (and the metal snips) into a shopping cart and rolled the cart back through the store until he reached the sports department. Here he set to work picking and choosing. Several times he burst out laughing. It was going to work, but yes, Rusty Everett was going to look très amusant.

When he was done, he straightened up to stretch the kinks out of his back and caught sight of a deer-in­the-crosshairs poster on the far side of the sports department. Printed above the deer was this reminder: HUNTING SEASON’S ALMOST HERE—TIME TO GUN UP!

Given the way things were going, Rommie thought that gunning up might be a good idea. Especially if Rennie or Randolph decided that confiscating any weapons but those belonging to the cops would be a good idea.

He rolled another shopping cart over to the locked rifle cases, working through the considerable ring of keys hanging from his belt by touch alone. Burpee’s sold exclusively Winchester products, and given that deer season was only a week away, Rommie thought he could justify a few holes in his stock if he were asked. He selected a Wildcat.22, a speed-pump Black Shadow, and two Black Defenders, also with the speed-pump feature. To this he added a Model 70 Extreme Weather (with scope) and a 70 Featherweight (without). He took ammo for all the guns, then pushed the cart down to his office and stowed the guns in his old green Defender floor-safe.

This is paranoid, you know, he thought as he twirled the dial.

But it didn’t feel paranoid. And as he went back out to wait for Rusty and the kids, he reminded himself to tie a blue rag around his arm. And to tell Rusty to do the same. Camouflage wasn’t a bad idea.

Any deer hunter knew that.

At eight o’clock that morning, Big Jim was back in his home study. Carter Thibodeau—now his personal bodyguard for the duration, Big Jim had decided—was deep in an issue of Car and Driver, reading a comparison of the 2012 BMW H-car and the 2011 Ford Vesper R/T. They both looked like awesome cars, but anybody who didn’t know that BMWs ruled was insane. The same was true, he thought, of anyone who didn’t understand that Mr. Rennie was now the BMW H-car of Chester’s Mill.

Big Jim was feeling quite well, partly because he’d gotten another hour of sleep after visiting Barbara. He was going to need lots of power naps in the days ahead. He had to stay sharp, on top. He would not quite admit to himself that he was also worried about more arrhythmias.

Having Thibodeau on hand eased his mind considerably, especially with Junior behaving so erratically (That’s one way to put it, he thought). Thibodeau looked like a thug, but he seemed to have a feel for the aide-de-camp role. Big Jim wasn’t completely sure yet, but he thought Thibodeau might actually turn out to

be smarter than Randolph.

He decided to test that.

“How many men guarding the supermarket, son? Do you know?”

Carter put his magazine aside and drew a battered little notebook from his back pocket. Big Jim approved.

After thumbing through it a little, Carter said: “Five last night, three regular guys and two new ones. No problems. Today there’s only gonna be three. All new ones. Aubrey Towle—his brother owns the bookshop, y’know—Todd Wendlestat, and Lauren Conree.”

“And do you concur that that should be enough?”

“Huh?”

“Do you agree, Carter. Concur means agree.”

“Yeah, that should do it. Daylight and all.”

No pause to calculate what the boss might want to hear. Rennie liked that a bunch.

“Okay. Now listen. I want you to get with Stacey Moggin this morning. Tell her to call every officer we’ve got on our roster. I want them all at Food City tonight at seven. I’m going to talk to them.”

Actually he was going to make another speech, this time with all the stops out. Wind them up like Granddad’s pocketwatch.

“Okay.” Carter made a note in his little aide-de-camp book.

“And tell each of them to try and bring one more.”

Carter was running his gnawed-upon pencil down the list in his book. “We’ve already got … lemme see … twenty-six.”

“That still might not be enough. Remember the market yesterday morning, and the Shumway woman’s newspaper last night. It’s us or anarchy, Carter. Do you know the meaning of that word?”

“Uh, yessir.” Carter Thibodeau was pretty sure it meant an archery range, and he supposed his new boss was saying that The Mill could become a shooting gallery or something if they didn’t take a good hard hold. “Maybe we ought to make a weapons sweep, or something.”

Big Jim grinned. Yes, in many ways a delightful boy. “That’s on the docket, probably starting next week.”

“If the Dome’s still up. You think it will be?”

“I think so.” It had to be. There was still so much to do. He had to see that the propane cache was disseminated back into town. All traces of the meth lab behind the radio station had to be erased. Also—and this was crucial—he hadn’t achieved his greatness yet. Although he was well on his way.

“In the meantime, have a couple of the officers—the regular officers—go on over to Burpee’s and confiscate the guns there. If Romeo Burpee gives the officers any grief, they’re to say we want to keep them out of the hands of Dale Barbara’s friends. Have you got that?”

“Yep.” Carter made another note. “Denton and Wettington? They okay?”

Big Jim frowned. Wettington, the gal with the big tiddies. He didn’t trust her. He wasn’t sure he would have liked any cop with tiddies, gals had no business in law enforcement, but it was more than that. It was the way she looked at him.

“Freddy Denton yes, Wettington no. Not Henry Morrison, either. Send Denton and George Frederick. Tell them to put the guns in the PD strong room.”

“Got it.”

Rennie’s phone rang, and his frown deepened. He picked it up and said, “Selectman Rennie.”

“Hello, Selectman. This is Colonel James O. Cox. I’m in charge of what’s being called the Dome Project. I thought it was time we spoke.”

Big Jim leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Well then you just go on then, Colonel, and God bless you.”

“My information is that you’ve arrested the man the President of the United States tapped to take charge of matters in Chester’s Mill.”

“That would be correct, sir. Mr. Barbara is charged with murder. Four counts. I hardly think the President would want a serial killer in charge of things. Wouldn’t do much for his standing in the polls.”

“Which puts you in charge.”

“Oh, no,” Rennie said, smiling more widely. “I’m nothing but a humble Second Selectman. Andy Sanders is the man in charge, and Peter Randolph—our new Police Chief, as you may know—was the arresting officer.”

“Your hands are clean, in other words. That’s going to be your position once the Dome is gone and the investigation starts.”

Big Jim enjoyed the frustration he heard in the cotton-picker’s voice. Pentagon son-of-a-buck was used to riding; being rode was a new experience for him.

“Why would they be dirty, Colonel Cox? Barbara’s dog tags were found with one of the victims. Can’t get much more cut-and-dried than that.”

“Convenient.”

“Call it what you want.”

“If you tune in the cable news networks,” Cox said, “you’ll see that serious questions are being raised about Barbara’s arrest, especially in light of his service record, which is exemplary. Questions are also being raised about your own record, which is not so exemplary.”

“Do you think any of that surprises me? You fellows are good at managing the news. You’ve been doing it since Vietnam.”

“CNN’s got a story about you being investigated for shady bait-and-switch practices back in the late nineties. NBC’s reporting that you were investigated for unethical loan practices in 2008. I believe you were accused of charging illegal rates of interest? Somewhere in the forty percent area? Then repo’ing cars and trucks that had already been paid for twice and sometimes three times over? Your constituents are probably seeing this on the news for themselves.”

All those charges had gone away. He had paid good money to make them go away. “The people in my town know those news shows will put on any ridiculous thing if it sells a few more tubes of hemorrhoid cream and a few more bottles of sleeping pills.”

“There’s more. According to the State of Maine Attorney General, the previous Police Chief—the one who died last Saturday—was investigating you for tax fraud, misappropriation of town funds and town property, and involvement in illegal drug activity. We have released none of this latest stuff to the press, and have no intention of doing so … if you’ll compromise. Step down as Town Selectman. Mr. Sanders should likewise step down. Name Andrea Grinnell, the Third Selectman, as the officer in charge, and Jacqueline Wettington as the President’s representative in Chester’s Mill.”

Big Jim was startled out of what remained of his good temper. “Man, are you insane? Andi Grinnell is a drug addict—hooked on OxyContin—and the Wettington woman doesn’t have a brain in her cotton-picking head!”

“I assure you that’s not true, Rennie.” No more Mister ; the Era of Good Feelings seemed to be over. “Wettington was given a citation for helping to break up an illegal drug ring operating out of the Sixty-seventh Combat Support Hospital in Würzburg, Germany, and was personally recommended by a man named Jack Reacher, the toughest goddam Army cop that ever served, in my humble opinion.”

“There’s nothing humble about you, sir, and your sacrilegious language doesn’t go down well with me. I am a Christian.”

“A drug-selling Christian, according to my information.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” Especially under the Dome, Big Jim thought, and smiled. “Do you have any actual proof?”

“Come on, Rennie—as one hardass to another, does it matter? The Dome is a bigger press event than nine-eleven. And it’s sympathetic big press. If you don’t start compromising, I’ll tar you so thick you’ll never get it off. Once the Dome breaks, I’ll see you before a Senate subcommittee, a grand jury, and in jail. I promise you that. But step down and it all goes away. I promise you that, too.”

“Once the Dome breaks,” Rennie mused. “And when will that be?”

“Maybe sooner than you think. I plan to be the first one inside, and my first order of business will be to snap handcuffs on you and escort you to an airplane which will fly you to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, where you will be held as a guest of the United States pending trial.”

Big Jim was rendered momentarily speechless by the boldfaced audacity of this. Then he laughed.

“If you really wanted what’s best for the town, Rennie, you’d step down. Look what’s happened on your watch: six murders—two at the hospital last night, we understand—a suicide, and a food riot. You’re not up to this job.”

Big Jim’s hand closed on the gold baseball and squeezed. Carter Thibodeau was looking at him with a worried frown.

If you were here, Colonel Cox, I’d give you a taste of what I gave Coggins. With God as my witness, I would.

“Rennie?”

“I’m here.” He paused. “And you’re there.” Another pause. “And the Dome isn’t coming down. I think we both know that. Drop the biggest A-bomb you’ve got on it, render the surrounding towns uninhabitable for two hundred years, kill everybody in Chester’s Mill with the radiation if the radiation goes through, and still it won’t come down.” He was breathing fast now, but his heart was beating strong and steady in his chest. “Because the Dome is God’s will.”

Which was, in his deepest heart, what he believed. As he believed it was God’s will that he take this town and carry it through the weeks, months, and years ahead.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Knowing he was wagering everything, his entire future, on the continued existence of the Dome. Knowing some people would think he was crazy for doing so. Also knowing those people were unbelieving heathens. Like Colonel James O. Cotton-Picker Cox.

“Rennie, be reasonable. Please.”

Big Jim liked that please ; it brought his good humor back in a rush. “Let’s recap, shall we, Colonel Cox? Andy Sanders is in charge here, not me. Although I appreciate the courtesy call from such a high mucky-muck as yourself, naturally. And while I’m sure Andy will appreciate your offer to manage things—by remote control, as it were—I think I can speak for him when I say you can take your offer and tuck it away where the sun doesn’t shine. We’re on our own in here, and we’re going to handle it on our own.”

“You’re crazy,” Cox said wonderingly.

“So unbelievers always call the religious. It’s their final defense against faith. We’re used to it, and I don’t hold it against you.” This was a lie. “May I ask a question?”

“Go on.”

“Are you going to cut off our phones and computers?”

“You’d sort of like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course not.” Another lie.

“The phones and Internet stay. So does the press conference on Friday. At which you’ll be asked some difficult questions, I assure you.”

“I won’t be attending any press conferences in the foreseeable future, Colonel. Neither will Andy. And Mrs. Grinnell wouldn’t make much sense, poor thing. So you can just cancel your—”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Was that a smile in Cox’s voice? “The press conference will be held at noon on Friday, in plenty of time to sell lots of hemorrhoid cream on the evening news.”

“And who do you expect will be attending from our town?”

“Everyone, Rennie. Absolutely everyone. Because we’re going to allow their relatives to come to the Dome at the Motton town line—site of the airplane crash in which Mr. Sanders’s wife died, you may remember. The press will be there to record the whole thing. It’s going to be like visiting day at the state prison, only no one’s guilty of anything. Except maybe you.”

Rennie was infuriated all over again. “You can’t do that!”

“Oh, but I can.” The smile was there. “You can sit on your side of the Dome and thumb your nose at me; I can sit on mine and do the same. The visitors will be lined up, and as many as will agree to do so will be wearing tee-shirts reading DALE BARBARA IS INNOCENT and FREE DALE BARBARA and IMPEACH JAMES RENNIE. There will be tearful reunions, hands pressing against hands with the Dome in between, maybe even attempts to kiss. It will make excellent TV footage, and it will make excellent propaganda. Most of all, it’s going to make people in your town wonder what they’re doing with an incompetent like you at the controls.”

Big Jim’s voice descended to a thick growl. “I won’t allow it.”

“How are you going to stop it? Over a thousand people. You couldn’t shoot them all.” When he spoke again, his voice was calm and reasonable. “Come on, Selectman, let’s work this out. You can still come out of it clean. You only need to let go of the controls.”

Big Jim saw Junior drifting down the hall toward the front door like a ghost, still wearing his pajama pants and slippers, and barely noticed. Junior could have dropped dead in the hallway and Big Jim would have remained hunched over his desk, the gold baseball clutched in one hand and the telephone in the other. One thought beat in his head: putting Andrea Grinnell in charge, with Officer Tiddies as her second.

It was a joke.

A bad joke.

“Colonel Cox, you can go fuck yourself.”

He hung up, swiveled his desk chair, and hurled the gold baseball. It hit the signed photo of Tiger Woods. The glass shattered, the frame fell to the floor, and Carter Thibodeau, who was used to striking fear into hearts but who rarely had fear struck into his own, jumped to his feet.

“Mr. Rennie? Are you all right?”

He didn’t look all right. Irregular purple patches flared on his cheeks. His small eyes were wide and bulging from their sockets of hard fat. The vein in his forehead pulsed.

“They will never take this town from me,” Big Jim whispered.

“Course they won’t,” Carter said. “Without you, we’re sunk.”

This relaxed Big Jim to some degree. He reached for the telephone, then remembered Randolph had gone home to bed. The new Chief had gotten precious little rack-time since the crisis began, and had told Carter that he intended to sleep until at least noon. And that was okay. The man was useless, anyway.

“Carter, make a note. Show it to Morrison, if he’s running things at the PD this morning, then leave it on Randolph’s desk. After that, come right back here.” He paused to consider for a moment, frowning. “And see if Junior’s headed there. He went out while I was talking to Colonel Do-What-I-Want on the telephone. Don’t go looking for him if he’s not, but if he is, make sure he’s all right.”

“Sure. What’s the message?”

“ ‘Dear Chief Randolph: Jacqueline Wettington is to be severed from the Chester’s Mill PD immediately.’”

“Does that mean fired?”

“Yes indeed.”

Carter was scribbling in his book, and Big Jim gave him time to catch up. He was okay again. Better than okay. He was feeling it. “Add, ‘Dear Officer Morrison: When Wettington comes in today, please inform her she is relieved of duty and tell her to clean out her locker. If she asks you for cause, tell her we are reorganizing the department and her services will no longer be required.’”

“Does required have a c in it, Mr. Rennie?”

“The spelling doesn’t matter. The message matters.”

“Okay. Right.”

“If she has further questions, she can see me.”

“Got it. Is that all?”

“No. Tell whichever one sees her first to take her badge and gun. If she gets poopy and says the gun’s her personal property, they can give her a receipt and tell her it will either be returned or she’ll be reimbursed when this crisis is over.”

Carter scribbled some more, then looked up. “What do you think is wrong with Junes, Mr. Rennie?”

“I don’t know. Just megrims, I imagine. Whatever it is, I don’t have time to deal with it right now. There are more pressing matters at hand.” He pointed at the notebook. “Bring me that.”

Carter did. His handwriting was the looping scrawl of a third-grader, but everything was there. Rennie signed it.

Carter took the fruits of his secretarial labor to the PD. Henry Morrison greeted them with an incredulity that fell just short of mutiny. Carter also looked around for Junior, but Junior wasn’t there, and no one had seen him. He asked Henry to keep an eye out.

Then, on impulse, he went downstairs to visit Barbie, who was lying on his bunk with his hands behind his head.

“Your boss called,” he said. “That guy Cox. Mr. Rennie calls him Colonel Do-What-I-Want.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Barbie said.

“Mr. Rennie gave him the big fuck you. And you know what? Your Army pal had to eat it and smile. What do you think of that?”

“I’m not surprised.” Barbie kept looking at the ceiling. He sounded calm. It was irritating. “Carter, have you thought about where all this is going? Have you tried taking the long view?”

“There isn’t any long view, Baaarbie. Not anymore.”

Barbie just kept looking at the ceiling with a little smile dimpling the corners of his mouth. As if he knew something Carter did not. It made Carter want to unlock the cell door and punch the shitlicker’s lights out. Then he remembered what had happened in Dipper’s parking lot. Let Barbara see if he could fight a firing squad with his dirty tricks. Let him try that.

“I’ll see you around, Baaaarbie. ”

“I’m sure,” Barbie said, still not bothering to look at him. “It’s a small town, son, and we all support the team.”

When the parsonage doorbell rang, Piper Libby was still in the Bruins tee-shirt and shorts that served as her nightwear. She opened the door, assuming her visitor would be Helen Roux, an hour early for her ten o’clock appointment to discuss Georgia’s funeral and burial arrangements. But it was Jackie Wettington. She was wearing her uniform, but there was no badge over her left breast and no gun on her hip. She looked stunned.

“Jackie? What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been fired. That bastard has had it in for me since the PD Christmas party, when he tried to cop a feel and I slapped his hand, but I doubt if that was all of it, or even most of it—”

“Come in,” Piper said. “I found a little gas-operated hotplate—from the last minister, I think—in one of the pantry cupboards, and for a wonder, it still works. Doesn’t a cup of hot tea sound good?”

“Wonderful,” Jackie said. Tears welled in her eyes and over-spilled. She wiped them off her cheeks almost angrily.

Piper led her into the kitchen and lit the single-burner Brinkman camp-grill on the counter. “Now tell me everything.”

Jackie did, not failing to include Henry Morrison’s condolences, which had been clumsy but sincere. “He whispered that part,” she said, taking the cup Piper gave her. “It’s like the goddam Gestapo over there now. Excuse my language.”

Piper waved this away.

“Henry says that if I protest at the town meeting tomorrow, I’ll only make things worse—Rennie’ll whip out a bunch of trumped-up incompetency charges. He’s probably right. But the biggest incompetent in the department this morning is the one running the place. As for Rennie … he’s packing the PD with officers who’ll be loyal to him in case of any organized protest to the way he’s doing things.”

“Of course he is,” Piper said.

“Most of the new hires are too young to buy a legal beer, but they’re carrying guns. I thought of telling Henry he’d be the next to go—he’s said things about the way Randolph’s running the department, and of course the bootlickers will have passed his comments on—but I could see by his face that he already knows it.”

“Do you want me to go see Rennie?”

“It wouldn’t do any good. I’m actually not sorry to be out, I just hate to be fired. The big problem is that I’ll look very good for what’s going to happen tomorrow night. I may have to disappear with Barbie. Always assuming we can find a place to disappear to. ”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“I know, but I’m going to tell you. And this is where the risks start. If you don’t keep this to yourself, I’ll wind up in the Coop myself. Maybe even standing next to Barbara when Rennie lines up his firing squad.”

Piper regarded her gravely. “I’ve got forty-five minutes before Georgia Roux’s mother shows up. Is that time enough for you to say what you have to say?”

“Plenty.”

Jackie began with the examination of the bodies at the funeral home. Described the stitch marks on Coggins’s face and the golden baseball Rusty had seen. She took a deep breath and next spoke of her plan to break Barbie out during the special town meeting the following night. “Although I have no idea where we can put him if we do get him out.” She sipped her tea. “So what do you think?”

“That I want another cuppa. You?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

From the counter, Piper said: “What you’re planning is terribly dangerous—I doubt if you need me to tell you that—but there may be no other way to save an innocent man’s life. I never believed for a second that Dale Barbara was guilty of those murders, and after my own close encounter with our local law enforcement, the idea that they’d execute him to keep him from taking over doesn’t surprise me much.” Then, following Barbie’s train of thought without knowing it: “Rennie isn’t taking the long view, and neither are the cops. All they care about is who’s boss of the treehouse. That kind of thinking is a disaster waiting to happen.”

She came back to the table.

“I’ve known almost from the day I came back here to take up the pastorate—which was my ambition ever since I was a little girl—that Jim Rennie was a monster in embryo. Now—if you’ll pardon the melodramatic turn of phrase—the monster has been born.”

“Thank God,” Jackie said.

“Thank God the monster has been born?” Piper smiled and raised her eyebrows.

“No—thank God you’re down with this.”

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Yes. Unless you don’t want to be a part of it.”

“Honey, I’m already a part of it. If you can be jailed for plotting, I could be jailed for listening and not reporting. We’re now what our government likes to call ‘homegrown terrorists.’ ”

Jackie received this idea in glum silence.

“It isn’t just Free Dale Barbara you’re talking about, is it? You want to organize an active resistance movement.”

“I suppose I do,” Jackie said, and gave a rather helpless laugh. “After six years with the U.S. Army, I never would have expected it—I’ve always been a my-country-right-or-wrong sort of girl—but … has it occurred to you that the Dome might not break? Not this fall, not this winter? Maybe not next year or even in our lifetimes?”

“Yes.” Piper was calm, but most of the color had left her cheeks. “It has. I think it’s occurred to everyone in The Mill, if only in the backs of their minds.”

“Then think about this. Do you want to spend a year or five years in a dictatorship run by a homicidal idiot? Assuming we have five years?”

“Of course not.”

“Then the only time to stop him might be now. He may no longer be in embryo, but this thing he’s building—this machine—is still in its infancy. It’s the best time.” Jackie paused. “If he orders the police to start collecting guns from ordinary citizens, it might be the only time.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Let us have a meeting here at the parsonage. Tonight. These people, if they’ll all come.” From her back pocket she took the list she and Linda Everett had labored over.

Piper unfolded the sheet of notebook paper and studied it. There were eight names. She looked up. “Lissa Jamieson, the librarian with the crystals? Ernie Calvert? Are you sure about those two?”

“Who better to recruit than a librarian when you’re dealing with a fledgling dictatorship? As for Ernie … my understanding is that after what happened at the supermarket yesterday, if he came across Jim Rennie flaming in the street, he wouldn’t piss on him to put him out.”

“Pronounally vague but otherwise colorful.”

“I was going to have Julia Shumway sound Ernie and Lissa out, but now I’ll be able to do it myself. I seem to have come into a lot of free time.”

The doorbell rang. “That may be the bereaved mother,” Piper said, getting to her feet. “I imagine she’ll be half-shot already. She enjoys her coffee brandy, but I doubt if it dulls the pain much.”

“You haven’t told me how you feel about the meeting,” Jackie said.

Piper Libby smiled. “Tell our fellow homegrown terrorists to arrive between nine and nine thirty tonight. They should come on foot, and by ones—standard French Resistance stuff. No need to advertise what we’re doing.”

“Thank you,” Jackie said. “So much.”

“Not at all. It’s my town, too. May I suggest you slip out by the back door?”

There was a pile of clean rags in the back of Rommie Burpee’s van. Rusty knotted two of them together, fashioning a bandanna he tied over the lower half of his face, but still his nose, throat, and lungs were thick with the stench of dead bear. The first maggots had hatched in its eyes, open mouth, and the meat of its exposed brain.

He stood up, backed away, then reeled a little bit. Rommie grabbed him by the elbow.

“If he passes out, catch him,” Joe said nervously. “Maybe that thing hits adults further out.”

“It’s just the smell,” Rusty said. “I’m okay now.”

But even away from the bear, the world smelled bad: smoky and heavy, as if the entire town of Chester’s Mill had become a large closed room. In addition to the odors of smoke and decaying animal, he could smell rotting plant life and a swampy stench that no doubt arose from the drying bed of the Prestile. If only there was a wind, he thought, but there was just an occasional pallid puff of breeze that brought more bad smells. To the far west there were clouds—it was probably raining a bitch over in New Hampshire—but when they reached the Dome, the clouds parted like a river dividing at a large outcropping of rock. Rusty had become increasingly doubtful about the possibility of rain under the Dome. He made a note to check some meteorological websites … if he ever got a free moment. Life had become appallingly busy and

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 614