The Long Run (Tales of the Continuing Time) by Moran Daniel Keys

Author:Moran, Daniel Keys [Moran, Daniel Keys]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: FS&
Published: 2011-04-20T22:00:00+00:00

HE JERKED AWAKE twice, to darkness and panic, to a sensation his body insisted on interpreting as falling. Both times Trent oriented himself, remembered where he was and why he was there, and settled back down on the soft padding to sleep.

He awoke the third time to a generalized ache. He sat up slowly and rested in the darkness against the wall at his back. The darkness was incredible. Trent held his hand in front of his face and could not see a thing. The lack of sound was nearly as absolute; if he strained he could make out the gentle whisper of the ventilators forcing air through the room. He sat motionlessly for a while after that, just letting himself acclimate to the absurd feeling of lightness, listening to his body. He hurt literally everywhere, in every muscle in his body, as though somebody who really knew what he was doing had worked him over. His knee was out again; Trent could barely stand to straighten it fully. The rib he had broken was bearable so long as he breathed shallowly.

His right hand....

“Jesus-H.-Christ-on-a-stick.” The Temple Dragons weapons instructor was an old Puerto Rican – forty, easy, thought Trent – whose name was Mitch. They were practicing that morning, all the Temple Dragons fifteen or under, in an abandoned brick warehouse across the street from the Temple. Mitch was rubbing the line of his jaw, and Jimmy Ramirez was on his knees on the mat, clutching his left hand. “Jimmy, you is such a dumb fuck.” He took careful aim and kicked Jimmy Ramirez in the face and then turned to face the boys standing against the wall. “Listen up, Dragons. When you got no gun and you got to hit, I mean no choice, then you remember this. Hit hard parts with something harder. You want to use your hand, fine. You hit the man in the throat, you hit him in the nuts, you hit him right under the heart.” Jimmy Ramirez was lying on the ground, curled up into a ball. Mitch kicked him again, harder. “Else you end up like this tough boy. I’m gon’ have me a sore jaw all day. But Jimmy –” Mitch smiled at them, at Trent. “Jimmy, he a dead fuck.”

Mitch had died shortly after that, in one of the endless property disputes with the Gypsy Macoute; until now, sitting alone in the dark beneath the surface of Luna, Trent could not remember having thought of the old Temple Dragon even once in all the years since Mitch’s death.

It had taken him six years to get out of the Fringe. Six long years filled with more pain and anger than Trent allowed himself to remember most of the time.

And then, the Patrol Sectors. For all of seven months. Learning how to walk down a street again without having to check for men wearing the green-and-yellow Macoute bandanas. The simple shock of seeing Peaceforcers again, for the first time since the establishment

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