Paul Hughes - Broken: A Plague Journal

and all broken tomorrows: bracketing those dead to us, delineating the forms and histories of our desires, in a breath, in tears, in the pattern two opposing collections of striation compose in the catalytic reaction of palm to palm, all physics are bent, and all probabilities, all convenient presuppositions and extrapolations of futures not yet lived are erased: all we have is now, this moment, this beautiful, fragile moment, and

He inhaled.

Storms coming in.

You sure this is him?

She nodded. Across the gulf, lightning licked at waterspouts. She brushed the fine salt spray from her cheeks.

Specifics?

Pattern confirmed. Subject is Fourteen-Seven When intact. Age twenty-three twenty-three years and thirteen hours. REM signature confirmed; this is the author.

Whats a kid from the sticks of New York doing alone on the Gulf Coast on his birthday?

The librarys empty. The mathematician shrugged. Watching the lightning. Getting high. Running away?

West nodded. He wanted to die down here, away from everyone he knew. Tonight was the night.

Shit, hes got another fifty years before

Thats why were here.

Its all there, everything we need?

Its there.

Benton sighed. Hard to believe this kid caused it all.

Wasnt really his fault.

What if we

Hope, Im disappointed. West took a handful of sand, let the grains sift through his fingers. They danced with the wind. You of all people should know that killing him wouldnt stop this.

Im just a mathematician.

He scoffed. Our best quantum X theorist.

Just a maths egg.

He wiped his hands of the beach. You ready?

Guess so.

Unlock the When.

Benton tapped the subdermal in her throat. A halo sparked to life around her head. Agents West and Benton, Fourteen-Seven When, request immediate unlock on my mark. Play.

nav fix on your position. jog to play in three, two

And I knew somehow that on that night in Lincoln, Nebraska, Abigail wasnt sleeping well. Thoughts of tomorrows flight to Vermont, the uncertainty of a future spent mostly between airports and stages, behind cameras, and I knew that a baby was born, and his parents would name him David for his father, Smith for his mothers side. The family lived three blocks east of Abigail, one block west of the recording studio where Lullaby recorded the album I couldnt get out of my head.

All I saw was silver: in the lightning, in the waterspouts, in the sand. The stillness between stars.

Paul?

He jumped.

West studied the tension of muscles, hardening of jawline, narrowing of brow. Eyes lost somewhere between green and gray and mud went to one, went to other, went to one. Even in shadow, he saw the boys nose was sunburned.

Eri?

No. She bent, extended her hand. Shake. Benton. Hope. And youre Paul?

Yeah. Something crawled behind his eyes. Heartbeat and suspicion. Names of people and places and scents and tastes; this was. This was. Have we met?

No Benton looked to West.

What do you want? He stood; he brushed sand from cargo shorts filled with bottlecaps and cigarettes, golden discount cards to the strips most popular clubs. I dont have any money, and Im not into

Were not here to hurt you. Were just

Spring break?

No. West regarded the thousands amidst light and sound behind them. There was such stillness in the impending storm. Were here for you.

The author stepped back. I dont know you.

You do, though.

Ive never seen you be

You have.

Black coat flapping in the breeze over black uniform, burn fresh on temple. Gray eyes.

He smiled. Great. So youve read the book, right? Youre a big fan. You tracked me down and want my autograph, right? Listen, this is flattering, but

Benton grabbed his arm. He looked into colorless blue eyes. You know thats not true. You know who we are.

I

You see her in me. Youre right; shes a part of me, but you knew the character wouldnt be purely her. Im a combination of many. The name Hope because she loved it, the name Benton because of that band. You feel it behind your eyes. You

He shrugged her off. Dont touch me.

West pulled the pack of Marlboros from Pauls chest pocket, withdrew one. Lit.

They were right. Exhale. Every possible world that ever could have existed will someday exist in perfect emulation in machines. Every possible you that ever could have existed will.

Will you

Youre carrying a virus. A contagion. You can feel it. You know its there. Thats why you write. You have the silver. You write about things from pasts and presents and futures that you shouldnt be able to see.

Paul was silent.

Benton squeezed his hand. There are holes all over this When. Youre making it all fall apart. Youre ending so many worlds with each breath, and you have no idea. Were here to take you out of this. We need you.

You arent real.

We are now.

He took out a cigarette. West smiled.

Lets go out to the pier.

Id gone to the edge of the world and thrown myself against all that I knew: safety and solidity and the past. Life became a fluid somewhere out there in the thousands of miles between the stagnation of home and the brilliant, beautiful uncertainty of the edge. Life became metaphor: I walked wearily to the ocean after the long and dangerous station wagon journey across the country, just standing there in the sunshine and the gulf breeze, feeling the cleansing grit of sand beneath me, working its way into every pocket of my clothing, every hair-covered limb, underneath contacts and between toes and fingers and scouring the gold sheen from my Zippo. The sand worked its way into me, making me feel at once totally alien to that place and an integral part of the landscape. The sand would eventually blister my feet, itch my scalp, grit every last exposed bit of flesh with its silicon scour, but not before Id simply stood there for a while to appreciate its exotic warmth.

Many tens of thousands of my generation had gone to that city of sand and sunrise. Few of them shared the reason that I had for being thereWe all went to escape from life for a while. We all went to be the bad people that we were told not to be the other fifty-one weeks of the year: we drank and smoked and smoked and fucked and otherwise debauched on the beach at the edge of the world. We gathered in groups of thousands and flailed the primordial dance of existence to overplayed rap songs and paid too much for beer in plastic cups and smoked cowboy killers and bummed cowboy killers from a stranger with long hair and dark eyes that looked at and through you with his intricate, recording gaze.