White Night

Chapter 0 - The Catalyst

Author Note:

White Night is available on Amazon but I will post the complete story on Wattpad - three parts a week.

Please don't post spoilers - I mute people who post spoilers - it's just not nice.

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Enjoy!

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Pop.

Clink.

The old window pane in front of Michael cracked a split second before he was knocked onto his ass, then his back, sending the measuring tape in his hand skittering across the floor. Two more pops echoed in the distance while he stared at the ceiling unable to move.

Comforting warmth radiated through his shoulder, but all comfort disappeared as a dark red patch spread across his shirt and pain seared him like the devil was jamming a finger through his body.

He'd been shot.

Cold silence surrounded him. The other construction workers had gone home hours ago. Only he was stupid enough to work this late and now he lay bleeding on the floor.

Outside, an engine revved in the darkness and tires squealed on frozen ground.

He had to move, get help, make the pain stop, but standing up could get him killed.

Lying here could kill me too.

His throat was closing fast as he rolled onto his hands and knees.

Air. I need more air...

As he gasped in snatches of breath, the scent of the fresh pine plywood inches from his face filled his airways. A small red pool appeared beneath him, spreading out in a perfect circle as the warmth dripped steadily from his shoulder.

He needed help, but his third cellphone this year was in the truck. He had to stand, but it wouldn't be here where the shooter could drop him again. As he crawled away from the window, the blood weeping from his shoulder painted a dark line on the floor underneath him.

Going from his knees to the balls of his feet, he lifted himself from the floor, his hands flailing, reaching for support from walls that weren't there. As he stood, blood raced down his ribcage, fusing his T-shirt to his hot skin. His heart punched the inside of his chest and his feet felt like cinder blocks, his legs barely able to shuffle them forward.

He needed something to cover the wound and let him put pressure on it, but they'd been gutting the old building for days, there was no bathroom left standing to contain a medicine cabinet full of supplies or clean towels. A discarded sweater lay on the window ledge, but he couldn't make his body move in that direction, back to where he was shot. The deathly black void beyond the window balled his stomach and clenched his throat. His legs wouldn't move.

Forget it. Just get to the truck.

Turning to leave, he caught sight of a roll of shop towels on the edge of a table saw in the next room. He inched his way there and tore off handfuls, folding them over and stuffing them under his shirt. His hand tremored as it rested on top of the wad of towels. He took a quick breath, held it, and pushed down hard.

Blistering pain erupted through his shoulder, strangling the breath out of him and collapsing him over the table saw as his screaming nerves stole strength from the rest of his body. The saw lurched sideways as he landed on its edge and he rode it to the ground, crashing down heavily onto the plywood.