FORTY TONS OF CONCRETE By Andrew Zilbauer This piece contains explicit language and may not be suitable for younger or sensitive audiences
She walked quickly away from the parking garage, her nondescript black sneakers and gray hoodie in stark contrast to the bright white lights of the garage, which created a shadow in front of her. She turned the corner and began to think about the bomb going off in 3 minutes and 19 seconds. She had just parked a white van filled with explosives, a mix of fertilizer and C4 connected to a timer, adjacent to the wall of the ground floor of the bank building. She was now three blocks away from the garage. She thought about the security guard she passed on the way out, how he had greeted her in a pleasant manner and told her to have a good evening. He was an elderly man in his sixties, possibly an ex-cop. He probably had a family who loved him. But in 2 minutes and 35 seconds, he would be underneath 40 tons of concrete. If his remains were found, it would be a closed casket funeral. She turned another corner and passed by a bar that was teeming with life. She looked up at the televisions and saw the baseball game. Whoever the home team was is winning 4-1. The bar patrons would have their night disrupted by the sound and shock of an explosion in 2 minutes and 17 seconds. She thought of the camera crews and reporters that would be swarming them and asking the same question of, “What did it feel like?” while the patrons would try to fight off tears and drunken tendencies. At least they weren’t the security guard, she observed. 2 minutes and 2 seconds. She crossed 45th Street and began to think about the reason for her current situation. She remembered the tears of her parents when they received the letter eight years ago that had large red letters that spelled, “FORECLOSED.’ She remembered the arguments between her parents that often turned violent.
