Corey says the dome has been “pissing me off” and “there’s gotta be some sweet merch in there.” He rallies a posse with his last few boys, and they prepare to storm inside the dome, tear up Albert Turing’s palace, trample on some graves or whatever. It’s all pretty childish. Corey, three dudes and six girls, like a bunch of drunk kids at a sleepover marching down to Taco Bell for a feed. They haven’t experienced going in and out of the dome like I have. It’s a new frontier to these guys. They’re afraid. They wear motorcycle helmets, gloves, suits, and garden hoses connected to a pool pump that feeds air into their helmets. Corey’s heard intelligence that there’s a gas leak inside the dome.
I take the rearguard. Gotta keep these knuckleheads safe. I’m not armoured at all. We creep to the e
