The Serpent's Kiss

79

Kevin Matsumoto, otherwise calling himself The Serpent, moved through the crowds at The Palace of Auburn Hills. It was a huge, circular arena, industrial in flavor with white concrete walls, and exposed girders and duct work. Once through the entrance and ticket areas, a broad tiled walkway encircled the actual arena. Vendors and strollers hung out here, hawking jewelry, memorabilia, and food.

The J Slim concert didn’t officially start until 8:00, though a few thousand people were already here, milling around, checking out the arcade, buying T-shirt, CDs, driving mugs and posters. Others were here starting their party early, eating dinner at one of the restaurants or snacking on pizza, pretzels, popcorn, just as likely paying five bucks for a beer or a gin and tonic.

Kevin grinned, watching some idiots standing in line for a J Slim T-shirt. Forty bucks for a T-shirt with this asshole flipping the bird! They looked like they deserved it. Torn jeans, motorcycle boots, J Slim tank tops, their hair spiked with gel, skull and crossed-bone earrings, tats on their arms, probably temporary. Somebody bumped him and he smiled, pleasant, though the person who bumped him recoiled at his expression. “Hey, get a life,” she snarled, beer in her hand. She wore low-rise jeans, her puffy exposed stomach showing off a pierced belly button, her shirt pink and tight, nipples protruding.

You’re dead, he thought, and smiled harder, wondering what it was people saw in his face when they looked at him. Wondered why when he thought he was covering up, being normal and friendly, that people seemed to sense just how much rage he was feeling. How much hatred.

They would speak his name in fear. Kevin Matsumoto, rightful head of Aum Shinrikyo reborn. His half-sister, Rika Matsumoto, ran Aleph now. She would not recognize his rightful place at the head of Aum. She was younger than he was. He had been born before Aum, before Chizuo Matsumoto was reborn as Shoko Asahara. Kevin was the first-born, son of Shoko Asahara. Him. Not her. After tonight the world would be forced to realize that only the true son of Aum could have been responsible for the day’s destruction.

Using his Palace ID, he moved toward the backstage areas, making sure he didn’t get into the areas where J Slim and his band were hanging out with local disc jockeys and the people who had won free backstage passes, or who knew people who could get them access. No, he didn’t need that. Besides, security was tight here.

Instead, he moved to the technical equipment area, checking the smoke machines. They were actually using two different types of machines, smoke machines and foggers. The foggers were behind and below the scenes, set up on both sides of the stage. They were large barrels filled with water. At the top of the barrels were baskets that contained dry ice. You lowered the baskets into the water and it produced a carbon dioxide fog. A heating element made the chemical reaction churn along even harder. Large hoses ran from the side of the foggers and out to the main floor of The Palace. This was very effective and cranked out a lot of fog.

The main floor guests were going to be in for a shock as J Slim took the stage to the machine gun rat-a-tat-tat of his drummer, the throbbing buzz of the synthesizer, and the laser lights.

And everybody else was going to be in for a surprise, as well.

Kevin, in his job at The Palace as part of the technical crew, had arranged for smoke machines to be set along many of the upper beams that crisscrossed the infrastructure of The Palace. These were commercial smoke machines manufactured by the Roscoe Corporation. What Kevin liked most about these was the remote control. With a push of a button, the machines would kick in, producing smoke out of a chemical reaction of water and glycol. There were dozens of the machines installed around the arena, strapped to the front of luxury suites and bolted to overhead beams.

As J Slim made his big entrance, the lights would dim, the band would fill the cavernous building with an electric thrum and a heart-thumping drum line. The concert was sold out, slightly over 20,000 people, and they would probably keep chattering or more likely cheer and scream. Oh yes, they would scream. The music would crescendo, rising to a howling wall of noise that was almost deafening. Colored spots would flash. Lasers would shoot everywhere, their effect increased by the carbon dioxide fog and artificial smoke that would swirl through the air and across the main floor.

Kevin had loaded all the fog and smoke machines with canisters of sarin gas. With the punch of the remote control button, sarin gas would flow onto the main floor and drift down from the rafters and suite overhangs. Kevin doubted that he would kill all 20,000 concert goers. He expected, as they began to realize what was happening, that people would stampede for the exits. He predicted a lot of people would die in the chaos, either from the gas or being trampled to death.

Some would escape. People at the higher levels might even get lucky. Sarin was heavier than air and accumulated at lower levels.

Kevin predicted that tonight’s final attack would make the death toll at the World Trade Towers look like a picnic. Thousands were going to die. Thousands.

The thought made him smile.