Best laid Plans
It is dark enough, lights reflecting off the sheen of water on city streets. A dark grey van cautiously makes a left turn and accelerates toward its destination.
Hooded faces occupy the vehicle, two in front and three in back. The latter group hovers over the device bolted to the floor, an ugly unit of black plastic and aluminum, laced with wires and a few dim lights. The leader, obvious in his authority, directs his companions as they prepare the contraption.
It only needs to function perfectly once.
It is for the cause, and it will give these fat, lazy people much to ponder.
Those who survive, that is.
Streets are nearly deserted at this hour, all the better for the task at hand. Sometime in the morning, crowds will part and flow around the innocuous vehicle, blind to the truth, and it will cleanse their souls in flame.
The leader thanks them for their sacrifice, though they know not their fate. His gratitude is enough.
Martyrs are often useful, though not necessary, as he carefully inserts the tiny cellphone into its cradle. A perfect fit, of course. Removing it, he nods to a companion. '555-5677'. The tiny phone rings and their leader nods, satisfied. They will arrive soon, emerging from the warehouse district to park downtown.
The dark sedan awaits, to take them away, to a safe distance. They will wait. They are patient. They are also careful, and will watch from a 5th story apartment facing the van, outside the blast radius.
The van is parked against the curb, behind a line of identical vehicles, awaiting the morning and their call to duty. One more does not look out of place.
The sedan pulls alongside and they exit, eyes searching, seeing nothing out of place as they walk around to the car.
They are incinerated in an instant as the van erupts, sending twisted shards of itself through its brethren and the dark-clad conspirators. The leader perishes before the question can enter his mind.
In a tiny flat across town, Duane closes his cellphone, 'Dude, I can't get the pizza place!'
'555-5667?' Phil rubs his hair dry with a threadbare towel.
'Ah, crap, I dialed 5677.' Duane laughs and opens his phone. 'You want mushrooms again?'