Shattered by Glass (The Human-Hybrid Project Book 1)

by Farley Dunn

  “She doesn’t get out much, Mrs. Waggoner. I’ll tell her you asked.”

  “And that boyfriend?” She asked the question hard, and that caused her to tip her can too far. “Oh, my. Didn’t mean to do that.”

  “Arik’s at work today.” Probably not, but he wasn’t here, and that made the day better than it had been.

  “Arik?” She inspected one plant for a moment. “Oh, the boyfriend. Where are you off to if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Uptown. Might visit the Tower. Got some friends heading that way, see what’s left from the concert last night.”

  “No good. That’s what’s left. You taking that Marisa with you? Is she your girlfriend, yet?”

  “Nah.” He felt his face grow hot. It was what he wanted, but she didn’t seem to want anyone. Water overflowed one pot, tumbling in a waterfall towards Garik. He drew back and watched it spatter the railing beside him before continuing on its way.

  “Did it miss, Garik? Fertilizer. Be careful. You might grow fresh roots.”

  “Mostly, Mrs. Waggoner. I’ll dry, thank you. You be careful with that watering can. You can’t be wasting the complex’s water.”

  “Now, now. It’ll rain again someday. The catch tanks always fill up again. Always have, always will.”

  And I would like a real shower, he thought, but he said, “That’s right as rain,” and he laughed as he took off toward the stairwell.

  Mrs. Waggoner was cackling and repeating, “Right as rain,” as he slipped inside the door and tripped down the steps. Third floor to ground, at least he had strong legs. He jumped down them four at a time to make the descent go faster. He barely missed a dirty diaper on one step and two broken bottles on the first-floor landing. A new word was scrawled in orange-glow shimmer gel on one wall, crying, “The Tower steals our lives.” Garik shrugged. They could steal him if it got him inside. He could always break out again, no matter what people said. If you were clever enough, you could Houdini out of any tight spot.

  He wondered who risked gelling the complex’s walls. That could get your family kicked out. But the message was forgotten as he vaulted past. The walls were coated with paint repellant. That’s the reason for the gel. It would oxidize and turn to powder in a day, leaving no reminder it was there, other than fine orange dust along the baseboard.

  On the last run of steps, Wajeha Nayef and Robbie Icardi were lip-locked in an embrace. On the way past, Garik clapped Robbie on the shoulder, hissed, “Bro, really? You’re fifteen,” and winked at Wajeha. “Get a room,” he called back.

  At the bottom, he hesitated before throwing back the heavy fire door. He always did this every time since dragging his bike home from Kang’s. Sure, he cable-locked it, and he kept the fob safe, but hackers could hack, so nothing was certain safe. You did the best, and you hoped for the best—

  Then the door was yanked from his hand, and sunlight flooded in.

  “Bout time, Garik.”

  “Yeah, dude. How come it takes so long for you to come down the stairs? That was at least fifteen seconds this time. We been waiting on you.”

  “For what?” He stepped outside, blinked as his eyes adjusted, and felt his stomach settle when he found his Strider right where he’d left it. “Yo, Shrimper. What’s you doing on my bike?”

  Shrimper was about eight, and with skin hard to see in shadows or in the dark, he was the go-to gofer for the wannabe gang of preteens chilling in the parking lot.

  “We going for a ride today?” The little guy had his hands on the bars. He could barely reach them, but he was imagining he was the king of the road, at least until he had to brake or shift gears.

  “Places to go.” Garik lifted the fob, placed his thumb on the screen, and heard the sharp click as the lock released. A second click, and the cable wound into the locking mechanism and the unit tumbled to the ground with a clank of hollow metal against solid concrete. “Maybe to the court. Fries for breakfast.”

  “Nah.” A thin blond about eleven named Winter scoffed. “Heard they had a concert last night. Dactyls. Probly still stringing the last wails from their guitars.”

  “I heard them.” Garik knelt and opened a compartment in the bike and slipped the lock inside.

  “You was there?” The rest of the boys drew in like they were links in a chain, pulled forward by the teeth of a turning crankset. “You saw the Dactyls? Cool.”

  “Maybe.” Garik pulled out a pair of fat eye shields and closed the compartment. He stood, trying to act as if last night were nothing.

  “Saw you with Marisa on the roof.” A small redhead who went by Firestarter piped in. “While they was still playing.”

  “Can I get a break? I got my Strider. How else you think I got there and back?” Garik laughed and swung his leg over and kicked up the stand. He set his eye shield on his nose and strapped it in back. He would be blinded in the sun otherwise.

  “Ain’t letting you in. Only richies get into the concerts.” Winter. “Bet you was liplocking on the roof.”

  The boys began to chant, “Liplocking, liplocking. Garik’s been liplocking.”

  “Didn’t say I was at the concert.” Garik gave in a tiny bit to divert their attention from their little game, while admitting more of the truth than he’d hoped. “Said I saw the Dactyls, and that’s the truth. But if you’re going to be like that, I’m going now, cause the court’s open to everyone. I’ll eat a fry for you and you and you.” He pointed at each of the boys, laughing. “Out of the way. Don’t want you to get burned.”

  Garik held his breath and hit the starter twice, hoping the Strider didn’t embarrass him. It was bad enough when he saw other riders give him the stink eye because of the rust, but to not start with his little “hood” standing around watching? That would be mortifying.

  The Strider fired up perfectly, and Garik let himself breathe again. He grinned and nodded at Shrimper. “A fry for you.” He fed excess fuel into the jet, and it roared. Then, looking up to see Mrs. Waggoner on her floor’s balcony leaning out and looking down at him, he backed off, released the makeshift brake, and let the vibrating machine trundle out of the lot and through the heavy iron security gate.

  “Even we gotta have protection,” he said, spinning up the jet’s turbine and bumping along Maple, what seemed to be the city’s most poorly maintained road. “Always people poorer than you are, no matter who you are. Richer, too, though I wouldn’t mind that.”

  Too bad Robbie was liplocking. He mighta liked a free ride to the court, that and free fries.

  He tried to picture who might show. Maria Putin, with her black bobbed hair and big earrings, Regina Kournikova, lithe and blonde, a cheerleader back in high school, maybe Vladimir Varlamov, the weightlifter of the group, and Giorgio Versace, wannabe fashion icon. Vladimir and Giorgio were always hip-to-hip, different as night and day but in each other’s pockets everywhere the group went. Where Vladimir was found, Giorgio wasn’t too far away, yeah, like that.

  On Sycamore and crossing Third, with seven blocks to go, he saw three of the “posse” heading in. Ibn Hariri, with flowing locks and the start of a scraggly beard, Muhammad Saud, wearing a skullcap with a skull stitched into the fabric and a tattered knit sweater, and Hayat al-Haber, in his headscarf and robe, were on their longboards, skipping off curbs and back on again. Garik slowed enough for Ibn to grab hold before he gunned the jet assist, and the bike began to fly. It only coughed once, and it didn’t cut off at all. About halfway to Fifth, Ibn released his hold, flew up a handicap ramp, and did a 360 around a light pole.

  Garik was stoked. Not having to see Arik this morning, and now, his friends at the court? This might well be the best day of his week.

  ― 3 ―

  GARIK PRESSED the thumbscreen on his lock’s fob and looked skyward. Corona Tower. Forty stories of mystery, fascination, and wealth drawing in the city’s elite and wannabes, all hoping for access to the inner sanctum of the powerful and the great.

  “Garik, what’s with you?” Ibn H
ariri bumped his shoulder with a fist. “The court’s down here, my friend. Up there, that’s not a place we will ever go.”

  “Yeah.” Garik shrugged, hardly able to tear his eyes away. How did they do it, he wondered? The lightshow, the black glitter, the diamond sparkles flowing down the building, the entire thing gone. Then, it was back again, whole, ready to do it all over again.

  “So, your attention. Huh, Garik? Let me join you.” Ibn pressed his shoulder to Garik’s and stared skyward. He balanced his board upright, bright yellow with an Arabic graphic scrawled down the center, one truck black and the other gleaming silver, both scuffed with road and rock and steel, one end on the ground, and the other loosely in his downturned palm. The board complemented Ibn’s shiny locks, sometimes in dreads, now free to blow in the breeze.

  “What’s this?” Hayat al-Haber’s board was still grounded, one foot controlling its motion, and he rolled forward to stand with Garik and Ibn. With his headscarf and rope, he leaned especially far back to see what the attraction was so far overhead. “I see clouds, but only a few. What, what? This is interesting? Come, Muhammad. We have found something to look at.”

  The board under Hayat’s shoe was a gridwork overlaid with unicorns and fairy dust. His older sister, Akilah, had skated before she married, and it was a good board, so why let it go to waste? It still had its neon pink wheels. Muhammad Saud walked up, his board under one arm, revealing skulls and bones on the bottom and painted blood splatters on the top. His wheels were burgundy, like blood flowing from his white-painted trucks.

  “Dundersaps. The real vision is there.” Muhammad pushed himself through the trio blocking his way, making room for his skateboard with a big hand, and he took the steps up to the mall’s main concourse three at a time. At the top, he turned and laughed. He nodded his head to the open area of the food court. “Coming? Or you want to gawk while I grease my chompers and fill my belly?”

  “Come, Garik. Breakfast.” Ibn laughed, yanked his board upward and caught it under his arm. He only managed two steps for each leap. The morning sun cut through the city’s buildings with laser slices of light. One caught Ibn’s silver truck as he leaped, flashed, and then was gone.

  Garik shifted gears more slowly. His stomach growled, and he thought of his aunt’s twenty. That would buy a full stomach, but then he had to return home. Arik. Irina would tell him, “Gari’s bringing the milk. I gave him the money,” and Arik would be angry that Irina had saved back some, but he would be angrier that Garik spent any of it on something for himself.

  He decided that he would have to be especially quick. There would be abandoned fries on the tables and probably on the floor, but he would leave those. The tabletop fries would be enough for him to not leave hungry. He took the steps in a rush to find Ibn already locking his board into the secure racks on the mall’s perimeter. Boards were ubiquitous. Everyone rode them, yet they weren’t welcome in the food court. No one would come to the food court without their boards, so the secure racks, exposed wire cages fitted with built-in locks, were the answer. Insert your board, take the key, and pick up your board when you returned.

  Beyond the racks, the mall stretched for blocks, enough for an entire Dactyls concert, as Garik had seen last night from First and Sycamore. Now, there was no sign any such event had occurred. The platform, sure, that was permanent, but the tables, the chairs, the open bar that had livened up the patrons. All gone.

  At the center, Corona Tower reared its massive bulk on giant steel and brick piers, hulking over the mall like an enormous spider about to strike its prey. The food court underneath was open on every side, already filling with diners of all colors and ethnic backgrounds. Kaftans, robes, and saris glittered alongside studded leather jackets, miniskirts, and neon boots. Even a cowboy hat or two. One table was crowded with crop-haired military types in casual fatigues and heavy boots, not surprising with the Air Force base just to the west of Bay City. They wore matching mirrored shades, even in the false lighting of the towering structure overhead.

  Along the back wall, where the sun crashed into the building and promised a searing day, the darkened glass walls remained fixed in place. As the sun crawled from dawn to noon to dusk, the glass walls would follow, slipping up into the mass of the building, or folding out of the way, as dictated by the design of the mall. The food court was nominally at the core of the Tower, tucked into the central nexus of the leviathan, but on mornings after a concert, the city around the Tower vibrated with anticipation, as if each person felt a new connection with the mystery behind the Tower’s elaborate security that overshadowed every other endeavor. The food court grew to encompass the mall, with additional tables, mobile servicing kiosks, and teams of cleaning crews to keep it all spotless. The people of the city, disenfranchised and otherwise, wanted to be here, to join in, even if they knew they would never score admission into the real party when the walls around the mall rose up, blocking the rabble from entering, so that the elite, whoever they were, could dance and drink to excess all night long.

  And so, there it was again, the wall, city people on the outside, Tower people in, with the message, “You can have a taste of what we offer, but only in the food court. The rest is private, so vamoose, you leaden deadbeats.”

  The four youths dispersed into the cave-like court, a wave of interconnecting action, taking advantage of the tight groups, those with hangers on, and others who were lone diners. They eyed people standing, walking away, some policing their own tables, and others leaving their detritus to the cleaning crews. With practice, it was easy to tell which was which. The carelessness of a cup set to the side, forgotten in a moment of discussion, scattered fries, a breakfast burrito half eaten and returned to a tray. In ten minutes, they had a tableful of food. They pooled their change, and two drinks, two empty cups, and they had four drinks all around.

  The conversation was a cyclone of boarding, girls, and was anyone going back to school when the session started up again? Girls were on everyone’s mind, and not returning to school? It might be wishful dreaming, but to say it meant they could imagine.

  Garik studied the perimeter of the court and what he could see of the massive legs holding up the Tower. He thought of the Dactyls the night before and what Marisa had said about the black glitter. He popped a cold fry into his mouth, and as he chewed, he blurted, “How do they do it?”

  “You must be clear, my Russian friend.” Muhammad reached to Garik and pushed him on the chest. “Do what?”

  “Skateboard, of course. What else? Why, it is speed, my friend. Quickness and speed. It’s the only way to get that much height.” Ibn grinned at him. “Me? I just find a steep hill, and then I hold on for the ride.”

  “Hold on to what?” Muhammad licked ketchup off one finger, and he poked Ibn in the arm. Muhammad and Hayat laughed, while Ibn flushed.

  “I mean the building.” Garik thought his question was obvious. He pushed the wrapper with its cold fries away and took the good end of a half-eaten breakfast burrito from in front of Hayat, tore off and dropped the chewed end back to the table, and sank his teeth in. He spoke carefully around his food. “Last night, Marisa said the tower at night is all fake.”

  “What, like, like not real?” Hayat pushed his robe from his wrists and took the burrito back from Garik. He offered a trade. “You take the danish.”

  It was a rule of thumb that they never scavenged anything liquid like soups or wet cereal. Only things they could break off or separate out. The danish had been untouched, still wrapped, and they had nearly passed it up. It was a prize.

  “You’ve seen it during concerts. Well, any night, but all out when there’s a band.” Garik didn’t want the danish, but he pinched off a bit as a peace offering for taking Hayat’s preferred burrito, and he popped it in his mouth.

  “Nope, my friend!” Ibn flicked a tater tot upward and caught it on his tongue before pulling it into his teeth and biting into it. “No one sells me tickets. You, Hayat, Muhammad? You ever had a tick
et appear in your hands?”

  “Not from inside, Ibn, but we’ve all watched from the city.” Garik had asked a real question, and a stab of anger made him want to slap the tater tot from Ibn’s mouth. He bit his rush of irritation back. My mind, my reasoning, not anger. Explain, Garik, that’s all you need to do. Yet, sometimes, it was hard.

  His life. How could anyone not be frustrated with a life like his?

  “You all know,” Garik encouraged. “Look out any window, and you’ll see it, even if they don’t let us into the events.”

  “Not from my apartment.” Hayat made a dismissive gesture. “We see nothing but a blank wall. Every window, blank wall for a view. I thought America was land of the free, with waves of grain and purple mountains. I have never seen one of these.”

  “Well, I’m not locked in my aunt’s apartment. I get out, and I see things.” Garik’s frustration wasn’t with his friends, but with the Tower overhead, yet he was tired of patience, being pushed aside, and feeling he was never good enough.

  “And you have a Street Strider.” Muhammad tucked into a fry, looking at his hands and brandishing the skull on his cap where his face belonged.

  “That I found broken and worked to bring back to life.”

  “Sometimes back to life,” Ibn cackled. “When it’s not broken again on the side of road.”

  “Seriously, about the Tower.” Garik felt a bit of a sulk coming on, and he quelled it with a grimace. “I don’t see any projectors, and Marisa said it’s all done with projectors. Do you guys see anything like that?”

  “Ask the man upstairs.” Hayat pointed to the ceiling overhead. “They know.”

  Across the food court, the closely cropped crew in military fatigues had finished, and they were walking toward a trash bin. Being military, they had, of course, policed their table, and it was bagged and in their hands. A solidly built man with the name Han stitched onto his shirt nodded at the boys. He held one brightly emblazoned Chow Down bag that seemed especially full. He said something to the rest of his crew and stepped the boys’ way.