Read Online Black and Orange by Benjamin Kane Ethridge - Free Book Online
Authors: Benjamin Kane Ethridge
Tags: Horror
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this and not now; Teresa understood his thinking probably better than he did himself and it would do him no good. He always got snippy closer to the Day of Opening. Morale had definitely slipped since meeting that buxom girl and the lumberjack bartender. Even though he couldn’t explain it, Martin got the impression they weren’t supposed to meet those two, at least not on that day. Their flat tire might not have even been part of destiny. It wouldn’t have surprised him. On the unpredictable nomadic path, Martin had learned that anything and everything went. But if in the bar there’d been some kind of interference, who was responsible? Around the 31 st , things could go wonky, and time and space could be jimmied—not changed, just toyed with. Spotting trouble had become a sixth sense for Martin, and those two in the bar got the sirens blaring for sure.
There was another thing wrong though. Something, or some person, had perished somewhere close. Not like death wasn’t constantly happening everywhere anyway but what Martin sensed wasn’t flesh and bone and wasn’t literally dying. This death, unraveling over the hills and afar, was not earthbound; he got this feeling every October. His kidneys twisted like a doorknob that would open the way to the answer.
Never had though.
“The Messenger’s close,” Teresa told him quietly, bands of sweet smoke lifting around her face.
Until now.
Sam Cooke’s voice was joyful through the sketchy speakers. Another Saturday night, and Sam ain’t got nobody . It was actually Friday night, but the song still had forlorn poignancy. Even in the company of another, loneliness happened on the road sometimes, a sucker punch to the aorta. He and Teresa had never really had any private space of their own and so they learned to tune out each other’s existence.
Then there were times when each other’s presence was too well-known. Like today. That whole day Martin spent sitting in the van with Teresa, eating chip shrapnel from a greasy bag, taking walks out in a desert as empty as his mind, or listening to the radio until it got too annoying. Road-weary madness seeped into his brain and suddenly his voice became hers and hers his. His loathing of her sickness turned into self-loathing, which spawned new resentment when he thought about their last trip to the doctor.
Teresa brushed her nails clean and went to filing the other hand. Martin didn’t think it had hit her until the hospital. She probably wouldn’t be around this time next year. She might die in a motel room, surrounded by bloody paper tissues, maybe some wilted get-well flowers from Martin. He could already envision himself softly crying over her, and feel the hot tears burn hot in his eyes. The lump in her lung would be a melon-sized bomb by then. Maybe a lung rupture would kill her or maybe something messier and less dignified would. How would Martin deal? Would the Messenger give him another partner, like what happened with Teresa when David was killed?
The silent scratching of the nail file pissed him off and she sensed his anxiety right away. “We haven’t organized the weapon cache for a while,” she suggested.
“You go right ahead. It’s already an anal-compulsive’s wet dream.”
She glanced over. “Some of the labels are peeling off.”
“I’ll just read the name on the box of ammo, thank you very much. And I know the difference between an M-1000 and a smoke grenade.”
“You’re just going to get hemorrhoids sitting there. Get up and do something, Martin.”
“Don’t order me around.”
Teresa slapped her file on the dash and burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she managed. He glared. “I don’t mean to laugh. You’re just hypersensitive.”
It was a puzzle for him sometimes what was more difficult: having only one partner to protect the Heart of the Harvest, or to be bound to that one person rather than taking the Church on his own. It was completely a no-win deal.
“I’ve had
There was another thing wrong though. Something, or some person, had perished somewhere close. Not like death wasn’t constantly happening everywhere anyway but what Martin sensed wasn’t flesh and bone and wasn’t literally dying. This death, unraveling over the hills and afar, was not earthbound; he got this feeling every October. His kidneys twisted like a doorknob that would open the way to the answer.
Never had though.
“The Messenger’s close,” Teresa told him quietly, bands of sweet smoke lifting around her face.
Until now.
Sam Cooke’s voice was joyful through the sketchy speakers. Another Saturday night, and Sam ain’t got nobody . It was actually Friday night, but the song still had forlorn poignancy. Even in the company of another, loneliness happened on the road sometimes, a sucker punch to the aorta. He and Teresa had never really had any private space of their own and so they learned to tune out each other’s existence.
Then there were times when each other’s presence was too well-known. Like today. That whole day Martin spent sitting in the van with Teresa, eating chip shrapnel from a greasy bag, taking walks out in a desert as empty as his mind, or listening to the radio until it got too annoying. Road-weary madness seeped into his brain and suddenly his voice became hers and hers his. His loathing of her sickness turned into self-loathing, which spawned new resentment when he thought about their last trip to the doctor.
Teresa brushed her nails clean and went to filing the other hand. Martin didn’t think it had hit her until the hospital. She probably wouldn’t be around this time next year. She might die in a motel room, surrounded by bloody paper tissues, maybe some wilted get-well flowers from Martin. He could already envision himself softly crying over her, and feel the hot tears burn hot in his eyes. The lump in her lung would be a melon-sized bomb by then. Maybe a lung rupture would kill her or maybe something messier and less dignified would. How would Martin deal? Would the Messenger give him another partner, like what happened with Teresa when David was killed?
The silent scratching of the nail file pissed him off and she sensed his anxiety right away. “We haven’t organized the weapon cache for a while,” she suggested.
“You go right ahead. It’s already an anal-compulsive’s wet dream.”
She glanced over. “Some of the labels are peeling off.”
“I’ll just read the name on the box of ammo, thank you very much. And I know the difference between an M-1000 and a smoke grenade.”
“You’re just going to get hemorrhoids sitting there. Get up and do something, Martin.”
“Don’t order me around.”
Teresa slapped her file on the dash and burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she managed. He glared. “I don’t mean to laugh. You’re just hypersensitive.”
It was a puzzle for him sometimes what was more difficult: having only one partner to protect the Heart of the Harvest, or to be bound to that one person rather than taking the Church on his own. It was completely a no-win deal.
“I’ve had
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