THE CHEMIST WATCHES the cop in her space suit approach the front door. The suit offers more protection than the previous batch of cops had, but it still isn’t enough.
She has seconds left to live. Minutes, if she’s extremely lucky.
The Chemist has spent a very long time getting things ready. There are enough traps to kill at least a dozen cops. Even careful ones in protective biohazard suits.
He hadn’t expected that the next death would be Jack Daniels, however. She’s a celebrity. Now this will be national news for sure. He should have set the TiVo after all.
He wonders which one will get her. The modified M44? The rattraps? The pull-loop switch? The metal ball? So many terrible things await her.
And which toxin will it be? BT is perfect for food contamination, and the slower onset of symptoms has the desired effect of overburdening the hospitals and spreading panic and paranoia. But situations like this one called for something more immediate. More dramatic. Convallaria majalis. Ricin. Rhododendron ponticum. Ornithogalum umbellatum. Thevetia peruviana. Strychnos toxifera. Each of these induces instantaneous, messy death.
Of course, nothing is quite as cinematic as good old homemade napalm. Or potassium cyanide gas. He’s covered those bases too.
The Chemist spent several months researching this particular phase of the Plan. Booby trap diagrams are easily found on the Internet, but he’s taken them to the next level. They’ve become works of art. Fatal works of art. The slightest scrape of skin, the tiniest tear of fabric, the smallest misstep, and you’re dead.
So exciting. So amusing. And he has the perfect view of everything.
He wishes he had a bag of popcorn.
A television news truck pulls up. It’s about damn time.
The money will be nice. But what will really keep him company in his old age are the memories of moments like this.