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.
Faintly, slightly deadened by the Dome, comes the sound of pistol shots.
'I think I'm hearing gunfire,' Wolf says. 'Anderson Cooper, do you hear gunfire? What's happening?'
Faintly, sounding like a call from a satellite phone originating deep in the Australian outback, Cooper comes back: 'Wolf, we're not there yet, but I've got a small monitor and it looks like—'
'I see it now,'Wolf says. 'It appears to be—'
'It's Morrison,' Carter says.'The guy's got guts, I'll say that much.'
'He's out as of tomorrow,' Big Jim replies.
Carter looks at him, eyebrows raised.'What he said at the meeting last night?'
Big Jim points a finger at him. 'I knew you were a bright boy'
At the Dome, Henry Morrison isn't; thinkiug about last nights meeting, or bravery, or even doing his duty; he's thinking that people are going to be crushed against the Dome if he doesn't do something, and quick. So he fires his gun into the air. Taking the cue, several other cops—Todd Wendlestat, Ranee Conroy, and Joe Boxer—do the same.
The shouting voices (and the cries of pain from the people at the front who are being squashed) give way to shocked silence, and Henry uses his bullhorn: 'SPREAD OUT! SPREAD OUT, GODDAMMIT! THERE'S ROOM FOR EVERYONE IF YOU JUST SPREAD THE FUCK OUT.'
The profanity has an even more sobering effect on them than the gunshots, and although the most stubborn ones remain on the highway (Bill and Sarah Allnut are prominent among them; so are Johnny and Carrie Carver), the others begin to spread along the Dome. Some head to the right, but the majority shuffle to the left, into Alden Dinsmore's field, where the going's easier. Henrietta and Petra are among them, weaving slightly from liberal applications of Canada Dry Rocket.
Henry holsters his weapon and tells the other officers to do the same. Wendlestat and Conroy comply, but Joe Boxer continues to hold his snubnosed.38—a Saturday-night special if Henry has ever seen one.
'Make me,' he sneers, and Henry thinks: It's all a nightmare. I'll wake up soon in my own bed and I'll go to the window and stand there looking out at a beautiful crisp fall day.
Many of those who have chosen to stay away from the Dome (a disquieting number have remained in town because they're beginning to experience respiratory problems) are able to watch on television. Thirty or forty have gravitated to Dipper's. Tommy and Willow Anderson are at the Dome, but they've left the roadhouse open and the big-screen TV on. The people who gather on the honky-tonk hardwood floor to watch do so quietly, although there is some weeping. The HDTV images are crystal clear. They are heartbreaking.
Nor are they the only ones who are affected by the sight of eight hundred people lining up along the invisible barrier, some with their hands planted on what appears to be thin air. Wolf Blitzer says, 'I have never seen such longing on human faces. I…' He chokes up. 'I think I better let the images speak for themselves.'
He falls silent, and that's a good thing. This scene needs no narration.
At his press conference, Cox said, Visitors will debark and walk… visitors will be allowed within two yards of the Dome, we consider that a safe distance. Nothing like that happens, of course. As soon as the doors of the buses open, people spill out in a flood, calling the names of their nearest and dearest. Some fall and are briskly trampled (one will be killed in this stampede and fourteen will be injured, half a dozen seriously). Soldiers who attempt to enforce the dead zone directly in front of the Dome are swept aside. The yellow DO NOT CROSS tapes are knocked down and disappear in the dust raised by running feet. The newcomers swarm forward and spread out on their side of the Dome, most crying and all of them calling for their wives, their husbands, their grandparents, their sons, their daughters, their fiancees. Four people have either lied about their various electronic medical devices or forgotten about them. Three of these die immediately; the fourth, who didn't see his battery-powered hearing-aid implant on the list of forbidden devices, will linger in a coma for a week before expiring of multiple brain hemorrhages.