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

by Farley Dunn

  “Need more?” He held out the bag, his face expressionless but not unkind. When the youths remained silent, he said, “I saw you scrounging. Well done. Most people didn’t notice. I did, and this is extra. Do you want it or not?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Han.” Garik stood and accepted the bag.

  “Wu Han, Airman First Class. And you?”

  “Garik Shayk, and my friends are Ibn Hariri, Muhammad Saud, and Hayat al-Haber in the headscarf.” Hayat held out one corner of his headscarf as if to preen. “Are you going to rat us out to them?” He thumbed upstairs.

  “Not if you’re the one with the Strider outside.” He pointed to Garik and winked, letting the youth know that he’d been watching them since they arrived. “I’m a cycle man myself, and that Strider’s a classic. Haven’t seen one of those since I left South Korea. Annyeong, my young friends. Good-bye.”

  Han turned sharply, and in moments, he had caught up with his friends. Garik and his crew? They tore into the Chow Down bag and discovered more good treats than even Garik’s twenty would have been able to afford.

  ― 4 ―

  THE BOYS, now sated, took their time picking at the food littering the table.

  The sun had started to climb into the sky, becoming an overhead furnace and blistering the outside portions of the mall. Those who had been seated in the open air earlier in the morning had begun to migrate underneath the building. With a click and the rattle of gear-driven chains, the fourth wall of the court began to lift into the superstructure, leaving the entire span underneath the Tower open to the city, except for the center where the food court hawked its wares with neon signs that flashed brighter and brighter even as the sun tried to wash their messages away.

  Outside, the giant sign for publicizing the Tower’s next big event and broadcasting the remaining available tickets was dark, except for the Tower logo at the top, blazing even in the glare of the midmorning sun as the image of the Tower exploded and rebuilt itself over and over in a kaleidoscopic display of color. Above the boys’ heads, on multiple screens lining the interior of the food court, cartoon characters sang and danced. Later, when the lunch crowd arrived, the screens would shift to clips from current movies or from video games, teasers to tempt diners to part with their money in the Tower’s 10-Plex before they made their way home or to go online and download the latest Tower games. 30 days for free, and only a small, weekly charge to continue playing your NEWEST FAVORITE GAME.

  In the mornings? The court touted their menus instead of ads, offering chicken bits, tacos, or tasty French toast bites with honey. Occasionally, the Tower’s upcoming concert attractions flashed across the screens, with ticket prices, remaining available seats, and reservation numbers to call NOW, NOW, NOW.

  Three adults stepped in out of the sun, trailed by several children in party hats. Two more adults joined them, towing several more children with balloons, and between them, they filled several tables. A cake with eight candles appeared out of a brightly colored box.

  “Look, look.” Hayat pointed. “That, I could like a taste of. No one leaves cake. Just old fries.” He shrugged as if vastly disappointed.

  “Here.” Garik pushed the danish from earlier his direction. “Why wait? Have it now.” He set the bag from the Airman aside, brushing two empty cups, and barely catching one when it almost tumbled. The danish had been ignored in the excitement of the Airman’s mystery bag.

  “Have it now.” Muhammad repeated Garik’s words, slapped the table excitedly, and pointed to one of the large screens lining the inside perimeter of the under-building portion of the mall. “Have it now!” blared an invitation to everyone in the food court. Visit the Tower’s luxury Stamford Suites, spanning the second through sixth floors, with direct, exclusive access to the hotel through the Corona Tower Parking Garage, with FREE PARKING validated for all hotel guests. The words changed to a picture of the garage and the double glass doors that accessed the Corona Tower’s luxurious first floor. Then it flipped to the pool (that no one in the food court had ever visited in real life), the tennis court, sample rooms with luxurious fabrics and vast walls of windows, and finally a smiling face. A bright, cheerful voice called out, “Gunther Diehl, your concierge, is waiting on YOU. Come see him to make your reservation today!”

  The camera backed out to reveal Gunther at a black granite desk, with a glass-covered atrium rising around him on three sides. The blue sky beyond the glass was too perfectly painted with a color that barely looked real, and wispy clouds made the blue deeper and richer than any sky ever was.

  Then all the screens flashed at once, going white and fading to purple and finally black. Small neon diamonds flooded in from the edges, blinking rapidly in a staccato barrage of colors. The Corona Tower logo flashed on each screen, each one identical, with the black diamond glitter falling from a velvet sky.

  “Welcome, Diners.” Speakers blasted the salutation throughout the court. “Thank you for visiting the Corona Tower food court. We have what you need when you need it. Why wait, when you can get it now?”

  The voice was accompanied by booming music, not as discordant as the Pterodactyls’ wailing chords but too loud for easy conversation. The boys at the table with Garik watched the screens, as Garik was sure the advertisement intended.

  “Corona Tower would like to announce, coming this Friday night, for your enjoyment at the Corona Mall—” the voice and music growing louder with each word, “—the sensation of the summer, the great, the wonderful, the amazing—”

  “Cord and Roy!” Muhammad hooted the words. Cord and Roy were street fighters. Muhammad had posters of them on his walls at his grandmother’s apartment.

  “Jezebel and the Sticks.” Ibn thumped the table, then he said it again several times. “Jezebel and the Sticks. Jezebel and the Sticks.” Jezebel and the Sticks was an alternative band Ibn had heard in Azerbaijan while staying with his uncle the previous summer.

  Garik and Hayat watched each other, a grin of anticipation revealing the whites of their teeth.

  “Jantzen Hefferly and the amazing Purple Mist!”

  “Huh?” Garik and Hayat shrugged, but the screens had jumped to a man in black, hooded, with black gloves covering his hands, and they turned to watch, along with everyone else in the court. The man in black stepped out of swirling purple fog and tossed his hood back to reveal a narrow face with black hair and a tight beard. His eyes glittered the same purple as the fog.

  The voice swelled, “Get your tickets now for one night only, this Friday at the Corona Mall!”

  The man in black evaporated into purple smoke. His gloves, coat, and hood crumpled to the ground, disappearing into the fog as the smoke swelled out of the openings in the cloth and coalesced into a man-like form before whipping away like it had been caught in a stiff breeze.

  Reservation information flashed on the screens, and outside, the giant sign blared on in a flash of chaotic color before the words, “Jantzen Hefferly and the Amazing Purple Mist,” rolled into position at the top, and “Friday Only” at the bottom. In between, a two-meter-tall number pulsed.

  “Ten thousand.” Ibn looked around at the people sitting underneath the massive tower, taking advantage of the shaded food court. The adults with the birthday party had barely glanced at the promotion for the upcoming Hefferly event. One of the little partiers was running free with a balloon in her hand, and her mouth was plastered with white and blue frosting. Two adults were chasing her, not with much luck.

  Past the central nexus with its blazing neon signs, a group of well-dressed and obviously well-heeled citizens with heavily stitched boots, diamond-studded leather satchels, and elaborately styled hair lounged over a small cadre of tables. Before the announcement was over, they had their smart watches logging on to the Tower’s webpage for a link into the Corona Mall’s available ticket database.

  “Ten thousand, what the mall can accommodate.” Garik whistled. “And it’ll be full at that.”

  “What if we could score a ti
cket?” Muhammad’s eyes twinkled. “Even better, a dozen. See? We’re here, now. This is our Allah-given opportunity. Just go online, and we’re in.”

  “And do what? You have a couple thousand you can shred on that, a magician?” Garik scoffed, although yes, he would if he could. But the twenty in his pocket, the tickets were ten times that for the cheapest, and the best? So far out of sight it might as well be green cheese from the moon.

  “I get it,” Ibn said. “Not buy, Garik. Scalp, make two for one. Spend three, make six, keep three. I’m in. Who’s got a watch?”

  “Yo kay. As always, I got this, you dunderdudes.” Muhammad sighed and reached inside his tattered knit, and he pulled out a leather pouch attached to a cord around his neck. He unzipped it, pulled out an earbud and slipped it in place. He held the watch just above the table and said, “On, Ratchet.”

  Outside, the sign had begun to change. What had been ten thousand minutes before was now below eight and blinking fast.

  “Faster, Mo,” Hayat encouraged. He pointed to the sign, the arm of his robe like an angel wing as he flapped it emphatically. “Everybody else will be there before us. All gone.” He waved both arms, and with the sun behind him, his thin body was a skeleton animating his white wings.

  “Hush, dunderpuss. Ratchet only goes so fast.” Muhammad’s eyes remained fixed on the watch. He touched it once, then leaned in, speaking slowly and enunciating clearly. “Corona Mall tickets, Friday, Jantzen Hefferly. Twelve, please.” He looked up and grinned. He glanced back at the watch and frowned. “No, twelve.” The watch said something to him over his earbud, and a look of irritation passed over his face. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize there was a limit. Four, then. Sure. Let me thumb you the approval.”

  He reached to place his thumb on the watch face when Hayat jumped from his seat, yelling, “It is almost zero!”

  Garik’s eyes were locked on the sign. In a matter of minutes, it had gone from ten thousand to only hundreds. He didn’t know how he would pay for his share of the bill, but he would if he had to wash windows for Mrs. Waggoner. He’d even water her plants, for a year, even if it killed him.

  “Faster, Muhammad,” he said under his breath, afraid to commit to how much he wanted this, because city people never scored tickets to the events at the mall. The wall came up and they watched from the outside, if they could see anything at all. “Please.”

  Garik turned to Muhammad, unable to watch his dreams count down to nothing on the board, and willed Muhammad’s thumb to connect before the last tickets were gone.

  Then all the screens in the food court pulsed in a flashing cacophony of light, with Sold Out on each one. The sign outside now boasted a big fat zero, then with a twinkling spray of fireworks light, the zero changed to SOLD OUT.

  “Mo?” Ibn held his breath, his cheeks red, as he looked at his friend with his thumb pressed against his watch.

  “Move, move your thumb.” Hayat twisted one corner of his headscarf. “We wish to see, Muhammad.”

  “You’re the dunderpuss,” Garik teased, his stomach sick with hope. “Come on.”

  “Here’s the truth. Four tickets. Of that, I am sure.” He pulled his thumb away, and his face fell.

  “What?” Ibn leaned in and pulled on Muhammad’s hand. “Show us.”

  Muhammad turned the watch around so the others could see the screen. It was as Garik had expected, though not as he had hoped. They were right here. No one could have tried any harder or faster, and the tickets were all gone.

  Then cheers of triumph erupted from across the court. The well-heeled, diamond-studded fluencers were cheering. Once man wearing a studded belt and a diamond in each ear pumped his hand in the air and yelled out, “Fifty! For me and all my friends!”

  Garik glanced outside at the sign and the words SOLD OUT and back to the upper-crust Tower type cheering his fifty tickets. He caught Muhammad’s look of disgust as he stuffed his earbud and watch away and dropped the leather back down the neck of his shirt.

  It was as always, Garik thought, deflated despite not really expecting to get in to see Jantzen Hefferly and his amazing mist, whatever that had been. Video trickery, but cool, anyway.

  “Let’s go, my friend.” Ibn slapped his shoulder. The others were standing, already. “We are not Tower people. This is more proof. But we are friends, and that is better than a purple mist any day.”

  “Right.” Garik grinned. Still, though. One time. He wanted to be in just one time.

  ― 5 ―

  GARIK SNIFFED of the underside of the small refrigerator in his aunt’s apartment and jerked his head back in disgust.

  “So, my sweet nephew. Is it dead?” Irina held a bottle of milk, half empty, and she removed the lid.

  “I hope not, Iri. I may have to see if the junkyard has a new compressor. Did you know you have dead rat babies in here? I think the momma ate through the wiring.”

  “Rats? Probably from Shelina’s next door. She’s always catching rats in her traps. She puts them on the super’s doorstep. Is this spoilt? Arik will be crazy if there’s no milk for his Posties.” Irina held the milk Garik’s direction.

  The fridge was in the middle of the kitchen, tilted forward and leaning face down on a chair. Everything from inside covered the counters and spilled over onto the small dining table. Water dripped from the freezer compartment, and Irina pushed a soggy towel into the spreading puddle.

  “Not if it’s cold. Or cool. Nothing’s cold. Sorry. This rat nest smells. I don’t think I’ll be a good judge for your milk.” He reached inside the broken appliance with a small wrench and worked to free the broken part.

  “Maybe Arik will be late today. He doesn’t need to know about this.” Irina sloshed the milk hopefully, screwed the lid back on, and set it in a bowl of ice on the table next to a nearly full bottle of ketchup. “Or the fridge, if you can get it fixed, Gari.”

  “Maybe he won’t come home at all,” Garik muttered. He didn’t mind being the fix-it guy for his aunt. She usually said thank you and seemed appreciative when he repaired things around the apartment. She also helped him with his own projects when she could squeeze a few dollars from the household budget. Arik? Garik didn’t enjoy helping him at all. Even when he did things right, like when he got the television working last month after it had been cutting off during Arik’s favorite shows for weeks, all his aunt’s boyfriend had been able to say was a growled, “About time. If we’re going to provide a room for you to park your lazy backside, the least you can do is keep things working around here.”

  Well, it wasn’t his fault that Arik couldn’t hold a decent job, or that old televisions went out, or that there wasn’t enough money to replace the fridge or the toaster, or any of the other things Garik had worked on the past year.

  “Got it free.” Garik sat up and displayed the small compressor. He picked off the part of the nest he’d pulled out with it. He stood and slipped it into a purple-colored, wrinkled plastic bag with Fasst Market on the side in white letters and tied the built-in handles together. “I’ll be back with a new one quick as I can. Do me a favor, Iri. Clean the nest and chuck it all. Will you, for me?” He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. He didn’t wait for her answer before disappearing out the door. Irina would do it or not, depending on how distracted she was. She would agree because she wanted him to be happy, but he didn’t want her to feel like she had lied to him if she didn’t get it done.

  Garik didn’t try to peg his aunt to too high a bar. It hurt too much each time she fell off.

  Once outside, he checked to see that Mrs. Waggoner’s plants weren’t flooding his escape route, flew down the stairwell—only watching enough to avoid stepping into something he might have to wipe off his shoe—and burst out of the building. No preteen crew to greet and tease, something he enjoyed, but just now hoped to avoid. Tonight was about meeting up with some of his friends. He could only pull that off if he could avoid Arik, and in the tiny apartment, he could only avoid the man if he was gone whe
n he got home.

  He weighed taking the Street Strider. It was faster—if it worked there and back, but he couldn’t leave it on the street if it broke. He touched his fob, thinking of the time gained. Even if he locked it, there were people that knew how to pick locks, given time, and even if his lock notified him his bike was being stolen, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it except watch it be carted away.

  He stepped back inside and behind the stairs where a long corridor revealed chain link lockups for the residents, the one good thing about living in City View Apartments. Maybe the only good thing, except for Marisa. He keyed the four-digit code, pulled out his board, a Santa Cruz Classic Dot deck in blue, yellow, and red with black wheels. It had been his only wheels before the Strider. He still rode, though he borrowed at the skate park mostly—Muhammad’s wicked skulls or even Hayat’s unicorns. He slammed the gate, checked the lock, and fell onto his board once he hit the parking lot, brushing by the Strider and trailing four fingers along the jet-assist tube before vaulting out of the lot and onto the sidewalk beside Maple.

  “Hey,” a male voice called as Garik pushed himself forward.

  Garik gripped his plastic Fasst Market bag tightly and turned to see Robbie Icardi, with his shined hair and dark sunglasses waving.

  “Later, Robbie,” Garik yelled with a wave. He looked forward just in time to dodge around a brown Lab doing its business on the sidewalk, and Garik laughed as the dog’s eyes grew wide and it tried to scoot sideways to give him room. “Sorry, Catnip. Catch you later.”

  He was already out of sight, and Garik leaned into his board, pumped with his feet a couple of times, and flew across Avenue C at a crosswalk light that seemed to know he was coming.