Read Online Black and Orange by Benjamin Kane Ethridge - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Benjamin Kane Ethridge
Tags: Horror
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still.
She knew how to push a horrible memory away—it was simple. Just think about the job ahead. It had actually been easier right after David died. She focused only on Martin; they went to see the Messenger’s small special operations group: Ramson CuVek , Bill Masters, Li Chu, and Robin Escal . They worked Martin down to the core and some of the mentors, self-defense mentor CuVek especially, hadn’t taken it much easier on her. The mentors knew what was at stake and what they were up against. They had all once lived in the Old Domain, after all. The only way to help was to train them well.
A year had passed before she could get close to Martin. Under a strict time constraint, Bill Masters had tasked them to set eleven mantles and something like sixteen C4 charges around an abandoned metal finishing plant. With Martin backing her, they passed the test, even with a time limit of twenty-three minutes. They even found time to have a first kiss in the slanting shadows beneath a rusty scaffolding.
The first encounter had been intense and welcome, but she hadn’t known then if she could love Martin the same way she’d loved David. Martin had kept her hope alive through difficult times. Then one day she’d gone to pick up road supplies but got halfway before remembering her wallet—back at the motel she found Martin with some woman. A waitress, she wagered, from the Denny’s uniform spilling over a chair.
That was a long time ago. Now Martin wouldn’t seek anyone else—that brand of carelessness wasn’t in him any longer. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. Breaking some emotional ties might make this failing thing between them easier to watch disintegrate. That was what her heart told her, despite the endless miles stacked against the notion.
She had slept on and off all today and now that it was pitch-black her body bounded with energy. She considered building a modest mantle tent around the van. Something freezing dripped over her neural receptors and she shook away the idea. She was happy not being exhausted for a change.
She ducked into the back of the van and took up a Black Belt magazine Martin bought her a few months ago as a joke. Lying down on the full size mattress, she could still see his shape lounging in the front. Boredom had gotten the best of them. Reading, she tittered at a side panel featuring a man in camouflage GI gear hammer-kicking a wood board. The first few paragraphs were actually intriguing, if technically flawed, but then any true content fell away as the writer began to recount a past tournament in New York. Teresa’s chest cinched with pain anyway and her stomach bubbled with hunger. Having nothing else to keep her mind occupied, she’d be coughing soon and probably wake Martin up.
She needed to write a will for him. It would be the first step in accepting this with a modicum of dignity. Dying was easy for Teresa. Leaving the pain behind for someone else wasn’t. David had done it to her and now she’d do it to Martin—and just like with David, there’d be nothing left behind, no money, no property, no assets of any kind. Just a body, and the indelicate task of disposal.
A Sam Cooke song flowered in her ears, a gospel ditty, “Hem of his garment.”
If I touch it, I’ll be healed...
Something moved outside the van.
Her body shifted. She pulled Martin’s M1911 from under the mattress. It felt good and heavy with singular purpose. Flicking off the safety, she glanced back. Martin still slept. Take it slow, she thought . Calm. It could be a coyote.
Or black suits.
She edged sideways. Her legs trembled as she hunkered down, gun clasped in both hands. She stopped. The cold desert night seeped in through the sides of the doors. There was another long, scraping sound—a claw over glass.
Now came a tapping. The world rocked. Teresa wanted control back, just to tell herself this was her nerves, but there seemed to be no end in sight. She brought her gaze over the
She knew how to push a horrible memory away—it was simple. Just think about the job ahead. It had actually been easier right after David died. She focused only on Martin; they went to see the Messenger’s small special operations group: Ramson CuVek , Bill Masters, Li Chu, and Robin Escal . They worked Martin down to the core and some of the mentors, self-defense mentor CuVek especially, hadn’t taken it much easier on her. The mentors knew what was at stake and what they were up against. They had all once lived in the Old Domain, after all. The only way to help was to train them well.
A year had passed before she could get close to Martin. Under a strict time constraint, Bill Masters had tasked them to set eleven mantles and something like sixteen C4 charges around an abandoned metal finishing plant. With Martin backing her, they passed the test, even with a time limit of twenty-three minutes. They even found time to have a first kiss in the slanting shadows beneath a rusty scaffolding.
The first encounter had been intense and welcome, but she hadn’t known then if she could love Martin the same way she’d loved David. Martin had kept her hope alive through difficult times. Then one day she’d gone to pick up road supplies but got halfway before remembering her wallet—back at the motel she found Martin with some woman. A waitress, she wagered, from the Denny’s uniform spilling over a chair.
That was a long time ago. Now Martin wouldn’t seek anyone else—that brand of carelessness wasn’t in him any longer. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. Breaking some emotional ties might make this failing thing between them easier to watch disintegrate. That was what her heart told her, despite the endless miles stacked against the notion.
She had slept on and off all today and now that it was pitch-black her body bounded with energy. She considered building a modest mantle tent around the van. Something freezing dripped over her neural receptors and she shook away the idea. She was happy not being exhausted for a change.
She ducked into the back of the van and took up a Black Belt magazine Martin bought her a few months ago as a joke. Lying down on the full size mattress, she could still see his shape lounging in the front. Boredom had gotten the best of them. Reading, she tittered at a side panel featuring a man in camouflage GI gear hammer-kicking a wood board. The first few paragraphs were actually intriguing, if technically flawed, but then any true content fell away as the writer began to recount a past tournament in New York. Teresa’s chest cinched with pain anyway and her stomach bubbled with hunger. Having nothing else to keep her mind occupied, she’d be coughing soon and probably wake Martin up.
She needed to write a will for him. It would be the first step in accepting this with a modicum of dignity. Dying was easy for Teresa. Leaving the pain behind for someone else wasn’t. David had done it to her and now she’d do it to Martin—and just like with David, there’d be nothing left behind, no money, no property, no assets of any kind. Just a body, and the indelicate task of disposal.
A Sam Cooke song flowered in her ears, a gospel ditty, “Hem of his garment.”
If I touch it, I’ll be healed...
Something moved outside the van.
Her body shifted. She pulled Martin’s M1911 from under the mattress. It felt good and heavy with singular purpose. Flicking off the safety, she glanced back. Martin still slept. Take it slow, she thought . Calm. It could be a coyote.
Or black suits.
She edged sideways. Her legs trembled as she hunkered down, gun clasped in both hands. She stopped. The cold desert night seeped in through the sides of the doors. There was another long, scraping sound—a claw over glass.
Now came a tapping. The world rocked. Teresa wanted control back, just to tell herself this was her nerves, but there seemed to be no end in sight. She brought her gaze over the
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