Rory went about his chores glumly but thoroughly; his racing mind sometimes got him in trouble, but he was a good son for all that, and the idea of ditching punishment-chores never crossed his mind. At first nothing crossed his mind. He was in that mostly empty-headed state of grace which is sometimes such fertile soil; it's the ground from which our brightest dreams and biggest ideas (both the good and the spectacularly bad) suddenly burst forth, often full-blown. Yet there is always a chain of association.
As Rory began sweeping barn l's main aisle (he would save the hateful udder-greasing for last, he reckoned), he heard a rapid pop-pow-pam that could only be a string of firecrackers. They sounded a little like gunshots. This made him think of his father's.30-. 30 rifle, which was propped in the front closet. The boys were forbidden to touch it except under strict supervision - while shooting at targets, or in hunting season - but it wasn't locked up and the ammo was on the shelf above it.
And the idea came. Rory thought: I could blow a hole in that thing. Maybe pop it. He had an image, bright and clear, of touching a match to the side of a balloon.
He dropped the broom and ran for the house. Like many bright people (especially bright children), inspiration rather than consideration was his strong suit. If his older brother had had such an idea (unlikely), Ollie would have thought: If a plane couldn't bust through it, or a pulp-track going full tilt, what chance does a bullet have? He might also have reasoned: I'm in dutch already for disobeying, and this is disobedience raised to the ninth power.
Well... no, Ollie probably wouldn't have thought that. Ollie's mathematical abilities had topped out at simple multiplication.
Rory, however, was already taking college-track algebra, and knocking it dead. If asked how a bullet could accomplish what a truck or an airplane hadn't, he would have said the impact effect of a Winchester Elite XP would be far greater than either. It stood to reason. For one thing, the velocity would be greater. For another, the impact itself would be concentrated upon the point of a 180-grain bullet. He was sure it would work. It had the unquestionable elegance of an algebraic equation.
Rory saw his smiling (but of course modest) face on the front page of USA Today; being interviewed on Nightly News with Brian Williams; sitting on a flower-bedecked float in a parade in his honor, with Prom Queen-type girls surrounding him (probably in strapless gowns, but possibly in bathing suits) as he waved to the crowd and confetti floated down in drifts. He would be THE BOY WHO SAVED CHESTER'S MILL!
He snatched the rifle from the closet, got the step stool, and pawed a box of XPs down from the shelf. He stuffed two cartridges into the breech (one for a backup), then raced back outside with the rifle held above his head like a conquering rebelista (but - give him this - he engaged the safety without even thinking about it). The key to the Yamaha ATV he had been forbidden to ride was hanging on the pegboard in barn 1. He held the key fob between his teeth while he strapped the rifle to the back of the ATV with a couple of bungee cords. He wondered if there would be a sound when the Dome popped. He probably should have taken the shooter's plugs i from the top shelf of the closet, but going back for them was unthinkable; he had to do this now.
That's how it is with big ideas.
He drove the ATV around barn 2, pausing just long enough to size up the crowd in the field. Excited as he was, he knew better than to head for where the Dome crossed the road (and where the smudges of yesterday's collisions still hung like dirt on an unwashed windowpane). Someone might stop him before he could pop the Dome. Then, instead of being THE BOY WHO SAVED CHESTER'S MILL, he'd likely wind up as THE BOY WHO GREASED COW TITS FOR A YEAR. Yes, and for the first week he'd be doing it in a crouch, his ass too sore to sit down. Someone else would end up getting the credit for his big idea.
So he drove on a diagonal that would bring him to the Dome five hundred yards or so from the tent, marking the place to stop by the crushed spots in the hay. Those, he knew, had been made by falling birds. He saw the soldiers stationed in that area turn toward the oncoming blat of the ATV. He heard shouts of alarm from the fair-and-prayer folks. The hymn-singing came to a discordant halt.
Worst of all, he saw his father waving his dirty John Deere cap at him and bawling, 'RORY OH GODDAMMIT YOU STOP:'
Rory was in too deep to stop, and - good son or not - he didn't want to stop. The ATV struck a hummock and he bounced clear of the seat, holding on with his hands and laughing like a loon. His own Deere cap was spun around backward and he didn't even remember doing it. The ATV tilted, then decided to stay up. Almost there now, and one of the fatigues-clad soldiers was also shouting at him to stop.
Rory did, and so suddenly he almost somersaulted over the Yamaha's handlebars. He forgot to put the darned thing in neutral and it lurched forward, actually striking the Dome before stalling out. Rory heard the crimp of metal and the tinkle of the headlight as it shattered.