On an entirely normal, beautiful fall day in Chester’s Mill, Maine, the town is inexplicably and suddenly sealed off from the rest of the world by an invisible force field.
Авторы: King Stephen Edwin
been dull, and life under the Dome did not seem to have smartened him up any. Which was probably why Barbie had taken the risk.
Rose made up her mind to find Jackie as soon as possible, and pass on the message: Barbie says I’m all right. Barbie says you can talk to me.
‘Thank you, Mel,’ she said—when they were back in the ready room. ‘It was kind of you to let me do that.’
Mel looked around, saw no one of greater authority than himself, and relaxed. ‘No problem-o, but don’t think you’re gettin down there again with supper, because it ain’t happenin.’ He considered, then waxed philosophical. ‘He deserves somethin nice though, I guess. Because come next week this time, he’s gonna be as toasty as those samwidges you made im.’
We’ll see about that, Rose thought.
22
Andy Sanders and The Chef sat beside the WOK storage barn, smoking glass. Straight ahead of them, in the field surrounding the radio tower, was a mound of earth marked with a cross made out of crate-slats. Beneath the mound lay Sammy Bushey, torturer of Bratz, rape victim, mother of Little Walter. Chef said that later on he might steal a regular cross from the cemetery by Chester Pond. If there was time. There might not be.
He lifted his garage door opener as if to emphasize this point.
Andy felt sorry for Sammy, just as he felt sorry about Claudette and Dodee, but now it was a clinical sorrow, safely stored inside its own Dome: you could see it, could appreciate its existence, but you couldn’t exactly get in there with it. Which was a good thing. He tried to explain this to Chef Bushey, although he got a little lost in the middle—it was a complex concept. Chef nodded, though, then passed Andy a large glass bong. Etched on the side were the words NOT LEGAL FOR TRADE
‘Good, ain’t it?’ Chef said.
‘Yes!’Andy said.
For a little while then they discussed the two great texts of born-again dopers: what good shit this was, and how fucked up they were getting on this good shit. At some point there was a huge explosion to the north. Andy shielded his eyes, which were burning from all the smoke. He almost dropped the bong, but Chef rescued it.
‘Holy shit, that’s an airplanel’ Andy tried to get up, but his legs, although buzzing with energy, wouldn’t hold him. He settled back.
‘No, Sanders,’ Chef said. He puffed at the bong. Sitting with legs akimbo as he was, he looked to Andy like an Indian with a peace pipe.
Leaning on the side of shed between Andy and Chef were four full-auto AK-47s, Russian in manufacture but imported—like many other fine items stocked in the storage facility—from China. There were also five stacked crates filled with thirty-round clips and a box of RGD-5 grenades. Chef had offered Andy a translation of the ideograms on the box of grenades: Do Not Drop This Motherfucker.
Now Chef took one of the AKs and laid it across his knees. ‘That was not an airplane,’ he amplified.
‘No? Then what was it?’
‘A sign from God.’ Chef looked at what he had painted on the side of the storage barn: two quotes (liberally interpreted) from the Book of Revelation with the number 31 featured prominently. Then he looked back at Andy. To the north, the plume of smoke in the sky was dissipating. Below it, fresh smoke was rising from where the plane had impacted in the woods. ‘I got the date wrong,’ he said in a brooding voice. ‘Halloween really is coming early this year. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after tomorrow.’
‘Or the day after that,’ Andy added helpfully.
‘Maybe,’ Chef allowed,’but I think it’ll be sooner. Sanders!’
‘What, Chef?’
‘Take you a gun. You’re in the Lord’s army now. You’re a Christian soldier. Your days of licking that apostate son of a bitch’s ass are over.’
Andy took an AK and laid it across his bare thighs. He liked the weight of it and the warmth of it. He checked to make sure the safety was on. It was. ‘What apostate son of a bitch are you talking about, Chef?’
Chef fixed him with a look of utter contempt, but when Andy reached for the bong, he handed it over willingly enough. There was plenty for both of them, would be from now until the end, and yea, verily, the end would not be long. ‘Rennie. That apostate son of a bitch.’
‘He’s my friend—my pal—but he can be a harctass, all right,’ Andy admitted. ‘My goodness but this is good shit.’
‘It is,’ Chef agreed moodily, and took the bong (which Andy now thought of as the Smokeum Peace Pipe) back. ‘It’s the longest of long glass, the purest of the pure, and what is it, Sanders?’
‘A medicine for melancholy!’ Andy returned smartly.
‘And what is that?’ Pointing at the new black mark on the Dome.
‘A sign! From God!!’
‘Yes,’ Chef said, mollified.
