Anti-flash White

Anti-flash White

Built to detonate. Anticipated, given every courtesy and then dropped from 600 meters. Prophesized, too: and He said “Next time it won’t be a flood.”

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Off in the distance they watched it bloom: the pillar of smoke the sidewalk priests promised would guide their 40-year march. It branched up through the sky like a great ash tree, the tendrils at its base constricting around the city’s heart. Whether lions or sheep, it did not matter. All were immolated. For a few thundering seconds the omnipresent roar came crashing from the superstructure’s throat, then slowly faded to the noise of a single bomber engine flying away.

Can you imagine the resources consumed in the fires that produced such a weapon? The years, the money, the genius, the formulas, the questions, the camaraderie, the disillusionment that must have followed after? It must have been maddening, knowing all that scientific progress would only flicker on their heads for a few seconds—like tongues of flame singing “God is dead!” in every language—before bursting above thousands; the fruit of their labor condemned as irradiated, inedible before it even touched the ground.