Hub - Issue 15 by Mikal Trimm / Lee Harris

Author:Mikal Trimm / Lee Harris
Format: epub

One touch:

Mineminemine/don’ttouchmequeenruler/allmineallminenotYOURSfilthybitch/nastybeggar/mytime/Mytime/ourtimenonononono --

JasonI’mJasonnotthemnotthemohgodithurtssomuchtoomuchenergytoomuchtime --

OURTIMEOURTIMEOURTIMEYOUCAN’THAVEITGETOUTGETOUT --

Jason I’m Jason not taking GIVING!

Jason let it all pass through him, all the greed and pain and hate and trapped Time and he opened his mouth to scream it all out of him, push the poisons away in one great spasm, gone, gone, let it all be gone, let Time heal all...

Energy poured through Jason, using him as an open conduit. He thought of his Grandmother and her guardian angels.

Then he surrendered himself to Time.

#

Confusion reigned in the city, or at least in a corridor that extended twenty blocks or so in every direction from the corner of Fourth and Congress. Multi-vehicle pileups occurred where traffic had been flowing fine a second earlier, babies and bodies littered the sidewalks, tripping busy pedestrians who really would have noticed those things under normal circumstances, and once-solid stone edifices groaned with the first warnings of imminent collapse.

It took nearly two hours for the harried, befuddled rescue teams to reach the center of the mess. While they organized a seat-of-the-pants version of triage, Brad Langer, a veteran EMS tech, stumbled across a scene straight out of a Bosch painting: two dead bodies, fused as one, their limbs and organs pretzled together like pipe cleaners with flesh, their mouths open past the tearing point in a mutual grimace of hatred.

Years of front-line medical duty couldn’t prepare him for this. He turned to gag, tripping on something that flinched under his heel.

Against his better instincts, he looked down to see what he’d stepped on.

A hand, pink as a newborn’s, fluttered weakly from under a pile of debris. Brad dug through what looked to be a century’s worth of dust and detritus to unearth a young man, naked and hairless, his skin unnaturally smooth, unlined. The man coughed once, croaked something out in a voice far too old for his body.

Brad leaned closer, afraid to move the man in case of any internal injuries, but the man sat up, grabbed Brad by the back of the neck, and asked one question, the demand in his voice too strong to be denied.

“It’s -- it’s five thirty-seven,” Brad said. “P.M.”

“That’s a good time to be alive, right?” the man asked.

Then he lay down and, smiling, quietly passed out.

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