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FP447 – The Murder Plague: Turnabout, Part 1 of 2

The Murder Plague

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode four hundred and forty-seven.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Murder Plague: Turnabout, Part 1 of 2

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites!

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we return to Capital City where Harm Carter, father and former military man, has been contending with the homicidal paranoia inducing illness that is The Murder Plague.

 

The Murder Plague: Turnabout, Part 1 of 2

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

 

Here’s the thing about Hitchcock’s. Even as an incredibly sick, sometimes feverish, death-dispensing maniac, you are absolutely convinced that you are the only person on this planet-sized carousel who truly has their situation under control.

You’re hiding in an attic, and you’ve got scraps of paper pinned up on every surface. You spend your days with a flashlight – red filtered, as looted from the home of the dead or fled survivalist down the road – scanning the sheets of paper you’ve pinned to the insulation and roof beams. You’re using the red filter because it’s less noticeable than a white glow, despite the fact that it’s broad daylight outside and there are no windows in your attic.

You trace and retrace the colour-coded dots and scratches you’ve drawn, with pencils stolen from an abandoned school bag, and though the mess of lines and circles has begun to blur and smudge, though the heat has you sweating like a drug mule getting ready for an intercontinental flight, though you keep chuckling to no one but yourself, you feel like the king.

No one, you convince yourself, will ever break the code you’ve used to map out your routes, caches, and traps. No one, surely, could ever come up with such a clever system without leaving a hint or trail. No one is as smart, as careful, as PREPARED, as you are.

At night the only thing you hold closer than the section of map you’ll need for that evening’s expedition is the handgun you plan on using to defend your secrets.

Jokes on you, of course, because the neighbourhood you consider your kingdom is infested with plenty of other fools who also think they’re royalty.

The Murder PlagueSometimes the attacks are straight forward, and your survival, if you could admit it to yourself, is just luck. A gunshot rings out and you tell yourself you’ve escaped unharmed because you’re too fast to hit. A large woman with a machete and silent feet does her best Queen of Hearts imitation, and you tell yourself you’ve avoided the grave by knowing to bring a gun to a knife fight. Invaders break into your sanctuary while you are away, and you convince yourself that you’ve defeated the ambush they set by having left semi-hidden rat-poisoned food about the lower floors – and never mind that they might have waited till safely home to snack.

At some point, just before another dateless dawn, you’re almost done scratching Xs across the hand drawn chart of places you’ve cleared out for supplies, and, as you’re tugging at a garage door in search of gasoline or sharp-edged tools, you nearly get taken out by a log trap. A dozen trees, which you’ll later realized were stripped from a local schoolyard before being piled high in the quiet darkness, come rolling at you, and you damn near have your knees snapped backwards and your rib cage trampled by tumbling pines before you can leap left. Lobbing a Molotov onto the roof you wait till the attempted murderer stumbles from his haven and you end the wannabe Boy Scout with your pistol. You don’t think twice about having slain a frumpy man in a Star Wars t-shirt and thick-rimmed glasses. You don’t think twice about the pencil smudges on his fingers. You don’t think twice about the red-filtered flashlight he happens to be carrying.

You simply collect what you can use, shrug at the death of another challenger to the crown, and move on.

I – I simply collect what I can use. I simply shrug at the death of another challenger to the crown. I move on.

In the end the hardest aspect of the Murder Plague is not dealing with the corpses, traps, and scenes of violence, it’s in knowing that it was not some other carrying out these actions. I was not some passive observer staring at my hands as they locked around a stranger’s neck. It’s your fingers, your palms, your squeezing and struggling against the final jerks and snorts and twitches – but you have no control.

Maybe a week and a half after nearly being rolled flat like the Pillsbury Doughboy cornered by the Swedish Chef, I was creeping along one of the zig-zag paths I used to return to my shelter when I caught sight of something unusual: A dog barking.

Oh, my paranoia about the feral packs roaming the neighbourhood was already long standing – Were they being trained and controlled by someone else? Would they rush me for my supplies? Could the plague itself affect them? – but generally we’d had an understanding familiar to elevator passengers in a more civilized time: I pretended they didn’t exist, and they pretended I didn’t either.

The thing was, this mutt, a little Yorkshire Terrier that could have used a bath and a seven course meal, was yapping and yapping and yapping at the red door across the street. Now, it was a very quiet time. The sound of gunfire was increasingly distant, probably due to a decreasing population of people to shoot at, and the car engines were rare. There were no songs wafting through the air from a distant block, there were no trash talkers playing basketball on some other street, there were no couples arguing about dinner, the kids, or the bills. Any noise could get you killed, so every noise was suspect.

Yet here was this pooch yammering his heart out.

Given how many real humans I ended in my haze, it’s still strange that I’m struck by shame when I admit that I almost killed him. I was worried about his drawing attention, and my infected mind was so survival focused that it was already formulating the argument that I could use the extra meat.

Never mind that I had six months worth of cans already stacked in the attic, and another couple years’ worth scattered in holes at all corners of my hand-sketched map.

I stepped forward and reached into my right pocket for my tanto-bladed pocket knife. I raised my boot with the intention of pinning the fur ball down beneath the thick sole while I conducted my butchery.

The red door flew open and a bloody one-person SWAT team burst through the opening. The dog sprinted away under the gate to my right and my pistol was in my grip before I even had both feet back on the ground. This wasn’t just some slovenly gun fetishist buying equipment online before the collapse, however: I knew this armour. This wasn’t some hillbilly in a gas mask, this was someone who’d been bestowed the tinted bubble helmet and face mask the military had developed to deal with improvised explosives and ravenous undead.

I got one shot off, which landed with a flat thwack and little other effect, but the mountain of black tactical gear had breached the exit with a taser at the ready. They offered a shocking response.

My fire had nudged their aim, at least, and the electrodes landed askew on my looted rambler jacket. The first jolt hit just as I was peeling the thing off, and fight lost the battle to flight: I was halfway to the corner before my assailant had even tossed down their weapon.

What followed was something like a magic trick.

In my boot wearing days I was not entirely unfamiliar with such gear. More than once I’d had to wade through unpleasant business in a similar too-hot, too-heavy, and too-constricting style of getup. Even with the extra years under my belt I should’ve easily been able to outrace that younger version of myself.

I was aiming for the little blue house at the end of the street. I knew if I could make it that far – theoretically easy-peasy, given the clunky nature of my pursuer – that I’d probably be okay.

Putting a curb-parked soccer mom minivan between myself and the newcomer, just in the off chance that they should decide on a more lethal means of dealing with the situation, I turned my head to see how big a lead I’d widened up. I had maybe a hundred feet of pavement and fifteen feet of dying lawn to cover till I was safely away, and that’s when the miracle happened.

My pursuer dropped one foot at normal speed, then the second at twice that, and was suddenly up to a Corvette’s sprint. Somehow I doubled my own pace, but it damn near wasn’t enough.

As I cleared my objective’s white picket barricade my stalker scaled the hood of the van and left a trail of divots along the roof, and as I gulped a final breath of air and turned the door handle, my hunter went directly through the fence.

I slammed the entrance behind me and hustled to the sliding patio exit at the home’s rear.

It’s likely that not knowing what was beyond the closed entrance, while chasing a homicidally infected maniac through a largely abandoned neighbourhood, was enough to give the incredibly nimble hulk a second of pause, and that’s the only reason I had time to get clear and draw my lighter.

I’d been carrying that damned sparkler for weeks – just the usual sort of kids’ cake topper – but my fingers were so slick with sweat I damn near dropped the zippo.

Then it was lit, and I could hear the door on the far side of the building being kicked open, and I tossed my tiny pyrotechnic display.

The gas oven, unlit but otherwise fully engaged, had done its work well, and the resulting explosion was enough to finish my climb over the back fence.

When I returned to a vague sort of sensibility I stood. If there was anything left of my foe it would be worth scavenging: Especially if I could manage to get the blood off of that armour.

I was too clever to rush in, however. I hunkered down, listening and waiting. What if the intruder had survived somehow? What if the explosion and subsequent fire attracted an inquisitive local? If the riot squad really was dead then whatever kit they’d been carrying wasn’t going anywhere, and it was rare that such tempting bait presented itself to help flush out my neighbours.

As dusk hit, and the house’s embers guttered in its former basements’ rec room, I crept onto the street. There seemed to be nothing but me, the crickets, and the distant barking of a triumphant mutt who’d either found an un-spilled garbage can or the fresh remains of some unfortunate Capital City citizen.

Of course, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned, one of the problems with paranoia is that it’s never the things you could possible have calculated for that will get you. A man can spend his life in a Faraday cage to prevent death by cellphone radiation, but it’ll inevitably be the spouse whose sick of his lifestyle who buries him with a butcher blade in his back.

I mean, when I approached “the body” it was still sprawled out on the road pavement, where it had apparently landed on its back. It’s left leg was missing – well, missing isn’t the proper word perhaps, as a kevlar-wrapped chunk had clearly landed across the picket fence. I suspect the door must have sheared it off and tossed it in a different direction than the rest of the meat.

All that to say: The limb was thoroughly unattached, which is why, I’m sure you can see, I assumed that my victim, who had apparently been lying unmoving for at least two hours, was dead.

She let me get as far as the helmet, and then her eyes popped open.

I said “Jennifer?” and that’s when Ms. Atlas, current member of TV’s The Irregular Division and former comrade-at-arms, hit me.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FC127 – Meaty Feel Good Bits

FC127 - Meaty Feel Good Bits

FC127 - Meaty Feel Good Bits

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Hello, and welcome to FlashCast #127.

Prepare yourself for: Fancy boats, fangirls for fangirls, monkey head transplants, new Nancy Drew, and Mulligan Smith

* * *

Huge thanks to:

* * *

Pulp-ular Press:

* * *

Skinner Co. Announcements:

* * *

Mailbag:

  • Send your comments and questions to comments@flashpulp.com!
  • Thank you for our sacrifices to The Box, Rich the TT!

* * *

Audio-dacity of Hope:

  • Download Reverse Crash
  • * * *

    Backroom Plots:

  • Muddy York
  • * * *

    Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

    * * *

    If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at http://skinner.fm, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.

    FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    FC126 – Removing Kenny Rogers

    FC126 - Removing Kenny Rogers

    FC126 - Removing Kenny Rogers

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    Hello, and welcome to FlashCast #126.

    Prepare yourself for: Luke Skywalker’s bisexuality, Fanta, half-million dollar palm readers, dreaming of spring in 2023, and Muddy York

    * * *

    Huge thanks to:

    * * *

    Pulp-ular Press:

    * * *

    Skinner Co. Announcements:

    * * *

    Mailbag:

    • Send your comments and questions to comments@flashpulp.com!
    • Thank you for our sacrifices to The Box, Rich the TT!
    • Thanks, as well, To Hugh for the soda

    * * *

    Backroom Plots:

  • Muddy York
  • * * *

    Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

    * * *

    If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at http://skinner.fm, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.

    FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    FC125 – BETTER IF USED BY

    FC125 - BETTER IF USED BY

    FC125 - BETTER IF USED BY

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    Hello, and welcome to FlashCast #125.

    Prepare yourself for: Cheap romance, more hidden Harper Lee, iCops, Kraken Storm, and Muddy York

    * * *

    Huge thanks to:

    * * *

    Pulp-ular Press:

    * * *

    * * *

      Mailbag:

    • Send your comments and questions to comments@flashpulp.com!
    • Thank you for our sacrifices to The Box, Rich the TT!
    • Thanks, as well, To Doc Blue for wrangling the Kraken Storm taste test!

    * * *

    Backroom Plots:

  • FP446 – Hell
  • * * *

    Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

    * * *

    If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at http://skinner.fm, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.

    FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    FC124 – Grumblr

    FC124 - Grumblr

    FC124 - Grumblr

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    Hello, and welcome to FlashCast #124.

    Prepare yourself for: Rumblr, Grumblr, long distance rage, The Monkees, Pop-Tarts, the wiki, and Davy Jones’ Frankenstein.

    * * *

    Huge thanks to:

    • Jax (Twitter) for his Something Wiki’d This Way Comes!

    * * *

    Pulp-ular Press:

    * * *

    * * *

      Mailbag:

    • Send your comments and questions to comments@flashpulp.com!
    • Thank you for our sacrifices to The Box, Rich the TT!

    * * *

    Backroom Plots:

  • Biggest Fan AKA Davy Jones’ Frankenstein
  • My Brother’s Keeper on The Melting Potcast
  • * * *

    Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

    * * *

    If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at http://skinner.fm, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.

    FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    FPGE28 – The Advent Gauntlet: An Agent Fuchsia Adventure

    Merry Kar'Mas!

    Welcome to Flash Pulp Guestisode #28

    Flash PulpTonight we present The Advent Gauntlet: An Agent Fuchsia Adventure

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    This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Mob!

     

    Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

    Though belated due to an accidental release by Skinner Co.’s Bio-Weapons Research and Development Department – a leak that, for legal reasons, we assure you is entirely and most definitely under control – tonight we present a holiday tale as penned by a junior mobster.

    Thank you so much, Fuschia!

     

    The Advent Gauntlet: An Agent Fuchsia Adventure

    Written by Fuschia
    Narration by Ms. Thirteen
    and Audio produced by Jessica May

     

    Merry Kar'Mas!

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

    FPGE27 – Ruby Departed in A Gift of the Magi by Rich “the Time Traveller” Jefferson

    Ruby Departed in A Gift of the Magi by Rich the Time Traveller

    Welcome to Flash Pulp Guestisode #27

    Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed in A Gift of the Magi by Rich “the Time Traveller” Jefferson

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    Download MP3

    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Mob!

     

    Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

    Thank you so much, Rich!

     

    Ruby Departed in A Gift of the Magi by Rich “the Time Traveller” Jefferson

    Written by Rich the TT
    Art and Narration by Opopanax
    and Audio produced by Jessica May

     

    Ruby Departed in A Gift of the Magi by Rich the Time Traveller

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

    FP446 – Hell

    FP446 - Hell

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode four hundred and forty-six.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Hell

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    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Chrononaut Cinema Reviews!

     

    Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

    Tonight, we find ourselves witness to a silent nightmare.

     

    Hell

    Written by J.R.D. Skinner
    Art and Narration by Opopanax
    and Audio produced by Jessica May

     

    Bernard Holtz believed in the concept of Hell, but not in the specific place of flame and damnation that he’d done his best to ignore from the age of five till twelve, when his mother had insisted on blowing his Sunday mornings on unyielding hardwood pews.

    As a child he’d pictured a stony, cavernous place, with open pits of fire and pitchfork wielding centaurs, but it had only been later in life that he realized this was more the result of his youthful cartoon viewing habits than his exposure to any minister’s murmurings.

    Now, at fifty-six, he knew with certainty that the clergyman had been wrong – that hell was a more personal thing.

    The owner of locker 249, on the second floor of Trinity High School, had somehow spilled a large volume of apple juice while their combination lock was still firmly in place. At his initial discovery of the sugary leak Bernard had issued a courteous note for Principal Abrams, who had, in turn, left a scrawled sheet in his mail cubby claiming she would have a word with the homeroom teacher responsible.

    Holtz’ second note had received a repeated promise to check in with the responsible parties, and his third had gone unanswered.

    So here he was, his mop doing little to combat the smell of fermenting cider that reeked from the chemistry labs, at the north end of the hall, through to Mrs. Mclellan’s postcard-adorned social studies room.

    Cutting the lock off would require a fourth note, but he held out hope that staff and students would begin to lodge complaints during the daylight hours, pushing Abrams to okay the work request.

    With a snort he asked himself, again, who he was to be answered: Just the night janitor, haunting the halls when those that believed they owned the place were unaware he even existed.

    He wasn’t the only ghost though.

    It began, as it often did, as he shuffled out of the elevator intended for wheelchair access to the upper classes.

    The outside doors did not rattle. The glass had been replaced by thick metal years earlier, and the security system was, due to ever changing district standards, in a perpetual state of being upgraded.

    Still, the boy entered, his face burning with fury.

    Bernard paused, locking his fingers about the handle of his mop to stop the wheeled bucket’s momentum.

    Martin, sixteen and wearing baggy combat fatigue pants beneath a white t-shirt, raised the hands that should have contained his father’s AR-15 and shook them vigorously in the direction of the adjoining hall, beyond Bernard’s line of sight.

    FP446 - HellIt didn’t matter, the janitor knew exactly what lay the other way: A darkened stretch of bench seating often used as the rallying point for the school’s teams to gather their equipment and mascot suits for a road game. Bernie also knew it was currently empty.

    His arms still trembling from gunfire, Martin approached.

    The teen was screaming, but the custodian could hear none of it.

    Bernard’s gripped tightened, and the cracked texture of his mop’s ancient wooden handle was enough to remind him of where he was – of who he was.

    Beyond the school’s walls the moon crested and the night birds called their lovers. Bernard’s car sat cooling in the same corner of the parking lot it had occupied for a dozen years, and the wind swept weathered cigarette butts across the shadowed pavement.

    Martin’s fury blazed, his eyes wide and his mouth trading between a death’s head grin and a bellowing stream of demands and accusations that went unacknowledged.

    “Face it, face it,” said Bernie, and his words bounced along the hollow halls.

    With a shrug, the boy shouldered his weapon and reached beneath his jacket, retrieving the six inch blade his father had kept in the garage for skinning game.

    The mop head landed on the green tiles with a tentacled splat, and Bernard worried away the day’s worth of sneaker dirt, dropped gum, and teenage oils.

    Martin continued his back and forth, shouting and swinging and killing.

    While he could make some headway on the grime, there was nothing Bernard could do for the boy. Not now.

    It had been seven years since the assault. Seven years since he’d loaded his weapon in the cab of his rusted-out pickup, bought with money collected from hucking neighbours’ hay bales; strapped on a half-dozen knives; and plunged through the double doors with the intention of sharing his misery.

    No amount of gunfire could make his fellow students understand the pain of his drunken mother’s constant criticism, nor the strange feeling of mourning he held over his never-present father. In truth he had not even fully understood these emotions himself, but he did know he could make their families as broken as his own, and in that moment it had seemed enough.

    Watching the phantasm retrace his last steps, Bernard was again left to ask where the others were. Martin had killed nine: five members of the Trinity Badgers waiting for a ride to the district finals, a young couple exiting the library, and the pair of stoners who’d managed to stop the violence, but who’d bled out on the same floor across which Marty’s brains had leaked after the skateboard’s impact.

    Bernard hard never seen the others. Wherever they had gone, they were not here – no, this hell contained only himself, his mop, and the boy – and the boy never even noticed him.

    Martin collapsed to the floor and again spent his final seconds thrashing, fighting something Bernard would never see.

    Was he left to witness these things because Marty was his own son? Bernard knew not – but he did know what hell was.

    He trembled, and the night wore on.

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

    FPGE26 – Intense Negotiations by Rich “the Time Traveller” Jefferson

    Welcome to Flash Pulp Guestisode #26

    Flash PulpTonight we present Intense Negotiations by Rich “the Time Traveller” Jefferson

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    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Lies & Half Truths!

     

    Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

    Thank you so much, Rich!

     

    Intense Negotiations by Rich “the Time Traveller” Jefferson

    Written by Rich the TT
    Art and Narration by Opopanax
    and Audio produced by Jessica May

     

    Flash Pulp

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

    FCM026 – The Twelve Questions of Kar’Mas

    FCM026 – The Twelve Questions of Kar’Mas

    FCM026 – The Twelve Questions of Kar’Mas
    Welcome to Flashcast Minisode 026 – The Twelve Questions of Kar’Mas

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    * * *

  • Mandatory Cosplay Wednesday was fantastic
  • Fashion Santa
  • * * *

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

    Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

    Freesound.org credits:

    Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

    – and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.