'I was in the bonus round, anyway,' he said. 'Have been ever since I almost took those pills.'
'What's that, Sanders?' Chef came strolling along the path from the rear of the station, shining a flashlight beam just ahead of his bare feet. The froggy pajama pants still clung precariously to the bony wings of his hips, but something new had been added: a large white cross. It was tied around his neck on a rawhide loop. Slung over his shoulder was GOD'S WARRIOR. Two grenades swung from the stock on another length of rawhide. In the hand not holding the flashlight, he carried the garage door opener.
'Nothing, Chef,' Andy said. T was just talking to myself. Seems like I'm the only one who listens these days.'
"That's bullshit, Sanders. Utter and complete bullshit-aroonie. God listens. He's tapped into souls the way the FBI's tapped into phones. I listen, too.'
The beauty of this - and the comfort - made gratitude well up in Andy's heart. He offered the bong. 'Hit this shit. It'll get your boiler lit.'
Chef uttered a hoarse laugh, took a deep drag on the glasspipe, held the smoke in, then coughed it out. 'Bazoom!' he said. 'God's power! Power by the hour, Sanders!'
'Got that right,' Andy agreed. It was what Dodee always said, and at the thought of her, his heart broke all over again. He wiped his eyes absently. 'Where did you get the cross?'
Chef pointed the flashlight toward the radio station. 'Coggins has got an office in there. The cross was in his desk. The top drawer was locked, but I forced it open. You know what else was in there, Sanders? Some of the skankicst jerk-off material I have ever seen.'
'Kids?' Andy asked. He wouldn't be surprised. When the devil got a preacher, he was apt to fall low, indeed. Low enough to put on a tophat and crawl under a rattlesnake.
'Worse, Sanders.' He lowered his voice. 'Orientals.'
Chef picked up Andy's AK-47, which had been lying across Andy's thighs. He shone the light on the stock, where Andy had carefully printed CLAUDETTE with one of the radio station's Magic Markers.
'My wife,' Andy said. 'She was the first Dome casualty.'
Chef gripped him by the shoulder. 'You're a good man to remember her, Sanders. I'm glad God brought us together.'
'Me too.' Andy took back the bong. 'Me too, Chef.'
'You know what's apt to happen tomorrow, don't you?'
Andy gripped CLAUDETTE's stock. It was answer enough.
'They'll most likely be wearing body armor, so if we have to go to war, aim for the head. No single-shot stuff; just hose em down. And if it looks like they're going to overrun us... you know what comes next, right?'
'Right.'
'To the end, Sanders?' Chef raised the garage door opener in front of his face and shone the flashlight on it.
'To the end,' Andy agreed. He touched the door opener with CLAUDETTE's muzzle.
17
Ollie Dinsmore snapped awake from a bad dream, knowing something was wrong. He lay in bed, looking at the wan and somehow dirty first light peeping through the window, trying to persuade himself that it was just the dream, some nasty nightmare he couldn't quite recall. Fire and shouting was all he could remember.
Not shouting. Screaming.
His cheap alarm clock was ticking away on the little table beside his bed. He grabbed it. Quarter of six and no sound of his father moving around in the kitchen. More telling, no smell of coffee. His father was always up and dressed by five fifteen at the very latest ('Cows won't wait' was Alden Dinsmore's favorite scripture), and there was jalways coffee brewing by five thirty.
Not this morning.
Ollie got up and pulled on yesterday's jeans. 'Dad?'
No answer. Nothing but the tick of the clock, and - distant - the lowing of one disaffected bossy. Dread settled over the boy. He told himself there was no reason for it, that his family - all together and perfectly happy only a week ago - had sustained all the tragedies God would allow, at least for awhile. He told himself, but himself didn't believe it.
'Daddy?'
The generator out back was still running and he could see the green digital readouts on both the stove and the microwave when he went into the kitchen, but the Mr Coffee stood dark and empty. The living room was empty, too. His father had been watching TV when Ollie turned in last night, and it: was still on, although muted. Some crooked-looking guy was demonstrating the new and improved ShamWow. 'You're spending forty bucks a month on paper towels and throwing your money away,' the crooked-looking guy said from that other world where such things might matter.
He's out feeding the cows, that's all.
Except wouldn't he have turned off the TV to save electricity? They had a big tank of propane, but it would only last so long.