A Bomb Built in Hell

Wesley figured that sounded sufficiently like the usual revolutionary bullshit to hold the cops for the minute or so he needed. The voice came back immediately.

“Let the kids go! Let the kids go and we’ll get you a plane!”

Wesley didn’t answer. He flicked the switch on the transistor radio in his shirt pocket and the tiny earplug gave him the immediate public version. The announcer said that three units of the State Police as well as squads from New Rochelle, Larchmont, White Plains, and Scarsdale were all around a building where an unknown group was holding hundreds of children hostage. The people inside had demanded a plane to Cuba but, remarkably, they hadn’t mentioned a thing about ransom to release the hostages....

Forgot the fucking ransom, Wesley thought, hoping his act wouldn’t appear too bogus. If they knew...? But his watch told him the time was up and he relaxed.

The loudspeaker outside crackled again.

“You inside! We’ve got the plane for you! Let all the hostages go and we’ll send in some cops to replace them. Unarmed, okay?”

“How many cops you got out there?”

“Too many for you, punk!”

“Bring some more, motherfuckers!”

The bullhorn was silent—they must have been working over the lame asshole who had screamed that crap about “too many.” A thing like that could make a man act crazy.

When the radio told him that the TV crews were in place outside, Wesley checked his watch again—it was 12:03.

He slipped the gas mask over his face and sprayed the auditorium with one final blast from the grease gun. He pulled out a stick of dynamite, then immediately rejected it in favor of six similar sticks all taped together with a long fuse.

Everyone was screaming and crying and dying in the place. Wesley lighted the single stick and threw it with all his strength toward the rear of the auditorium ... it blew out half the wall, taking dozens of kids with it. Wesley bolted for the giant hole the explosion made, and the dog followed. They almost ran right into four cops stationed in the corridor. The dog covered the distance to them in a flash-second and was ripping out the first one’s throat as Wesley spray-blanketed the corridor with bullets. As he leapt over the bodies, he saw the dog was hit along the spine. The animal was trying to breathe—he didn’t have long.

Wesley scooped up the dog in his arms and headed for the metal stairs leading to the roof. He gained the roof in seconds, and stepped out in front of everyone. He checked quickly—the screaming about the dynamite should have been enough to keep cops off the roof, but...

The roof was empty.

The TV cameras all focused on the single figure of a madman carrying a dog. Before anyone could shoot, or even react, Wesley knelt, gently lowered the dog to the roof, and pressed the transmitter button. The bottom and sides of the truck shot outwards. A huge, dense cloud of greenish gas started to billow out over the ground. The explosion was still echoing and everyone was running for cover.

The kid was magneted to the TV in Wesley’s apartment, watching and listening to the announcer.

“The unknown man on the roof has apparently detonated some sort of explosion on the ground ... people are taking cover and a squad of policemen has gone around the back to try and gain access to the roof. The darkness you see on your screen isn’t your picture ... apparently some type of gas has been released from the truck ... but we’re about five hundred yards from the scene so there shouldn’t be any problem bringing the rest of this to you ... the man is lighting something! It looks like a torch! He’s holding it high above his head ... he... Oh my God, he looks like the Statue of Liberty! He’s...”

As the kid watched, the explosion darkened the picture screen and the announcer’s voice faded.