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Jeff Snider
82008
The detonator felt good in his hand.
He caressed the device inside the pocket of his plaid wind
breaker.
At this stage, though it plucked at his piety, amplifying the
everpresent, and healthy guilt that helped him tolerate his western
existence, every sensation felt like one of a thousand small steps on a
dark path to sexual release. Every glance from the passing crowd, a
sweep of his lovers fingers across his chest. Every wire he’d soldered
a deep kiss foreshadowing the climax to come. Every ballbearing. Every
shard of glass. The textures and colors of every component. The
smells, and temptations, and undulations of the obscenity that now
surrounded him – all welcome substitutions for his chosen abstention
from all things female. Only his teachings, his discipline, his
crystalline faith keep him focused on his task.
He walks slowly through the cavernous atrium toward the familiar
gourmet coffee kiosk; Finest Brew, the faux wood sign says. He orders
an Americano; espresso, diluted with scalding hot water. Amid giggles
and words shared with her workmate, the cashier pushes his change
across the counter and mumbles to him that he can pick up his drink at
the opposite end. Her duncolored skin and slightly almond eyes, belie
an eastern heritage; Afghani, perhaps Pakistani. He wonders if she had
been lured off the straight path by her American peers, or born into
Godlessness, leaving her parents to bare responsibility for her
eventual passage into fire. He was unsure whether to feel sorry for her
for never having a choice or to despise her for making the wrong one.
Though he had become desensitized to life in America over the last 17
years, seeing examples of his people so corrupted and distorted by life
in this country still pricked him. A glint of light off the diamond
stud in her left nostril sent through him a fleeting urge to leap
across the counter, grab her by the hair and tell her to cover herself
less he cut her neck in the name of Allah; a merciful end to her
humiliation.
God stayed his hands and steadied his legs. She would be released
to judgment with the others soon enough.
As a boy, his Imam had taught him of judgment, told him that
purity and perfection in the eyes of Islam, in the eyes of Allah meant
more than just reading his Koran, more than following the word of
Muhammad. It meant living as God would live if he came to Earth.
Making Him your guide in all things. God must not become a being simply
prayed to, or obeyed – but an integral part of your being, coexisting
within you. Islam, by its name alone means submission, true submission
to His will, a complete, unselfish giving of one’s existence and
purpose over to Allah – in the way that a dying man, having lived a
long and full life accepts death, welcoming it as a natural part of
life and casting the useless desires and longings of the material world
from his mind. This is true Jihad – striving to live life in purity,
live life as the prophet did, as an appendage of Allah, as a sharp and
decisive instrument of His will.
After suppressing his disgust, he took the drink from the small
wooden riser and looked around the space for an open seat. He dropped
onto one of the stiff, metal benches that skirted the skylit space and
settled in to observe the crowd for one last time.
Tooyoung mothers with strollered children talking loud on their
cell phones, their garish makeup and tight pants calling for new men to
share their beds. Children mingling, midriffs bared, colored hair
flashing sex as they flirted with passing boys and drew lustful eyes
from passing men. Gangs of repellant teenagers strutting the halls,
longing to confront anything – everything, no semblance of morale
foundation or purpose beyond the inflation of their own hormonally
charged egos.
He wondered how he had lived so long in their midst.
He fingered the safety on the detonator.
He ignored the flirtatious smile of a passing mother even as she
pulled her meandering young son to her side, keeping him out of the
strange man’s reach. Wanting to connect, but afraid of the world she’d
brought her child into.
Sipping his coffee, he continued to survey the passing carnival,
his eyes breaking away from the crowd occasionally to scan the space,
mentally checking and rechecking dimensions, calculations, tolerances –
all solidified months ago, blueprints in hand.
His eyes came to rest on one of large walnut brown canisters
positioned at three corners of the seating area. Canisters in which he
had recently planted new landscape foliage as a part of the ongoing
upgrades to the mall; towering fichus and palms, and three bird of
paradise trees, just now displaying their first blooms in their new
home, an irony that did not escape him.
Beneath them rested the culmination of 9 months of work and
planning; the wrath of Allah – finality for these infidels, destined to
perish in their own den. Paradise for any unknowing believers, a
necessary sacrifice in the name of Jihad, and eternal fire for those
nonbelievers caught in the climax. His creation. His device. His
masterpiece.
60 lbs of composite plastic explosive concealed below layers of
top soil and fertilizer inside the three large, landscape planters.
Each charge constructed and oriented perfectly within its container to
maximize upper and lower level devastation when the blast shook the
great room’s cavernous three stories. The planter’s locations ensured
that the transparent elevator shaft and gleaming escalators would add
to the destruction – evaporating into a jagged hail of glass and metal
as the blast tore through them. But, making a device a true masterpiece
involved a more personal touch. Smuggled into the space in the same
manor as the explosives, in bags and trays of potting soil are three 24
x 24 x 4inch sheets of paraffin wax, each containing a suspended
mixture of shattered automotive glass, 6 and 12 millimeter ball
bearings, and 3/8inch wood screws, 70 lbs in all.
All was beautiful. All was God’s glory. All was perfection.
He was not a suicide bomber, though he held their sacrifice in
the highest regard. He was more purposeful, more elegant – and too
valuable to be wasted on a single event. His history, his knowledge,
his connections were too prized to be thrown away killing 15 people
with a vest, or racing a truck into an embassy lobby. Though pride was
considered an affront to Allah, he was certain his would be forgiven
when he finally allowed himself to enter paradise. Until then, he would
go on serving. Proving his obedience, his true submission over an over.
Paradise would wait.
As he sat, the hustling sounds of the mall had slowly faded into
silence. The teenaged girls giggling and gabbing about their latest
crush, the mothers calling their children to heal, the indiscernible
chatter flowing from the food court above… had become a low, quiet hiss
in his ears. His senses always narrowed during these voyeuristic final
outings. It was a trait that gave him an almost inhuman focus. A focus
necessary to execute without guilt, or hesitation, or doubt, or fear.
Hearing faded first, then taste and smell, until the entirety of his
sensory input was dedicated to sight. Seeing. The necessity to see… see
everything… everyone… their eyes, their thoughts, their intentions,
became imperative in these final minutes. Not just imperative to his
success, but imperative to fully experiencing the beauty of his
creation come to life.
He checked his watch. Four minutes, 15 seconds if he was to stay
on schedule. He stood and looked from the planters to the storefronts
then up the mechanical stair to the cluster of patrons in the dining
area. His newfound focus gave it a surreal quality, like standing at
the center of a great, muted, merrygoround of mirrored panels,
twinkling lights, garish gold and brass fixtures, and monstrous, gaudy
riding horses, their muscular bodies flexing and straining beneath
brightly colored saddles, all bulging eyes and flared nostrils. Seeing
these animals continue to go round and round in their gluttonous
excess, moments before their deaths was like receiving a final message
directly from heaven. They would be martyrs to the causes of bare
midriffs and nipple rings, lambs to the excesses of Big Macs and
iPhones. Allah sent justification shining with all its might into his
eyes from all corners as he panned the area one last time. This was
just. His hand was righteous. God moved within him.
Depositing his empty cup into a large trash receptacle, he turned
to leave the mall.
He caressed the detonator as he walked. A deliberate, relaxed
gate, selected during previous dry runs, to match the median pace of
the middleaged browsers whom he most favored. Drawing no attention.
Invisible among his own kind. Just another ingredient in the pot.
The silence was deafening now – he could clearly hear the blood
rushing in his veins, feel his groin stir against the front of his
trousers as the final turn came into view. He swung left and began the
final leg toward the wall of glass doors.
30 yards.
Keep the pace. Invisible.
15 yards.
He felt for the plunger guard on the cigarette lightersized
mechanism and flipped the cover back. His legs trembled as the doors
closed. His breathing shallowed. A thin smile cut across his face.
10 feet.
He leaned against the handle and pushed the big door open, the
crisp early evening air rushing in on him as he stepped over the
threshold.
He squeezed the detonator.