9
Planting the Seeds of Destruction
Climbing down the rusty ladder, the stench of waste assaulted his nose once more. Every time he did this he always found himself surprised that he hadn't yet got used to the smell.
'If I haven't by now, then obviously I never will,' he thought as he shut the hatch above, leaving him alone in the dark. Flicking the switch on his helmet, the bright white light from the lamp on top of it leapt into life. A brief rush of fear gripped him momentarily. It was the first time in the eleven years he'd been doing this that he'd been down this far alone. Normally, there'd be at least one other person with him, probably more. Not tonight. Reaching the bottom rung of the ladder, he jumped the last three feet, landing with a splash as his rubber boots hit the flowing river of waste. Taking a short shallow breath of the rancid air, he checked the backpack he carried to make sure it was secure. It was, thank goodness. Part of him was appalled at what he was doing, knowing full well that people would almost certainly die at some point in the future because of him. Unfortunately, a much bigger part inside of him just didn't care. Nobody in this city liked or cared for him very much. His wife had left him for another man, and was living quite comfortably in a wealthy suburb even now. As he trudged along the dark sewer, even darker thoughts strangled his mind. His colleagues were... bullies. Not a day passed when he wasn't ridiculed or forced into doing something humiliating and for that he hated the lot of them. And with the money he'd collect for placing this... package, no not package... bomb, as that's what it was, the money would allow him to start a new life a long way from the city above his head... Chicago. In a few days he would hand in his resignation, leave for greener pastures, and know that he himself had played a small part in the new world to come.
Arriving at an intersection in the maze of sewers, he turned left, knowing that he'd nearly reached his goal. Ducking his head to avoid a cluster of smaller pipes running across his path, out of nowhere a huge lump of goodness knows what plopped onto the shoulder of the rubber suit he was wearing. Wearily wiping it off as he walked, no longer disgusted by it, just sick to the teeth of the whole damn sewer system of Chicago, he finally reached his destination. Turning the light on his helmet towards a seemingly innocuous part of the brick wall that lined the tunnel, he rubbed his gloved hand along it until he found exactly what he'd been looking for. There it was, a brick amongst bricks, looking just like any other. But this was the brick that he'd found ten days before, the brick that would bring him a new life, a chance to start all over again, a brick that would bring destruction raining down on this rotten city, a brick that somebody, only last month, had asked him to find. Reaching round into the side pocket of the backpack, he carefully unzipped it and pulled out a small, flat bladed screwdriver. Wedging the tip of the screwdriver into the mortar around the brick, he started to wiggle it just a little, then doing the same on the other end of the brick, little by little, moving it out from the wall. Taking it nice and slowly, alternating ends, he made sure not to damage the mortar or leave any obvious marks to show that the brick had come out.
For a month now he'd been on the hunt for exactly this, since the night he'd been drinking and chatting in a bar with a strange woman, a woman who'd bought him drinks all evening long and listened to his tale of woe. When he mentioned that he was a sewer worker, he got the distinct impression that she already knew. It was then that she offered him the deal, on behalf of someone else, allegedly, but he wasn't quite sure. Oh, not about accepting the deal, but about it being on behalf of someone else. She looked troubling, no not troubling, but like... TROUBLE! Anyhow, he didn't even have to think about the deal. With all that money, he'd be able to start afresh, with the added bonus of giving back to the city everything and more that it had always given to him.
Nearly free now, carefully he grasped the brick with his gloved hand, and pulled it the last part of the way. Gently resting the brick down on top of his rubber boot, mindful of it being there, he placed the screwdriver back in the backpack and then retrieved from a bigger pocket the package that he'd come down here to plant. Very carefully he pulled it out and brought it round in front of him. Shining the light from his helmet onto it, he gently removed the plastic bag that he'd wrapped it in. Its rustling echoed down the deserted tunnel making an eerie sound that mixed strangely with the constant dripping and the gentle flow of sewage beneath his feet. Reaching out to place the package in the gap behind the brick and complete the job he was being paid handsomely to do, he hesitated just a little, not because of the consequences, but because he was desperate to see inside the box just one more time. Lifting its well worn lid, he was rewarded with a shiver of excitement that curled up and down his spine as he gazed down at the contents. Another box, this one black, metallic and waterproof, with a clear reinforced window, stared up at him. Through the window, glowing red numbers shone out like the bat signal on a cloudy night, in the dark, dank tunnel that he stood in. His fingers developed a strange tingle as he watched the red numbers slowly count down, able to imagine what would happen when the numbers reached zero. For sure, he certainly wouldn't want to be anywhere near this place. His attention moved across from the ever changing numbers, past the coloured wires, and focused, as it had time after time, on the glowing ring of metal that sat at the very left hand edge of the device. That particular part was mesmerising, captivating, hypnotic almost, he could have looked at it all day long.
Letting out a small sigh, he closed the box and very, very carefully slid it through the gap where the brick had been. With the box firmly nestled behind the wall, he set about carefully replacing the brick, determined not to leave any trace that it had ever come out.
'Nobody will find out what's coming to this city,' he thought, as he worked methodically at putting the brick back. It was only when he'd finished the job and stood admiring his handiwork in the light provided by his helmet, that he realised quite how nervous he'd been; his skin and hair were both caked in sweat and the rubber boots he wore were nearly full up from the inside. Satisfied that the brick looked no different from the millions of others running through Chicago's sewers, he trudged back the way he'd come, the thought of the biggest shower in the world waiting for him back at his apartment. All he had to do now was pick up the money. Everything was in the bag, so to speak.
* * *
On a small boat, aptly named 'Dragon's Destruction,' moored at a pontoon in Montreal, Canada, the sole occupant left the comfort of the cosy cabin where he'd been reading the local daily paper and headed aft, into the biting rain and cloying night air. It was 3am local time, and the moment had come for him to carry out his mission. He'd acquired the boat two months ago from a very shady fellow, who had unfortunately met an unsavoury end involving some plastic restraints, a gag and about a million hungry crabs. Shrugging his shoulders as he recalled the incident, he merely thought of it as poetic justice; after all, the shady character in question had been a smuggler and had been using the sea, and this boat to transport all sorts of illegal items into the United States for many years. The fact that the sea and its inhabitants had got their revenge, merely amused him. Of course, he'd been instructed to buy a vessel capable of doing the job it would be needed for, but what was the point in that? So he'd very casually helped the shady character into the sea with the crabs, watched for a while, acquired the boat and pocketed the money he'd been given. Of course he'd spent some of it on having the boat re-sprayed and changed so that no one would recognise it, particularly the coastguard. It was a pretty good bet that the United States authorities in some capacity would have a record of this particular boat as it had been, and that would prove a major inconvenience if they should happen to interrupt this particular assignment. So now it was unrecognisable from the craft it once was, even the name, which he'd thought of himself and was quite proud of. One feature had been kept though: the smuggling compartments that the shady character had fitted to the boat himself. They were magnificent and the reason why this boat was the one he'd needed.