Shatter
By Jay Lang
Digital ISBNs
EPUB 978-0-2286-1374-9
Kindle 978-0-2286-1375-6
WEB/PDF 978-0-2286-1376-3
Print ISBNs
BWL Print 978-0-2286-1378-7
Amazon Print 978-0-2286-1377-0
LSI Ingram
978-0-2286-1380-0
B&N Print 978-0-2286-1379-4
Copyright 2020 by Janice Lang
Cover Art Michelle Lee
All rightsreserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reservedabove, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in orintroduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, orby any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, orotherwise) without the prior written permission of both thecopyright owner and the publisher of this book
Chapter One
The only thingmore terrifying than the sounds of her screams, was when thescreams stopped altogether. Their fights were brutal and frequentand were usually a result of whatever drug they had indulged in. Inthe morning's we would help clean up the debris and by evening, ourlives would go back to normal—existing in pre-chaos. But this timewas different. We could feel it. Something sinister and scary hadhappened. We just didn’t know what.
Chapter Two
I sit on thethin mattress and rest my back against the paint chipped wall in mysmall apartment. Staring at the sun-bleached picture of my familyon top of the TV, I listen to the low buzz coming from the brokenneon sign outside my window. It’s been a long day. Ten hours in thepit, pulling wrenches at Ziggy’s Garage while my young boss, Rae,blasts rap music. I’ve got to make a change soon. This shit isgetting old. I hear yelling from the street and crawl over my bedto look out the window. Hasting’s Street is the go-to place for thewondering souls who have lost their way and found theirmisfortunes.
While I pullback the sheer curtain, my eyes sweep the street to find the sourceof the noise. A streetlamp lights the entrance to the dark alley atthe side of my building. It’s not uncommon to see three or fourhomeless folks with drug dealers hanging around. Across the streetis Leung’s Chinese restaurant, a cheap place to eat that’s openlate which makes it a beacon for riffraff and night walkers.
Just as I turnaway, I hear the scream again. Looking back to the road, I see aman wearing dark clothes run out of the alley into the street. Hestops, grabs his gut, and keels over. An elderly man pushing anoverloaded cart walks past him, pauses then continues walking. Apart of me wants to run down and make sure the injured guy is okay,but another part of me says that it could be a trap. One too manytimes, I’ve watched as someone fakes an injury and a good Samaritanstops to help, only to have the ‘injured’ man’s accomplice jump outof the darkness and rob the do-gooder—no thanks. I’ll just call thecops and watch from the safety of my window. I dial 911 and tellthe dispatch girl what I just saw. She tells me that she's receivedother calls pertaining to the incident and that she's sending a cararound.
I watch as theman fights to stand. If he is pulling a scam, he's good. Then, fromthe same dark alley, another man appears. He's wearing a beigejacket and a baseball cap. He bee-lines it for the wobbling man,pulls out something shiny, and without pausing, aims it at theguy’s head. Next, I hear the booming echo of a gunshot, as itbounces off the building and shakes the windows. A spray of redfluid blows out the back of the man’s head then his body drops tothe pavement like a ragdoll. The shooter doesn't run. Instead, helooks both ways and steadily continues to walk until he's out ofview. A few minutes later, I hear the sound of sirens get louder. Iwatch as the cop car pulls up illuminating the blood and matteraround the body. The car stops within feet of the shooting.
Instantly, mystomach feels queasy and my mouth fills with water. I just sawsomeone get their head blown off! What kind of fucked up shit isthat? A wave of anxiety rushes through me like electricity. Iquickly reach for my phone.
Jason answersalmost immediately. “How’s my favorite girl?”
“Right now, I’mabout two seconds from losin’ it.”
“Why? What’sup?”
“Let’s just sayI won’t be eating spaghetti for a while.”
“Let me guess,you went on a date with an Italian chick and despite her beinggreat in the sack, she couldn’t cook worth shit?”
“I’ll give youmarks for imagination, but you’re way off. I just saw some guy gethis brains blown out.”
“You werefreak-watching again, weren’t you?”
“I heard anoise, so I looked. And, just because they’re street people,doesn’t make them freaks.”
For the pasttwo summers, Jason’s worked as an adventure guide with me inHalfmoon Bay. Here in the city, he’s the only person I callfriend.
“Why the helldon’t you just move?”
“Because,unlike you, I don’t have Daddy paying my ticket. I’ve got a shittyjob with shitty pay, and this place is all I can afford.”
Jason’s father,Ed, owns Lyster Investigative Services on South Granville—a P.Icompany where Jason works. Though Ed is a hard ass and lacks insocial grace, he’s honest and fair and has always been there forhis son.
“It’s funny youwould mention my dad and money. Just before you phoned, I was goingto call you and ask if you wanted to have dinner tonight. There’ssomething I want to talk to you about.”
With my headspinning from the horror show I just witnessed, I jump at thechance to get out of here. I agree to meet him in half an hour atBeaches restaurant on Denman Street.
* * *
Doing my bestto block the images of the man’s brains on the pavement, I slipinto my black leather riding boots, slide on my leather jacket andrun a brush through my long black hair. I glance quickly in thesmall cracked mirror. I don’t feel sick but I don’t look healthy.My face looks paler than usual. I lean in to take a closer look. Mybest feature has always been my blue eyes, but right now they lookdull and lack their usual sparkle. This apartment is slowly suckingthe life out of me, I know it is. When I open the door to thestairwell, a waft of stale booze and piss hits me. Breathingthrough my mouth, I walk down to the underground
