of the twelve-footers. We’re going to need a three-way connector and a reducer and a twenty-foot section of one-inch hose.”
While Terri ran for the hose rack, Matt positioned a pneumatic pump a few feet from the valves in front of the tanks. By the time he ran an air hose from its reel on the wall and secured it close to the base of the pump, Terri had gathered the supplies and it was
10:56 a.m.
Matt instructed Terri to connect one of the fat hoses to the valve on the Fire tank and another to the valve on the Ice tank. The loose ends of those two hoses then went to the cross on the three-way connector. One end of the third two-and-a-half-inch hose was connected to the stem of the three-way, and the other to the pump’s input port. The reducer and the long one-inch hose were connected to the pump’s output. Matt fed the smaller hose between the tanks and let it rest on top of the ammonium nitrate bags.
“I want you to open the valves to the tanks when I give the word,” Matt said.
The exact formulas for Fire and Ice were a tightly kept corporate secret, but Matt knew the pH of Fire was 1 and that of Ice was 14. Shelly had told him that much before his first day on the job. Fire was an acid, and Ice a base. The solutions were highly caustic, and the blenders and packagers were required to wear special suits and gloves and respirators and goggles while performing their duties. A drop of either on bare skin would cause an instant blister, a splash in the face lifelong disfigurement or even death.
But what would happen if the two skin-scalding liquids were mixed together? If Matt remembered correctly from high school chemistry, they would neutralize each other and essentially become water. That’s what he wanted to happen.
Matt looked at his watch. It was thirty-four seconds to the top of the hour—thirty-four seconds until a ball of fire consumed the entire neighborhood.
… 33 … 32 … 31 …
The valves on the tanks were positioned at an angle, and Terri was able to stand between them and reach both levers. Matt jammed the end of the air hose onto the pneumatic pump and said, “Do it!”
Terri opened the valves simultaneously, and within seconds the mixture of Fire and Ice came spewing from the one-inch hose and started flooding the area behind the tanks.
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 …
11:00 a.m.
K-Rad walked into the Retro and took a stool at the bar. The place had just opened, and the lunch crowd hadn’t started sifting in yet. K-Rad was the only customer. He’d stuffed his gas mask and other goodies into his backpack, and he’d left the Kevlar vest and the Berettas in his car. The bartender, a chick named Tami with full-sleeve tats on her arms and quarter-inch gauges in her earlobes, slapped a napkin in front of him and said, “What’s up, K?”
“Not much. Let me get a Shiner Bock, okay?”
“Sure.”
She brought the longneck brown bottle and popped the top with an opener. The television was tuned to an infomercial about an herbal supplement called Zark-O. It was supposed to make you live to be around two hundred years old or something.
“Can you turn it on Channel Four?” K-Rad said. Channel 4 was one of the local network affiliates, and K-Rad knew the boneheads on the news team there would have the big story before it went national. Those motherfuckers thrived on human misery. They went after it like vultures went after roadkill.
Tami wiped her hands with a towel. “I heard that stuff really works.”
“Zark-O?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. It’s bullshit. Nothing’s going to make you live longer. When your time’s up, it’s up.”
“I just heard it makes you feel better. That’s all.”
“I think I’ll stick with alcohol. Can you change the channel for me?”
Tami picked up the remote and switched the channel. “Wouldn’t you want to live forever if you could, though?” she said.
“Immortality isn’t about how long you’re here,” K-Rad said. “It’s about
While Terri ran for the hose rack, Matt positioned a pneumatic pump a few feet from the valves in front of the tanks. By the time he ran an air hose from its reel on the wall and secured it close to the base of the pump, Terri had gathered the supplies and it was
10:56 a.m.
Matt instructed Terri to connect one of the fat hoses to the valve on the Fire tank and another to the valve on the Ice tank. The loose ends of those two hoses then went to the cross on the three-way connector. One end of the third two-and-a-half-inch hose was connected to the stem of the three-way, and the other to the pump’s input port. The reducer and the long one-inch hose were connected to the pump’s output. Matt fed the smaller hose between the tanks and let it rest on top of the ammonium nitrate bags.
“I want you to open the valves to the tanks when I give the word,” Matt said.
The exact formulas for Fire and Ice were a tightly kept corporate secret, but Matt knew the pH of Fire was 1 and that of Ice was 14. Shelly had told him that much before his first day on the job. Fire was an acid, and Ice a base. The solutions were highly caustic, and the blenders and packagers were required to wear special suits and gloves and respirators and goggles while performing their duties. A drop of either on bare skin would cause an instant blister, a splash in the face lifelong disfigurement or even death.
But what would happen if the two skin-scalding liquids were mixed together? If Matt remembered correctly from high school chemistry, they would neutralize each other and essentially become water. That’s what he wanted to happen.
Matt looked at his watch. It was thirty-four seconds to the top of the hour—thirty-four seconds until a ball of fire consumed the entire neighborhood.
… 33 … 32 … 31 …
The valves on the tanks were positioned at an angle, and Terri was able to stand between them and reach both levers. Matt jammed the end of the air hose onto the pneumatic pump and said, “Do it!”
Terri opened the valves simultaneously, and within seconds the mixture of Fire and Ice came spewing from the one-inch hose and started flooding the area behind the tanks.
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 …
11:00 a.m.
K-Rad walked into the Retro and took a stool at the bar. The place had just opened, and the lunch crowd hadn’t started sifting in yet. K-Rad was the only customer. He’d stuffed his gas mask and other goodies into his backpack, and he’d left the Kevlar vest and the Berettas in his car. The bartender, a chick named Tami with full-sleeve tats on her arms and quarter-inch gauges in her earlobes, slapped a napkin in front of him and said, “What’s up, K?”
“Not much. Let me get a Shiner Bock, okay?”
“Sure.”
She brought the longneck brown bottle and popped the top with an opener. The television was tuned to an infomercial about an herbal supplement called Zark-O. It was supposed to make you live to be around two hundred years old or something.
“Can you turn it on Channel Four?” K-Rad said. Channel 4 was one of the local network affiliates, and K-Rad knew the boneheads on the news team there would have the big story before it went national. Those motherfuckers thrived on human misery. They went after it like vultures went after roadkill.
Tami wiped her hands with a towel. “I heard that stuff really works.”
“Zark-O?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. It’s bullshit. Nothing’s going to make you live longer. When your time’s up, it’s up.”
“I just heard it makes you feel better. That’s all.”
“I think I’ll stick with alcohol. Can you change the channel for me?”
Tami picked up the remote and switched the channel. “Wouldn’t you want to live forever if you could, though?” she said.
“Immortality isn’t about how long you’re here,” K-Rad said. “It’s about
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