Under the Dome

She hasn't. The crickets are either silent or dead.

In the WCIK studio, the airy (and comfortably cool) center space resounds to the voice of Ernie 'The Barrel' Kellogg and His Delight Trio rocking out on 'I Got a Telephone Call from Heaven and It Was Jesus on the Line.' The two men aren't listening; they're watching the TV, as transfixed by the split-screen images as Marta Edmunds (who's on her second Bud and has forgotten all about the corpse of old Clayton Brassey under the sheet). As transfixed as everyone in America, and - yes - the world beyond.

'Look at them, Sanders,' Chef breathes.

'I am,' Andy says. He's got CLAUDETTE on his lap. Chef has offered him a couple of hand grenades as well, but this time Andy has declined. He's afraid he might pull the pin on one and then freeze. He saw that in a movie once. 'It's amazing, but don't you think we better get ready for our company?'

Chef knows Andy's right, but it's hard to look away from the side of the screen where the copter is tracking the buses and the large video truck that leads the parade. He knows every landmark they're passing; they are recognizable even from above. The visitors are getting close now.

We're all getting close now, he thinks.

'Sanders!*

'What, Chef?'

Chef hands him a Sucrets tin. 'The rock will not hide them; the dead tree gives no shelter, nor the cricket relief. Just which book that's in slips my mind.'

Andy opens the tin, sees six fat home-rolled cigarettes crammed in there, and thinks: These are soldiers of ecstasy. It is the most poetic thought of his life, and makes him feel like weeping.

'Can you give me an amen, Sanders?'

'Amen.'

The Chef uses the remote control to turn off the TV. He'd like to see the buses arrive - stoned or not, paranoid or not, he's as fond of a happy reunion story as anyone - but the bitter men might come at any time.

'Sanders!'

'Yes, Chef.'

'I'm going to get the Christian Meals on Wheels truck out of the garage and park it on the far side of the supply building. I can settle in behind it and have a clear view of the woods.' He picks up GOD'S WARRIOR. The grenades attached to it dangle and swing. 'The more I think of it, the more sure I am that's the way they'll come. There's an access road. They probably think I don't know about it, but' - Chef's red eyes gleam - 'the Chef knows more than people think.'

'I know. I love you, Chef.'

'Thank you, Sanders. I love you, too. If they come from the woods, I'll let them get out in the open and then cut them down like wheat at harvest-time. But we can't put all our eggs in one basket. So I want you to go out front to where we were the other day. If any of them come that way - '

Andy raises CLAUDETTE.

'That's right, Sanders. But don't be hasty. Draw out as many as you can before you start shooting.'

'I will.' Sometimes Andy is struck by the feeling that he must be living in a dream; this is one of those times.'Like wheat at harvest-time.'

'Yea verily. But listen, because this is important, Sanders. Don't come right away if you hear me start shooting. And I won't come right away if I hear you start. They might guess we're not together, but I'm wise to that trick. Can you whistle?'

Andy sticks a couple of fingers in his mouth and lets loose a piercing whistle.

'That's good, Sanders. Amazing, in fact.'

'I learned it in grammar school.' When life was much simpler, he does not add.

'Don't do it unless you're in danger of being overwhelmed. Then I'll come. And if you hear me whistle, run like hell to reinforce my position.'

'Okay.'

'Let's have a smoke on it, Sanders, what do you say?'

Andy seconds the motion.

On Black Ridge, at the edge of the McCoy orchard, seventeen exiles from town stand against the smudged skyline like Indians in a John Ford Western. Most are staring in fascinated silence at the silent parade of people moving out Route 119. They are almost six miles distant, but the size of the crowd makes it impossible to miss.

Rusty s the only one who's looking at something closer, and it fills him with a relief so great it seems to sing. A silver Odyssey van is speeding along Black Ridge Road. He stops breathing as it approaches the edge of the trees and the glow-belt, which is now invisible again. There is time for him to think how horrible it would be if whoever is driving - Linda, he assumes - blacked out and the van crashed, but then it's past the danger point. There might have been the smallest swerve, but he knows even that could have been his imagination. They'll be here soon.

They are standing a hundred yards to the left of the box, but Joe McClatchey thinks he can feel it, just the same: a little pulse that digs at his brain each time the lavender light shines out. That might just be his mind playing tricks on him, but he doesn't think so.

Barbie is standing next to him, with his arm around Miz Shumway. Joe taps him on the shoulder and says, 'This feels bad, Mr Barbara. All those people together. This feels awful!

'Yes,' Barbie says.

'They're watching. The leatherheads. I can feel them.'

'So can I,' Barbie says.

'Me too,' Julia says, in a voice almost too low to hear.

In the conference room of the Town Hall, Big Jim and Carter Thibodeau watch silently as the split-screen image on the TV gives way to a shot at ground level. At first the image is jerky, like video of an approaching tornado or the immediate aftermath of a car-bombing. They see sky, gravel, and running feet. Someone mutters, 'Come on, hurry up.'

Wolf Blitzer says, 'The pool-coverage truck has arrived. They're obviously hurrying, but I'm sure that in a moment... yes. Oh my goodness, look at that.'

The camera steadies on the hundreds of Chester's Mill residents at the Dome just as they rise to their feet. It's like watching a large group of open-air worshippers rising from prayer. The ones at the front are being jostled against the Dome by the ones behind; Big Jim sees flattened noses, cheeks, and lips, as if the townspeople are being pressed against a glass wall. He feels a moment of vertigo and realizes why: this is the first time he's seeing from the outside. For the first time the enormity of it and the reality of it strike home. For the first time he is truly frightened.