Terrassassin Island

Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was led off the maximum security boat and onto the craggy rocks. After sitting so long in total darkness, the sunlight nearly blinded him - as harsh as the reality he had received in that courtroom, where he was told he was being sent to prison for the rest of his life. Ever since the Boston Marathon bombings on April 15th, 2013, the only regrets Dzhokhar had had was that more Americans had not been killed, and that his brother and co-conspirator, Tarmelan, had lived. Handcuffed, the young man of 21 was led to the entrance of an imposing prison. He had no idea where he was. Was this Alcatraz Island? No, that prison had been closed for over 50 years. Or worse…this was Guantanamo Bay! No, that prison had just been shut down by executive order by President Obama. The guard posted at the main gate seemed to answer his question, with a thick Southern accent.

"Alright, ya stinking Arab, welcome to Terrassassin Island," he drawled, the lit cigarette bouncing in his teeth.

Dzhokhar seethed as he was led inside. Arab, he thought indignantly. Typical of stupid, ignorant Americans to get ethnicities wrong. He was Chechnyan - and proud of it, by Allah! As they marched past rows and rows of cells and endless metal doors, Dzhokhar could see other prisoners as well. He pondered: what did he mean by Terrassassin Island? Just then, he and his guards stopped abruptly next to an empty cell. The door opened, then shut with an almighty CLANG! as Dzhokhar was shoved inside. The young man took in his surroundings. Home Sweet Home, he thought bitterly as he settled down to sleep for the first night of the rest of his life.

The next morning, at 7:00 AM sharp, a beep sounded over the intercom, and the doors of the cells opened. Prisoners were free to mosey on down to the mess hall, under the watchful eye of guards and security cameras. Dzhokhar was quick to get his "food" - at least that's what the heap of gloop on his plate was supposed to be - and sat down by himself at a table. He did not associate well with other people, and now wished that Tarmelan was with him. His brother had always helped him open up to others. A few moments later, a figure with a pronounced mustache sat down across from him. Dzhokhar hoped that if he just avoided eye contact and finished his meal, he would not have to interact with this other prisoner. Sadly, that was not to be.

"You're new here, aren't you?" the new arrival asked. Dzhokhar looked up and nodded. "Say…" the man continued. "You're the dude who blew up the finish line at the Boston Marathon! Nice job!" Dzhokhar had to smile.

"Really? You think so?"

"Oh sure! These days, if anybody can pull off a major attack against the government, you're in the history books, guaranteed! It wasn't that way when I was growing up…" but his voice trailed off. He changed the subject. "I don't believe I got your name."

Dzhokhar swallowed quickly before speaking and held out his hand. "Dzhokar Tsarnaev."

"John Wilkes Booth." The two men shook hands as Dzhokhar laughed.

"That's a joke, isn't it? Really - who are you?"

"John Wilkes Booth. I am 176 years old" he said solemnly.

Dzhokhar peered at the man across from him. Surely, he was jesting - he looked no more than 35. But, the young Chechnyan decided to play along.

"If you are really John Wilkes Booth," he began, "where were you shot at the barn you hid in when you were found?"

"In the stomach," Booth replied readily. Then, suddenly he lifted his shirt to reveal a bullet wound in that very spot. Dzhokhar looked again. That face…and in a flash, he remembered seeing the same face in his studies of America as a child. He gasped.

"You really are John Wilkes Booth!" he breathed. "But how? Are you a ghost? You're dead!"

"No, I'm very much alive," Booth smiled. "Though I was dead - briefly. Same as most of the other folks here. The US government has brought been bringing back to life US Presidential assassins, would-be-assassins and homegrown terrorists for decades in secret. They want to glean information from our personal experiences in their fight against terrorism. You, my friend, are the only person who has been brought here who has not previously died. You're one of us now. You're on Terrassassin Island!"

"Ah, I get it now!" Dzhokhar nodded and smiled.

"Yes, it's a shitty name, if you ask me. Really, why combine the words terrorist and assassin together…?"

"Wait!" Dzhokhar cried, suddenly interrupting as a new and wonderful thought struck him. "If everyone here has been brought back to life then that means…"

"Your brother could be resuscitated too? Yes, that will likely happen. I bet he will be here soon. In the meantime, let me introduce you to the rest of the crew…" And Booth was off, pointing out all the other prisoners. There was Charles J. Guiteau, who had shot President Garfield in 1881, Leon Czolgosz, who shot President McKinley and Lee Harvey Oswald, who shot JFK. Then, there were the would-be assassins: Richard Lawrence (tried to shoot Andrew Jackson), John Schrank (tried to shoot Theodore Roosevelt), Giuseppe Zangara (almost got FDR), Oscar Collazo and Griselio Torresola (attacked Blair House to try and kill Truman), Samuel Byck (tried to hijack a plane and fly it into the White House to kill Nixon), Lynnette "Squeaky" Fromme and Sara Jane Moore (both tried to kill Ford seventeen days apart, and were the only women in the prison), Raymond Lee Harvey ( who plotted to kill Jimmy Carter), John Hinckley Jr. (who shot and nearly killed Ronald Reagan), Saddam Hussein (who planned to bomb Bush 41), Francisco Martin Duran (who fired shots at the White House to try and kill Clinton), and Vladimir Arutyunian (tried to bomb Bush 43). Then there were would-be-assassins of Presidential candidates, most notably Sirhan Sirhan (who killed RFK) and Arthur Bremer (who shot George Wallace five times). Finally, there were the homegrown terrorists like Dzhokar: Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols (perpetrators of the '95 Oklahoma City bombing), the 6 culprits in the '93 World Trade Center Bombing and all 19 hijackers of 9/11. Including Booth and Dzhokhar, that was 51 prisoners in all.

"And Tarmelan will make 52," Dzhokhar told himself.

"Hey," Booth suddenly said, and here his voice got dangerously low. "There's a plan for us to bust out of here. We have a meeting tonight to rehearse for the prison's Holiday Gala. That's the cover; we'll discuss as we practice." The bell suddenly rang, indicating the meal was over. Booth got to his feet. "Farewell, Dzhokhar." And he left the young man to his thoughts.

Later that day, a boat arrived caring - lo and behold - Tarmelan, back from the dead. Dzhokhar was overjoyed to see his brother again. The pair shared a cell together now.

As dusk fell, all the prisoners gathered together in a basement room to practice for the Holiday Gala. Dzhokhar introduced Tarmelan to Booth and explained the US government's plans. Then, the younger brother looked about.

"Where are the guards?" he asked.

"They trust us enough to be on our own. We're locked in. Besides, they have cameras to do their jobs. We have to keep up appearances of rehearsing, but we can talk of our new 'performance' during that."

So amidst the dance routines and music lessons, the prisoners hatched a plot to break out of the prison and get off the island. Everyone had a part, and each person was divided into one of four teams (with Tarmelan, the numbers divided evenly - 13 people to each team). The groups would be stationed in different places on the day of the break out, per prison rotation. The guards would be equally divided to supervise them. In that, the plan just might work.

On the day of the proposed break out, Dzhokhar was led out onto the craggy rocks of the prison, under the watchful eyes of guards. Team A was to perform manual labor that day - picking up and recycling trash and clearing debris from recent storms. Dzhokhar was joined by the likes of Hinckley, McVeigh and his friend Booth among others. As they cleared wreckage, Dzhokhar locked eyes with Booth. The man nodded. Then, Dzhokhar swung the large branch he was lifting and struck one of the four guards stationed with them. His 12 companions rushed the other three spontaneously, felling them and taking their weapons. They made sure to make plenty of noise, as was part of the plan…

Meanwhile, Team B (which included folks like Fromme, Bremer, Byck and Sirhan Sirhan) was getting their daily PE workout. As soon as they heard shouts coming from the rocks below, they knew that was their signal. They charged their guards and overpowered them, taking weapons and keys, before letting themselves out of the blacktop.

Simultaneously, Team C (of which Tarmelan was a member) heard the commotions from the mess hall and started a riot of their own. Once they got their hands on weapons, their captors did not stand a chance. Then Team C rushed back to the cellblocks to free their companions from Team D, who could do nothing but wait in their cells until they could be of use. It took some time, as Team C had to fight their way there and kill off the remaining guards, but they succeeded. Then both teams rushed out of the prison. Team A was waiting with some prison boats they had commandeered. It had paid to have several of the 9/11 hijackers assigned to this team, given their experience. 4 boats were seized and each team boarded one.

"Hang on, everybody!" called Booth. "We're off!" The boats roared away from the island. All the convicts began to cheer wildly. Their plan had gone off without a hitch. They had done it! Dzhokhar rode around on his brother's back, pumping his fist in the air. Hinckley declared how Jodie Foster would worship him once they reached the mainland. Sara Jane Moore and Lee Harvey Oswald were kissing feverishly (which surprised many people) to laughs and wolf-whistles. And Booth? He just sat back against the wheel of the one boat and smiled in satisfaction.

Their revelry would not last long, though. They had barely made it a few kilometers from shore, when they heard shouts from behind them. Moore and Oswald disengaged themselves from each other and looked back. Dzhokhar followed their gaze, his fist in mid-pump.

Some surviving guards were rushing down to the rocks. They had retrieved some left over guns and began firing. The Terrassassins responded in kind, and an epic shoot-out ensued. They were so busy doing this, that no one noticed another small battalion of guards on the roof. A sudden whistle could be heard, and Dzhokhar looked about just in time to see a missile careen into Team A's boat. The next second, flashes of light and fire were everywhere. Dzhokar was tossed high into the air, over the side and into the sea below. He sank below the waves spinning in all directions. Muffled cries and BOOMs could be heard. When the young Chechnyan finally surfaced, the boats were either blown apart or sinking and in flames. Smoke billowed up from the water.

"Tarmelan? Booth?" he called. There were no answers, but soon shouts could be heard through the flames as his companions began to drown. A piece of driftwood floated past and Dzhokhar seized it, using it to keep afloat. He would rather die out here from cold or drowning or sheer exhaustion then be returned to the island. Soon, hands still gripping the wood, Dzhokhar slipped into unconsciousness, welcoming certain death.

A lifetime later (or so it seemed), Dzhokhar awoke. Guards were peering down at him, and he knew he was back at the prison. The first question he asked was "Where are the others?"

"All dead," one guard said solemnly. "They drowned. Your plan failed." Dzhokhar hung his head sadly. His poor companions… He was only vaguely aware as the guards strapped him to the chair he was in. He could only just feel the wet washcloth forced into his mouth. And he even thought it a welcome sensation as a switch was flicked and electricity shocked him into oblivion - sending him to be with his co-conspirators.