Broken: A Plague Journal Read Online Free

work.”
    “Could’ve saved time by thinking it away.” West walked to another display. “Drama queen.”
    The scissors paused in Paul’s hand. “I know.”
    Benton brushed some pre-snap curls from his shoulder. “Containment’s at ninety-eight over. Just a few more.”
    He grabbed her hand and removed it from his shoulder. “You’re hyperkinetic.”
    “And you don’t like to be touched. Sorry. I forgot.”
    Short squeeze of hand-to-hand. “No sorries.”
    Healing by primary intention: leaving the wound open to the elements, visible to all. Scab, scar. Public re-placement of flesh, of memory and heart, filling in the places between and
    Scissors disappeared. Hair stood on end, clumps, moist, a tangle of muddied fire burned up to nothing in particular.
    “Hugh Grant? Michael Madsen?”
    “Not quite. Terrible combination of neither.” He felt his cardiac shield twinge.
    “Come on, kids. Stop your grab-assin’.” Light traced a new code burn on his temple. “The boss wants a progress report.”
     
     
    feeling screams, burning ends in that night, and it was beautiful. the touch of self, the touch of alters, galaxies of altars, and trees, trees singing and flying, echoes before dawn, a moon, a gasp, the chill that midnight makes when inhaled, the loss of exhalation, the yearning to breathe that scent again, ever again, to be there ever again
    the way things break, the way tomorrows break, the way we struggle to correct yesterdays
    and in one she frowned as a nacelle tore from the craft, crew pulled to death between the planet and the star, and in one she fought robots made from wood and organic paste, wiring spun from the silk of system-sized spiders, and in one she had a twin, and in one she watched a planet cut cleanly in half by a light from the stars, and in one she found no enemy left, and in one she sipped a bitter liquid that would keep her awake for hours, and in one she slumped, exhausted from breathing, as a door opened and
     
     
    Judith sighed.
    They’d finally located that rock in the center of the silver infestation. Centuries of searching, centuries without form or substance or duration, they’d searched; they’d found. West had been in the original rescue fleet, tattered remnants gathered from the first Enemy war and the temporal refugees of the Forever Dust, the human residue of all broken Whens. Data cycle errors, reflexive overruns, cyclic redundancy checks, cache corruptions: humanity.
    The trouble with his stories is that they happen concurrently... People who were killed in the third chapter walk in and ask for coffee and a cigarette in the fifth. He can’t keep it straight; it’s not worth it to the reader to attempt to make sense of something so inherently flawed, something so innately incomprehensible.
    “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jud.”
    “Come in.” The warm smile barely contained the acid tongue beneath. “You two fucking yet?”
    “Oh god.” Hope sat on the edge of the bench next to the author.
    “That’s what they used to call me. Where are we?”
    “Ninety-eight over. Last run was almost a complete success.”
    “Rad.” Hands went to face, fingertips traced temples as her smile fell off. “You have to get better at this, Paul.”
    “It’s not like I even know what the fuck I’m supposed to have lived in these Whens. You have the advantage of knowing everything already.”
    “If I could erase it myself, I would.”
    “I wish you’d find a way and let me get out of here.”
    “It’s not up to me anymore.” Judith stood from her chaise, walked over to the window that showed the latest crop. “It’s up to one of me down there.”
    West cleared his throat. “Combat runs have been marginally successful in Fourteen-Three, Seventy-Nine-Nine, Two-Hundred—”
    “Stop.” Something behind a god’s eyes, something crawling and caustic. “They’re waiting for something before striking back. Secure our positions along the When—Ha!— Time stream