Paranoia ✓

XXX: Rashad - Tossing the Boulder (Part 2)

The grass was covered in moving bodies, all surrounding the great White House. In the front sections, tons of seats were set up on the front lawn. Usually the presidential inauguration took place in front of the Capitol building, the seat of power in D.C. But Harry had somehow convinced Congress it would be better to move it in front of the White House. His argument was to show how America stands behind its leader, and that their leader stands against the terrorists of the globe—and what better image was there of a powerful leader taking on the terrorists than standing right in front of the iconic White House.

That much he knew from the informant he was staying with. The informant also got him a ticket to the inauguration, over 25,000 people would be in attendance, including everyone from Congress, and even some of the Supreme Court justices. Again he had to get pass through airport style security, but the device was undetectable. Richard and Raj were geniuses. The problem was no longer getting the device through security, but getting through the carrier's head that, in the end, they needed to use the device on their enemy—and himself.

The ceremonies began with the American National Anthem. Once that was done, Harry Sayder went straight to taking the oath of office, which caught Rashad off guard. He half expected to pull the trigger when Harry was going to say the oath, but it was too early. People were still filing in. Rashad wondered, why would he say it so early? Shouldn't that be the last thing he does?

Rashad was just hoping he didn't leave the area, and sure enough he stuck around to bask in the glory. The crowd was cheering him on as if they were at a sporting venue. He was soaking in their cheers like it was a source of nutrition for him. Slowly the White House front lawn was jammed crowded. Beyond the gated lawn were more people who had gathered to watch the inauguration, who were not lucky enough to get a ticket for a closer view...

Or lucky enough not to be too close to what was about to happen.

Harry went on to give a speech. The White House front lawn had eventually filled to its capacity. Everyone was squashed together—Rashad somehow in the middle of it all. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the book, the Bible, the bomb that would avenge his mother's death, his sister's death, his fellow villagers' deaths, and provide a message to the world that he would not go quietly into the darkness, that he was not afraid, because today he would declare his liberty from American oppression.

Rashad found himself reciting in his native language, "I commend my soul onto you Allah; make of me a creature worth remembering."

The minute people around him heard him speak, they identified him as a terrorist. They spotted the book he was holding in his hand and made the conclusion that somehow it was a bomb.

Three reactions sprang forth from those within a ten people radius around him. Some screamed as they backed away from Rashad. Others pleaded with Rashad, saying that he didn't have to do this—that whoever was making him do this did not have his best interest in their hearts. That made Rashad hesitate—was Jaheim using me as a tool to achieve a greater end? Did Jaheim care about me at all—and the story about my father—was Jaheim somehow responsible for his death too?

But any doubts were washed away when an overwhelming majority of the crowd shouted. "Stop that kid."

"Kill him now!"

"Stop that fucking terrorist."

"Blow that bitch up before he does it to us."

"Kill him!"

"Kill him!"

"Kill him!"

And the die were cast. Rashad flipped the pages of the book, and a light emanated from the Bible as if it was truly holy. The intense heat overtook Rashad, and he found his flesh sizzling before him. His eyes were blinded by the intense glow. His hands went numb—his whole body went numb. The last thing he heard were screams...

And the satisfying sound of an explosion.

When the dust settled, thousands were dead. This would easily be the largest attack ever conducted by an enemy on American soil since 9/11. 25,000 people were in attendance for the inauguration and hundreds of thousands more for the parade to follow.

The bomb had a blast radius of about an eighth of a mile. Within yards of the explosion, everyone was evaporated. Nothing but a shadow remained.

Those farther out died from the heat of the explosion as their inner organs melted and their bodies imploded.

Those at the outer edges were killed by the shrapnel from the explosion, whether it be metal parts from within the bomb itself, or body parts traveling at the speed of sound towards a person, knocking heads off of bodies, and impaling mortal flesh with severed arms.

Altogether, approximately 10,000 people died, and over 4,000 were wounded.

This attack didn't just hurt regular civilians, it killed a large portion of Congress's Representatives. Rashad didn't know this, but he had produced a nearly clean slate with his act of vengeance. All those men and women who were responsible for the previous wars against terror had been wiped out.

But among those casualties lied a familiar face—a man who made it a point to speak on behalf of the oppressed. A man who sought to restore American liberties to a country where those liberties were expiring. A man once spoke of this defender of liberties as a person who "can inspire the child" who does make freedom a reality again. "You could be the cure, even if the cure doesn't take effect immediately."

Amongst the thousands of corpses laid Conner Knox, representative from the state of Kentucky. And with a giant blow, Rashad had also wiped out the only brains the Republican party, or any party for that matter, had to offer—the only person who saw through the emotion towards the core of the problem.

Rashad would never be buried, his body had been vaporized by the explosion. Maybe his particles floated up into Heaven, where he believed he would arrive to see his mother and sister. Others will disagree—but in the end, a child can dream—and Rashad was just that...a child who lost his way.

And rising from the pile of dead bodies that surrounded him was the ginger floppy hair, coated in a fresh paint of blood, dirt, and debris. The head rose from the bodies, a piece of shrapnel lodged in his right eye and blood squeezing out from the edges of his eyes. His sour, crimson-stained face said it all.

Harry Sayder will make them pay.