Glimmerstone Bloom

Silas tasted the rust in his mouth, a familiar metallic tang of fear and stale coffee. Vargas’s voice, thick as crude oil, still scraped at his ear, a promise of broken bones if the job wasn’t done by dawn. The kid, Lily, her breath rattling like loose change in her chest, was enough to make any man do mad things. This mad thing, it was called Glimmerstone. A garden of it, supposedly, hidden deep in the guts of the old Sinclair chemical plant, the one that’d been abandoned for twenty years, left to fester like a sore.

The plant sat squat and black against the bruised purple of pre-dawn, a monument to greed and decay. Chain-link fences, ripped and repaired with jury-rigged wire, topped by lazily strung barbed wire, didn’t look like much. But Silas knew. The Orion Syndicate, Vargas’s rivals, had claimed this place, and they weren’t running a petting zoo. They had eyes, and they had teeth, and they weren't shy about using either. He gripped the worn canvas bag tighter, the tools inside – a couple of crowbars, a set of bolt cutters, the thick, acid-resistant gloves – rattling like dice in a cup. He just needed enough. Enough for Lily's medicine, enough to make Vargas go quiet, even for a little while.

He slipped through a gap in the fence near the back, a hole he’d paid good money for the intel on. The air inside was thick, chemical and damp, stinging his nostrils. Twisted rebar skeletons clawed at the sky. He moved like a ghost, sticking to the deeper shadows, his breath held tight in his chest. A flicker of movement to his left, just a rat, he hoped. Every snapped twig, every drip of stagnant water sounded like a gunshot. His heart hammered a drum solo against his ribs, a frantic rhythm he couldn’t quiet.

The sub-levels were a nightmare. Steps crumbled underfoot, reeking of mildew and something else, something metallic and bitter. The beam of his cheap flashlight cut through the oppressive black, revealing rusted pipes, cracked concrete, and the constant drip, drip, drip of water from unknown sources. He’d memorized the schematics, a dirty blueprint bought from a junkie, but reality was always messier. A heavy door, reinforced steel, waited at the end of a long, narrow corridor. He could hear the faint thrum of a generator, which meant power, which meant cameras, maybe. He worked fast, jimmying the lock, sweat stinging his eyes, the crowbar groaning against the stubborn metal. The click, when it finally gave, was a thunderclap in the silence.

Inside, the air changed. A faint, ethereal glow pulsed from the far end of the chamber. He moved towards it, slow steps, holding his breath. And there it was. Not a garden of flowers, not really. It was a cavern, hollowed out by time and chemical seepage, where mineral formations had crystallized into grotesque, beautiful shapes. Some were tall, spires of sapphire blue, others flat, like frost on a windowpane, a sickly emerald green. All of them shimmered, radiating a soft, cold light that made the darkness seem deeper, more menacing. Glimmerstone. Each shard, each crystalline bloom, was worth a fortune on the black market, coveted by collectors and desperate men alike. They were also faintly corrosive, burning the skin if handled bare. He pulled on the thick gloves.

He started with the smaller pieces, the ones that looked less rooted, more ready to come away. The light they gave off made the shadows dance around him, playing tricks on his eyes. He heard a scuttling, not a rat this time. His head snapped up. Nothing. Just his nerves, frayed and raw. He tried to focus, prying a cluster of amethyst-like spikes from a craggy outcropping. They felt cold, alien in his gloved hand. He carefully placed them in the padded bag. He had to be quick. Vargas wouldn't take 'almost enough.' Lily wouldn't get her meds with 'almost enough.'

A dull thud, somewhere above him. Then another. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. His blood turned to ice. They must have patrols. He froze, pressed against the wet rock, flashlight off. The glow from the Glimmerstone was his only light now, mocking him, exposing him. The footsteps grew louder, closer, echoing down the corridor he'd just come through. Someone was whistling, a tuneless, off-key sound that grated on his already stretched nerves. He heard gruff voices, arguing about a football game. Syndicate men. Shit. He had maybe half the bag full. Not enough. But staying meant a bullet.

He made a snap decision, grabbed the nearest, largest cluster of Glimmerstone, ignoring the careful technique, the risk of breaking it. It was a jagged, fist-sized chunk, pulsing with a deep, ruby-red light. He shoved it into the bag, not caring if it damaged the others. He backed away, slowly, silently, towards a narrow fissure he'd seen earlier, too small for a man to squeeze through easily. But he had to try. The voices were right outside the door now. The whistling stopped. A key scraped in the lock. They had a key. Of course they had a key. He cursed Vargas, cursed the Glimmerstone, cursed his own stupid life.

He squeezed, forcing his body through the impossibly tight gap, tearing his jacket, scraping his skin. The bag caught, snagged on a sharp rock. He tugged, gritting his teeth, a cry catching in his throat. He heard the door creak open behind him, heard a sharp intake of breath. “What the…?” a voice muttered, seeing the disturbed Glimmerstone. Silas finally wrenched himself free, scrambling through the dark tunnel, not daring to look back. He heard shouts, a heavy boot kicking something, and then, the bark of a handgun. A slug whizzed past, chewing into the rock above his head, showering him with dust and debris. He kept moving, blind, fueled by Lily’s fading face.

He burst out into the cool night air, gasping, chest burning, lungs on fire. He ran until his legs gave out, stumbling behind a derelict bus, collapsing onto the concrete. The bag, miraculously, was still clutched in his hand. He peered inside. The ruby Glimmerstone, and several other pieces, were intact. Enough. Maybe. His hands trembled as he zipped the bag shut. The distant wail of a siren started, then stopped, closer than it should have been. He picked himself up, the Glimmerstone feeling heavier than lead. Vargas would be waiting, but so would the Syndicate, and now, the cops. The taste of rust was back, stronger than ever.