Bad Glass Read Online Free Page B

have been a chain coffeehouse—maybe a Starbucks or a Tully’s—but since then it had become something else. Changed, repurposed, mutated. Every bit of the facade had been broken down and removed—doors, windows, walls—transforming it into a dimly lit cave, open to the street. All the debris from the demolition had been pushed back from the opening, forming a semicircular drift of drywall and wood. Inside there were tables. The smell of grilled meat wafted out in a cloud of charcoal smoke.
    There was a sloppy hand-painted sign above the opening. It read MAMA CASS AND THE CHAR-GRILLED MIRACLE .
    “A restaurant?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t expected this level of organization.
    “Yeah,” Wendell replied, suddenly nervous. “Mama takes barter or money. Anything of value.”
    We had attracted some attention. In front of the restaurant, a half dozen people had turned our way, watching as we approached. They were dressed in the same fashion as Wendell: multiple layers of heavy clothing, ragged and dirty. I stopped and set my bag on the ground, debating whether or not to dig out my camera and get some shots of the restaurant and its patrons.
    “We shouldn’t stay here,” Wendell said. “It’s not safe for you. You’re new. You’re carrying all your stuff!” He grabbed my elbow and started pulling me back down the street. I took my time turning around and was surprised when he plucked the backpack off my shoulder. “Here, just, let me carry that … just,
here
!”
    As I was turning, a figure pulled out of the crowd in front of the restaurant, and a woman’s voice called after us. “WEASEL! What did I tell you? What did I
fucking
say?”
    And that was when Wendell started to run, taking off with my backpack.
    My backpack
, I thought, suddenly terrified.
My computer
.
    My motherfucking camera!

    Wendell moved fast. He ran north a block, then turned east, jumping the hood of a car parked at the corner. I followed.
    I managed to stay about twenty yards back. My breath was a loud steam-engine rasp, burning its way out of my throat and lungs, but I barely noticed. Even with the duffel bag weighing me down, bouncing back and forth against my legs, the thought of losing my camera kept me moving.
    I was frantic, terrified. All my plans and fantasies were in that backpack. To lose it now, right after I got into the city …
    I tried calling out to him, but he didn’t even look back. The bastard just kept on running, malnourished and scrawny but surprisingly fast.
    There were kids on this street, playing baseball in the center of the downtown block. About a half dozen. I didn’t pay them any heed. For me, the game was just a blur of motion in the background, a dull rumble of raucous, youthful laughter.
    I gritted my teeth and managed a burst of speed, pulling within feet of Wendell’s fleeing back. The sound of our chase had caught the kids’ attention. They were hooting and hollering as we neared, no doubt anticipating some type of violent confrontation.
    I reached out, and my fingers brushed against the fabric of the backpack—
my backpack
—now slung over Wendell’s shoulder.
    I threw myself forward just as he jigged to the right, his nimble form disappearing through an open doorway. Unable to stop my dive, I collided with the doorjamb, shoulder first, and the weight of my duffel bag slammed me hard into the wall, jolting all the breath from my lungs. The kids in the street let out a loud, sympathetic “Oh!” that quickly broke into disjointed laughter. I didn’t even look their way, instead shaking my head and sucking in a burning lungful of air. My legs were weak from the impact, but I managed to stagger into the building. It was some type of hotel or apartment complex—a tenement, really. I could tell it had been an old, run-down wreck even before the evacuation. I entered in time to see Wendell swing around a wooden banisterand up into an open stairwell. I followed, losing ground with every weak