Free Plasma Frequency Magazine: Issue 14 by Jes Page A

holes of a skull.
    “Vicky?” I called, after taking a moment to clear my throat. Her eyes slid back to the screen, the thin lips splitting open in a smile. Her teeth were smaller than I remembered.
    “Hey, mom.” Absently, she ran her fingers through her hair, not seeming to notice the clump she pulled out in the process. After a moment of deliberation, her expression twisted into a frown. “Why is your hair in a braid? I can't even tell how long it is.” Hurriedly, I slipped off the hair tie, releasing cascades of brown curls over my shoulders. Her grin returned. “See? You look pretty now.”
    My throat closed up. I swallowed, and forced myself to return the smile. “So. How is Earth today? What color is everything?” The screen fizzled for a moment as she spun in a happy circle.
    “Oh, mama, today it was so lovely . Orange grass, blue buildings, and the trees were this pinky sunset-orange-red. And the sky …” She spread her hands apart, as if gesturing at the atmosphere's awesome magnitude. “It was this brilliant, fluffy white . Like Heaven was being wrapped around us.”
    I nodded, slowly. The colors of things changed every time I talked to her. Hallucinations were one of the symptoms that came from being infected.
    Now, a more important question: “Are there any kids with you today?”
    The infection has spread most widely in the youngest generation … almost everyone under fifteen years of age had been deemed too thoroughly diseased to be saved. They made up the bulk of the population that had been left behind.
    The corners of Vicky's mouth pinched down, and her gaze went even glassier. “The rest of them fell asleep today.”
    Behind me, I could hear the scientists whispering at each other. They had predicted that little more than .005% of the population left on Earth were still alive, at this point. They were probably pleased that their prediction had been correct.
    “Aw, I'm sorry, honey.” Vicky rotated her shoulders in a shrug, accompanying the movement with a lopsided smile.
    “That's okay. The Diddies are keeping me company. Look, Mom, I even made a necklace with them.” I tried to keep the frown out of my eyebrows. Last time I had spoken to her, Vicky had told me about Diddies; little furry purple creatures that lived in trash heaps and liked to make arts and crafts. She held up the necklace to the screen. Pieces of green and blue plastic bottle had been poked with holes and strung on metal wiring.
    From their place behind my back, my hands were beginning to shake. I couldn't keep this up much longer.
    Vicky's gaze snapped back to me, and for a moment, a golden clarity shone in their gray-brown depths. “Momma, what's wrong?” She had said this many times in our earlier conversations. Like, after I had asked her what two plus two was, and she had joyously responded, 'Nine.'
    “Nothing, sweetheart,” I muttered, wiping a hand across my eyes. The silence from behind me was deafening. I couldn't stand this. My mind was swelling with vivid, painful memories … when she was born, the little jewel she was, how perfect, and knowing that I had grown her, me and Mike. Even when there were complications, even through the pain, the little baby was still so perfect. Victoria …
    “I love you, baby,” I said, finally. I could hear the Generals' feet tapping, and knew that the moment of demolition was rushing closer. Vicky was staring at me, her eyes so, so beautiful, even in the hollowness.
    “I love you too,” she said. Then, almost as an afterthought, “That's an ugly medal. Don't you know? I hate gold. It’s like the color of pee.”
    Last week, I remembered, she had commented on how pretty and shiny the light gleamed off of the engravings.
    A hand tapped my shoulder. “General, we're ready to close up,” a voice whispered in my ear.
    I raised my hand in a stiff motion that could pass as a wave. The flash of anger passing, Vicky grinned, and waved one hand at the screen. Then her image