Free Shutter by Courtney Alameda Page B

leverage with the nail file. After several minutes, it broke loose in my hand, plate popping off. I pushed past the door, dropping the knob when I saw the devastation beyond. The designer ball bounced over the carpet and clunked against an antique camera Mom gave me for my fifteenth birthday.
    A smashed antique camera.
    This … This is …
    Even dawn’s milky light seemed too frightened to venture into the room. The fifty-eight cameras I owned sprawled across the floor, busted and broken. Stomped-on canisters spewed guts of cloudy, wasted film. Lenses littered the ground, their eyes put out, glass shards scattering chips of sunlight. He’d thrown things against the walls and windows, chipping paint and cracking cobwebs into plaster and glass. There were tens of thousands of dollars in damage, and some of the antiques were irreplaceable. He’d even taken my laptop—the wires dangled uselessly over the edge of my desk.
    Biting my lip—it helped to dam up tears—I tiptoed through the chaos, fishing a Playskool digital camera off the floor, one that belonged to my brother Ethan. Its broken flash winked at me. I wiped the dusting of plaster and paint off its side, shocked Dad hadn’t spared this one, even in his rage. Dad pulled out my claws but I wouldn’t let him win. I’d find a way out of this place, and when I did, I’d reap the entity before his tetros could.
    My father could wreck all the cameras he wanted, lock me up, and swallow the key; he could chase me, hit me, and hunt me, but just about the only thing he couldn’t do was stop me. My best weapon was the old Helsing stubbornness, which he could neither break nor take away.
    I cocked my ear toward the door. Dad stormed through the apartment, stomping his feet and slamming cupboards. For a moment, my breath caught and I thought he might be ravaging my darkroom, too … but, no, the reverb came from farther down the hall. The kitchen, hopefully. Please let him forget about the darkroom. If he went there, he’d destroy my best reaping camera for sure, along with the rest of my equipment. I could try to buy another analog camera in the city, but my quartz lenses were special-order items from our Research and Development department. Losing the camera and lenses in the darkroom might be a death sentence.
    After a few minutes, the thumps and footfalls stilled. My gaze drifted to the clock: nine thirty in the morning. Dad usually went to bed by ten, and while he slept light, more than two thousand square feet stretched between our bedrooms. I eyed my bedroom door hinges. Right . With any luck, he wouldn’t hear me pound out the pins and remove the door.
    Grabbing one of my hunting packs, I tucked a few spare uniforms inside, some pajamas, that sort of thing. Basic gear, like my Maglite, and all the cash I had—fifty bucks and a debit card, which I’d use once to get more cash. On a whim, I added Ethan’s camera, the creased family picture I kept under my pillow, and the keys for the family house at the Presidio. I shook as I packed my bag, jumping when the air conditioning kicked on, or when I heard something crash in the front room. If Dad comes in and sees … but I didn’t have time to think about that.
    He’d taken the guns from the safe in my closet, but I could con a loaner out of Ryder.
    After stowing the pack under my bed, I showered. Not even the water’s scalding heat stripped the soulchain’s chill away, and I tried to ignore the new links coagulating on my stomach. I pulled my long hair into a ponytail, lined my eyes, put a shell of concealer over my bruise, and dressed in fresh hunting blacks.
    I left my father’s mess untouched, thinking once he sobered up from his rage, this landscape would shock him. And when he didn’t find me among the wreckage, he’d be completely livid.
    At eleven o’clock, I put my ear to the crater Dad punched into my door. The apartment was dead silent—no water running through the pipes, not even a chattering