The creation process

I approached the door. I inserted the card I'd already pulled from my wallet into the reader. The soft click of the electromagnet releasing the door, and I was free to enter. After crossing the threshold, standing in the dark room, I fumbled with my card.

The murmur of shifting air filled the darkened room. I knew the way to the console by heart, between the rows of cabinets where silicon creations busily filled their lives. After a short walk, I sat down in the comfortable armchair and leaned back. Having formed a plan in my head, I leaned forward and began writing. Half an hour later, everything was ready. My elaborate, long-term plan was coming to fruition.

I had 20 minutes to leave the building, but after six, I was driving comfortably and slowly toward the city center. My destination was the roof of a not-so-tall building, from which I could clearly observe the entire neighborhood and—partly—even the outskirts of the city.

Dawn began less than half an hour later. The sun found me watching the first results of my actions as two cars slammed into each other with a terrible screech of tires at a still practically empty intersection. The third car at the intersection calmly braked to avoid the wrecked vehicles. The enraged driver of one car kicked open the crumpled and slightly jammed door, then his anger evaporated in a split second at the sight of blood on the shattered window of the other vehicle. Meanwhile, another man ran out of the undamaged vehicle, holding a phone to his ear. His subsequent attempts to call 911 infuriated him so much that he threw the phone to the ground, only to, after venting his emotions, reassemble it from the scattered pieces.

My attention was diverted by a subway crossing, located a few meters above the ground in the center, where the rails ran. The cars passed their stop at breakneck speed, stunning the people standing there. The train negotiated the next bend, heralding the entire structure's efforts with the shriek of sawing rails and the single pops of loose track rivets. The last car jerked violently as it exited the bend, but nevertheless made it through.

The chaos at the intersection grew. The astonishment of bystanders also grew, as they pointed to the green traffic lights, announcing the right of passage for all directions simultaneously.

Hearing a bang behind me, I quickly turned around, just in time to see the subway car barreling through the torn-out tracks around the bend. After traversing the four meters separating it from the building, it slammed into the facade with the first of its cars. The next cars acted like a series of hammer blows on a poorly placed nail, demolishing the rear of the first car and raining destruction down onto cars parked on the edge of the road and a random passerby. The last two cars didn't fit within the short distance separating the building from the tracks. With a terrifying screech and shriek of tearing metal, one of the cars broke in half, swerving halfway down the tracks, and toppled to the ground on the other side of the tracks. The last car was dragged down behind its predecessor.

Everything suddenly seemed to fall silent. I could hear the rustle of falling dust, but that could have been my impression as I watched the image of the catastrophe emerge from the brown curtain.

I checked my watch to make sure it was time for the gas station, where one of the automatic dispensers had been pumping fuel for several minutes, increasing the pressure at the final valve. I knew that with a damaged internal valve, it would stop filling with high-octane explosive within the next minute. A glance through my binoculars confirmed my earlier calculations: a fuel stain was seeping onto the dry concrete poured around the dispenser. A detonator was also needed, but it was a matter of when someone would come to pick up the fuel...

Programming ILSs and autopilots for the new Airbuses took a lot of work. "Fly-by-wire." A magical term that meant taking control of the flight. I'd always believed there was too much automation and too much reliance on it. I checked my watch. I had a few minutes before "my" plane was scheduled to arrive.

A flash in the windows and a subsequent clap of thunder announced the arrival of the "detonator." I didn't expect such extensive damage to be caused by a single explosion, the initial effects of which I saw in the form of the falling, twisted roof of the gas station. The car that caused the entire incident was sliding, charred, on its side after a hard landing. As it reached the curb, it performed a small somersault and, rolling over the roof, landed on its other side, resting against the cornice of a nearby building. The visual effect of this event made a profound impression on me.

I glanced at my watch again, focusing on the second hand. My earlier calculations indicated that the explosion would cause back pressure in the line feeding the liquid from the tanks, pushing the fire all the way to them. There should be enough air in the tanks. I took care of this, as well as ensuring that the safety valves on the dispensers were inoperative.

I looked up at the right moment, just in time to see the second fuel pump shoot into the air, which had already exploded into many pieces mid-air—like a grenade, much to the surprise of those rushing to the car lying on its side. One of the people was running over the fuel tanks at that unfortunate moment. The blast wave, followed by a column of flame, shot several meters into the air. A moment later, the remains of the man fell many meters away onto the street, with a silent—at that distance—thud. Meanwhile, the wave of flames engulfed a nearby building.

My gaze landed on a shocked person standing in the middle of the road, a dozen or so meters from the burning tank. The figure took a few steps, then fell to his knees. His hands began to tremble, making his entire torso move very noticeably. A moment later, the figure fell onto his side. It took me a moment to stabilize my binoculars, and then I saw that the shock must have been the cause, which then triggered a stroke – the blood oozing from under my head confirmed this version of events.

I pulled a small radio from my belt, which should have already picked up – in addition to the control tower – the plane I was waiting for. As scheduled, I tuned it to the correct frequency and moments later I heard code calls to the tower. A terse reply from the airport to the plane also informed me of the wind speed. So the smoke should be gently blowing away from me. I was even glad of this, as otherwise I would have had to change my vantage point. I glanced at my watch, then turned to spot the approaching plane. It should be visible in about half a minute. My wait was quickly rewarded by panicked calls from the control tower to raise the plane's altitude, along with shouts from the pilots, whose controls were already unresponsive. All the radio commotion was soon drowned out by the roar of the jet's engines, which had already reached well below a hundred meters above me. At this angle and at the speed it was traveling, it looked like it would hit just a few buildings away. I had miscalculated the flight to the immediate vicinity of the station, but the wing just as it was catching the telephone mast confirmed that the plane would hit within my calculation error. The plane's engine, upon contact with the rather solid mast, turned into a fireball, scattering rotor blades and other, equally deadly, debris in all directions. The resulting roar was about to intensify as the flying giant, jerked down and to the left, slammed into the first building. In the seven-story office building, the upper two floors were swept away by the machine's impact, but they failed to completely slow it down.

As the plane made a half-turn, it revealed the enormity of its wounds: a burning engine, a torn-off underside, and—most horrifyingly—a crushed nose, horribly "decorated" with the remains of the upper floors. I felt as if I were watching a freeze-frame, gazing at this macabre sight, with parts of the plane hanging in the air along with concrete shards of an office building. The whole thing was completed by an Armageddon of fire.

The final act of this spectacle was the impact of the entire mass of debris, and the battering ram, made of the flying machine, falling onto the next building. Time suddenly sped up. The building across the street was completely absorbed by the momentum. It didn't hold it back, but instead sent it forward, through the adjacent buildings. A masterful impact of the white Airbus ball on the brown half, which moved the blue one... and so on. Except that the balls cracked and shattered. In a moment, the entire scene was engulfed in a curtain of flames, shimmering in a riot of color, until, in the finale, only black smoke remained.

I stood so fascinated by the destruction that I would have missed the final treat I had prepared. The screech of the train's wheels struggling to hold back its momentum drew my head in the right direction. My vision adjusted just in time to see two trains grinding in a head-on collision.

The forces inherent in speed have always stirred in me a mixture of awe and terror.

The train cars flying through the air would have looked like toys if not for the real-life details: torn-out tracks and their sleepers, bent poles, and fountains of earth kicked up by the falling pieces of what had, a fraction of a time, been a speeding whole...

I took a deep breath as an oppressive silence fell upon me for a moment. The wind, along with the smoke, drove all sounds away from me.

A few seconds later, I heard the wail of sirens, screams breaking through the other noise. My time had come, too. I'll see the rest at home, relatively safe, in colorful images that many people are surely watching right now. Television vans appeared out of nowhere, hastily setting up their equipment, and began broadcasting to others fascinated by Trumpism.

I'm not alone in my fascination.