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Everything is an explosive. Every thought is a sort of explosion inside the head. When you give me your hand I feel as if something is exploding inside you.
β Karel Δapek, “Krakatit”
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The messages start at 10 AM, on the LED advertisement screens all around the Fuchsia World Mall.
Donβt move.
The parking lot explodes.
People run, of course.
Explosions from within the mall. Smoke rises from the courtyard at the center, or traps itself dark behind cracked windows.
Eventually people stop moving. Some have the presence of mind to understand whatβs happening, the rest get lucky with shock and concussion, or the inability to move with their new bodies.
The border is delineated by horrified bystanders, clean and unharmed, except for the powderized city drifting into the creases of their clothes and lungs.
Lazur drives into the storm of carcinogens, windshield growing grayer.
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