The man walked slowly through the sliding glass doors of the library. He tried his best not to stare too long at any one thing or person. Some of the college students were laughing, checking books out at the counter, or handing their bags to a man behind a desk so he could fill compartments with newly acquired books.
A young woman with bright blue eyes was pointing to a figure through the glass doors at the far wall—the indicated figure was attempting to bicycle down a metal railing over marble stairs.
The wannabe daredevil collapsed in a pile with a faint shout, muffled by the glass. The figures checking out their books rolled their eyes, accepted their returned bags, and headed towards the exit. One of them apologized as his bag accidentally brushed into the chemist.
But the man didn't mind.
These were all specimens to him: strange, interesting, and intricate folk.
He nodded politely, smiling as they filed past through the glass doors.
Then, shouldering his own backpack, he moved through the library, eyes attentive, seeking, searching. He liked libraries. In fact, his favorite, online serial novel had inspired his recent projects. Inspiration came from everywhere if a willing mind was willing to look. But most minds were calloused, putrid things. Stuck in their ten-second videos or thirty-character outrage machines.
He was going to find a new project, and this one would involve a fresh recipe. One of his own
That would keep the police guessing for sure.
He shouldered his backpack strap, fingers taught against the black band.
His other hand gripped the small, metal lunch box. Perhaps not the sort of thing often seen on a college campus, but the perfect size for carrying the thermos inside.
He had spent the better part of a year coming up with this particular concoction.
And now he was excited to share it with others; he could feel faint perspiration along his brow. Could feel his throat tighten as he moved between bookcases and study desks; a few people glanced in his direction. No one recognized him, but it was funny the things people would assume if you had the right props. And in this case, youthful features and the backpack sufficed.
He kept his eyes ahead, occasionally shaking his head briefly.
He moved towards the back of the building, heading in the direction of the study rooms. His eyes darted through the glass windows, skipping from one student to the next. There was a young man arranging notecards on a desk. A woman trying to adjust the pages in a binder.
He moved past, glancing towards a secluded, corner study space. There, in a small room, the door shut, he spotted, through the window, a young woman, frowning as she tried to make sense of a textbook open in front of her. She was wearing headphones.
Perfect. The headphones would distract. The corner room didn't have a window. The perfect place for a test.
He moved forward, stepping behind two rows of bookshelves with science fiction and fantasy as the primary subject matter; he glanced over his shoulder. Line of sight was blocked by the bookshelves.
He slowly lowered the backpack from his shoulder, adjusting his grip. Quietly, he unzipped the main compartment. His fingers found a cold, looping metal item. He flashed a small, nervous smile. This was always the most exciting part. The silence before the storm.
He hastened forward, the bike lock swinging. He reached for the door handle, and wedged the rigid, looping metal lock around the handle, and over the doorjamb, creating something of a barricade.
The lock clicked into place. And then, he shot another look back.
One of the students was exiting their study room but didn't glance in the chemist's direction.
He lowered to his knees, and carefully, with trembling fingers, unclasped his lunchbox. He pulled the device from inside. His fingers shaky against the cold metal of the thermos.
He glanced from the top aerosol compartment towards the door.
About half an inch of a gap below the door.
He nodded to himself. Perfect.
He reached into the backpack, pulling out a ghoulish glass and rubber gas mask. He attached a small nozzle onto the end of his thermos.
Over a year of planning. He had created this special.
Now he wore the gas mask. He lodged the nozzle under the door. And then, with a faint, shaky sigh, he pressed the button.