Tag: murder

182 – Coffin: The Book Worm, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eighty two.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Coffin: The Book Worm, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Garaaga’s Children.

 

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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his roommate, Bunny, receive an unexpected letter regarding an avid reader.

 

Flash Pulp 182 – Coffin: The Book Worm, Part 1 of 1

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

 

CoffinCoffin was staring out onto the apartment’s balcony from behind the sliding-door’s glass.

In the kitchen, Bunny was operating a blender and shouting explanations between bouts of ice-breaking.

“Yeah, I know they’re kinda lady-like, but sometimes I get feelin’ a little festive. Besides, how else am I going to get my vitamin C?”

It had been her idea to stay in for the evening.

“Flintstones vitamins,” he responded, only to have his words blotted out by renewed thrashing.

As the racket paused, it uncovered Bunny’s voice, mid-tune.

“…and getting caught in the rain.”

Then there was a knock at the door.

Will was mildly surprised to discover the mute standing in his hall. With an extended arm, he offered entrance to the newcomer, but the man shook his head in friendly refusal, and, instead, removed an envelope from his pocket and set it in Coffin’s palm. Nodding, the messenger then departed.

As the codger had lost his tongue early in life, the shaman was used to this being the extent of their conversation, but he couldn’t help but feel that the old bull had seemed shaken.

There were two slips of paper within the delivery, a single handwritten page, and a photocopy of scraps torn from the margins of what appeared to be fantasy novels. Beside a paragraph regarding the claiming of something called the Sword of Dawnswood was a woman’s name, Shirley Hartley, and a string of numbers. Along a bit of text describing an elven forest was another pairing – Cynthia Mayfield and a different set of digits – but also an apology. It read simply, “I’m so sorry.”

Scanning the accompanying notes, Coffin entered the kitchen.

“Forget the cocktails, we’re going out,” he said, but Bunny was already packing down a brimming thermos.

* * *

As they awaited their bus, Will muttered the letter into his roommate’s ear.

It read:

William

I have a matter which I believe requires your attention.

A kid I once knew was raiding his local used-bookstore for fiction, and came across the scrawl beside the bit about the sword. He’s a bit of a morbid little bugger, and he recognized the name from the news. He spent an afternoon tossing the shop, and he came up with the other. I have no idea if there are more – they may have been bought or missed.

Rather than find himself involved, he turned his discoveries over to me.

Those second-hand places have no real transaction records, but I got lucky – in the top right corner of the first page of both novels, the scribbler in question had signed his name: Neil Murray.

The missing both disappeared downtown, and, as you probably suspect, the numbers are GPS coordinates. As I write this, there are already uniformed men with tents and tiny brushes setting up in the woods at the edge of town.

I did some poking around just after I called in the blues. Neil is a security guard, and very fastidious. I talked to his boss briefly, and the harshest language he’s ever heard from his employee is the occasional “gosh.” All he does is sit around a waste treatment plant, watching cameras, and periodically walking the fence. He reads constantly. I’ve been inside his place, and there are books stacked up on every available surface.

None of them held any further scrawls though.

I even got my hands on a little of the patrol footage from the plant, just so I’d know Murray to see him. I had to go back and ask for some older stuff to be sure, but you can definitely make it out on the tape: he was changing. Becoming sort of – bulbous. His skin was stretching and rounding. By his last shift he was like a walking sausage with arms, right down to the translucent skin.

What I’m banking on them not finding till tomorrow is his parent’s house. When Mr and Mrs. Murray died in a car accident, he closed it up as sort of a shrine. I only know about it because of my, uh, direct investigation methodology, and hopefully it’ll take a bit for the boys to properly make their way through the paperwork.

I realize it’s a long run down the bus-line, but you need to look into 279 View’s garage.

Smith

It was deeper than Will was used to seeing the former lawman incriminate himself on paper – unless he was at hand to see the sheet burned – and by the time they were done reviewing the dispatch, Coffin was cursing every impeding stop before his own.

After an hour of swaying with regular halts, and nearing the end of the public-transport’s route, the pair found themselves deposited in a sparsely lit, but well treed, neighbourhood. It was a ten minute walk to the driveway they sought.

The pavement was cracked, but the yard was trim, and the light-blue house looked as if it might still have been lived in. There was an external side-door to the garage, and Will was pleased to find it unlocked.

A moment’s careful fumbling brought his fingers against a plastic faceplate, and he flipped on the overhead fluorescent lights. Bunny was close behind as he stepped into the open space.

In the corner furthest from the entrance, above the wooden rafters, was a massive white cocoon. Although many tendrils detached from the main body to keep the thing in place amongst the roof’s beams, the bulk of the nylon-looking weave was in a ten foot cylinder, pressed across the plywood walls at the web’s center.

“Holy ####, it’s Mothra,” said Bunny.

“Sort of,” replied Coffin, “he’s undergoing a metamorphoses. He’s becoming a moth-man.”

“Like with Richard Gere?”

“No.”

The both took a tentative step towards the silken structure, and Will found himself surveying the collected yard tools that lined the nearest wall.

He cleared his throat.

“It takes a long time for this sort of thing to happen. Months of collecting the proper nutrients – mostly pilfered from cracked braincases. I’ve known some imps who specialize in this sort of bargain, offering to turn them into a unique butterfly and all that. You need to slip off the map of reality pretty far to start seeing those hooligans though. I’m surprised he wasn’t caught talking to himself.”

“If anyone had given a ####, they’d-a noticed this ####er turning into a ###damn man-erpillar,” replied Bunny. “I’ve seen these guys lurking in the corners of laundry mats and cheap coffee shops. Poor #######s are usually too awkward to even hold their end of the conversation if you do them the favour of making small talk. I’ve always figured it was probably their upbringing.”

“Not a bad guess – might also explain why he only caved after his Ma and Pa died. At least they raised him well enough that he had some guilt about what he was doing. He’s got another week in that thing, but he likely thought his confessions would go unnoticed until well after he was beating his wings against the night sky.”

“So,” said Bunny, after a long sip from the lip of her silver canister, “what do we do? Call in a hundred-foot-tall bat?”

“Nah,” said Coffin, digging out a jerrycan. “We give him what most moths are looking for. I saw a gas station back on the main drag, let’s hustle before Smiths’ friends arrive.”

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Coffin’s theme is Quinn’s Song: A New Man, by Kevin MacLeod ofhttp://incompetech.com/

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Urban Legend: The Final Broadcast

1930, Radio Cast - Source Unknown

Sometimes told in response to the legend of Midnight Tales with Cassandra, The Final Broadcast is a much older bit of folklore which started appearing around Southern California in the late 1930s. No record can be found of any of the events in question, although many aging former residents of the area claim to have witnessed the incident personally.

It’s said to have happened at a radio station in Riverside, or possibly Long Beach, on a sweltering summer-night. A live recording of an episode of The Detective Miles Archer Mystery Hour was in progress when the lead actress, Archer’s love interest, went suddenly off script. Millicent Herb, who played Rebecca Diamond, had been caught up in an affair with Chuck Moxon, who played Archer. Although a married woman, she’d fallen for her co-star, and the two had carried on behind the closed doors of the station, well away from Herb’s husband. Unbeknownst to her, however, Moxon felt differently about the situation, and was apparently also carrying on a sexual relationship with Stephen Terry, who played Archer’s arch-nemesis, the villainous Dr. Fang.

Supposedly, although she’d been hearing rumours, Herb had refused to believe the truth about her lover, until, during a commercial break, Moxon – who had little interest in hiding his conquests – engaged Terry in a passionate embrace.

It’s said that, upon the return from the advertising interruption, the actress retrieved a handgun from her purse and held it on the man she felt had betrayed her. Although the dialogue that followed was somewhat confusing to the listeners at home, fans of Detective Miles Archer were used to having to wait untill the climax of an adventure for clarification of plot points, and considered the heated exchange to be simply a part of the production.

The tip off came when Moxon cussed vigorously, and at length. His crude response to a question from Millicent brought on a flood of calls to the station, and, when a secretary ran into the small studio to inform the show’s producer of the complaints, the sudden entrance was enough to set off the already jumpy gun-woman.

In a blaze, she killed her three fellow cast members, the Mystery Hour’s Foley artist, the producer, and two sound engineers.

For the next five minutes she shrieked and wept into the open mics, which were finally disengaged once the first patrol car arrived on the scene – it was only then that, realizing it was no dramatic production, many parents of the members of the Miles Archer Fan Club fully comprehended the reality of what had happened, and thought to bundle their children off to bed.

source

Children Listening to Radio - Image by © Bettmann/CORBIS

A Quick Mulligan

MulliganJust a short item I tweeted earlier – it doesn’t really fit into a Sunday Summary, but I thought Flashers might find it interesting.

You might also call this the unstated ending of the last story arc, involving the Sweet family.

We haven’t seen the last of those miscreants, however.

http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/81783957498232832

169 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-nine.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Nutty Bites Podcast.

 

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, Mulligan Smith uncovers the truth behind what killed Ortez’s roommate, as well as Smith’s client’s wife, Graciela Brewster.

 

Flash Pulp 169 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan didn’t know what he’d expected when he’d entered the shop’s kitchen, but it certainly wasn’t a weeping mother suckling a babe at her breast.

After inquiring about the establishment’s owner, the PI had been directed to the rear by the bored looking teenager behind the register. He’d found the woman, who’d introduced herself as Jasmine Webb, distracted, so he’d cut straight to the matter at hand.

“It took a bit of doing,” he’d said, “but one of your occasional employees recently informed me that sometimes the cookies include an extra ingredient – something that wasn’t in Grannie’s original recipe?”

Then she’d started crying.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

Smith nodded. He was pleased with his decision to leave his companion, Billy, moping in the idling Tercel. It was his experience that some confessions were like avalanches, barely clinging to the confessor, and triggered at only the slightest disturbance – but he also knew such disclosures could easily be brought up short by anything off-putting, and if Winnipeg excelled in any area, it was being off-putting.

Grabbing up a dishtowel, Mrs. Webb wiped away her tears, then moved to unlatch with a bit of privacy.

With her back still to Mulligan, she began to talk.

“Yeah, we sell weed cookies. Three different kinds, chocolate, chocolate chip, and bran, for our more health conscious clientele. It was Mase’s idea.”

Having re-buttoned her top, she turned to Smith, and began patting the spine of the dozing infant.

“Mason – my husband – he’s always been high strung.” She whispered the words, to avoid waking the sleeper. “I mean, he fainted the day we got married, and it was just us and the Justice of the Peace. When we bought this place, three years ago, I thought the stress of running it might kill him – but, the neighbourhood was flourishing then, and, at least for a while, business was great.

“Now, listen, my Mom and Dad were hippies, and I guess I am to. I don’t truck with any crazy high-end chemistry, I do like smoking a little on the weekends, but I never imagined it could lead to this.

“Maybe a year ago, we hit a slump – things slowed down. Mason started freaking out, figured we needed to expand our revenue streams. Rather than lose the shop, and what little extra cash we had, we decided to gamble on selling some herbal remedies.

“It worked, more or less. We had to be careful who we took on as clients, but, well, as a bakery, we had a decent idea of who amongst the locals was already suffering from the munchies. We started small, and at first it seemed to be going smoothly, but – well, then I got pregnant.”

Jasmine bit her lip before continuing. Although her face contorted in despair, her gentle tapping kept its rhythm.

“We were excited when the test came back. I’ve always wanted to be a mom. We talked about moving out of the neighbourhood and setting up shop somewhere else, somewhere we could stick to old fashioned cakes, pies, and bread – but there were expenses; a bigger car, a nursery, clothes.

“With the baby coming, Mase began losing a lot of weight. I figured it was because of anxiety. He worried constantly about the bakery going under, or about the paying for stuff, or about someone narcing on us – especially about someone narcing. The bigger my belly got, the more nervous he was. One night, maybe three weeks ago, we were lying in bed, and he looked at me with these glassy eyes and said ‘I’d kill anyone who came between us.’

“It wasn’t like him.”

Without fluttering his eyes, Mason Jr. released a rasping belch.

“It was meth. Apparently quite a lot of it, and for a while. I don’t know how I missed it – the long hours here, I guess, and the weirdness of becoming parents. He only told me because of what happened. He said he’d been here alone, late, working on prep stuff, and, uh, snorting. He got paranoid – sure a customer was going to tell the cops about us, and that he’d never get to see the kid. Crazy stuff, but he was convinced of it. He tossed a bunch of hardcore cleaning supplies into the batter, cooked ‘em, set them in the racks we keep for the special clients, then went home and passed out for sixteen hours.”

“He left me nothing but a letter when he heard about Ortez’s roommate – but it was enough to throw me into contractions. This is my second day back.”

The new born wheezed contentedly as his mother broke down again. Jasmine fought hard to remain silent beside the napping child.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, Mulligan cleared his head with a deep breath.

He reached for his phone.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP157 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifty-seven.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
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(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites Podcast.

Find out more at http://nimlas.org!

 

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, Harm Carter must contend with the sudden death of an acquaintance, as well as the gunman who did her in.

 

Flash Pulp 157 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 3 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueI’ll admit it – Johanna was the closest to a post-apocalyptic friend that I’d had up until that point. Not that we talked much, I suppose, but she’d quickly took up a hose when it looked like my house was likely to burn down, and that sort of thing tends to make me like a person.

“Whoa, hello Sheriff!” said Jeremy. The ill dressed hooligan was smiling.

We were all watching Tyrone, who was holding the handgun firmly at his side. It was a slightly more pleasant alternative to staring at the leaking carcass of our former companion.

“She was infected,” the old man replied.

“Hell yeah,” agreed the former Presidential-nominee. “I bet if we’d gone back there to look at the guy she clubbed to death, she would have used it as a chance to take out another one of us.”

Honestly, the shock of witnessing sudden death wasn’t what had me on my heels, it was the casual justification that followed. I’d forgotten that these people had been at the business of surviving the Murder Plague longer than I had. The cabin was like an ancient memory, as if it were something I’d known as a child – not just a few days earlier – and it seemed to me then that the extra week of enduring Hitchcock’s had turned my fellow humans into monsters.

Minnie stepped in then, carrying the light of hope.

“What the sweet crippity-crap are you yammering about?” she asked. “You have no proof, you just murdered her! You’re no better than they are!”

She was a brave girl to be shouting at a man with a pistol, especially one who had already proven his willingness to use it.

“Shut it,” replied Jeremy, “Let the adults talk.”

I cleared my throat, trying to get my feet.

“There aren’t any children anymore,” I said.

Tyrone pointed the death-dealer in my direction.

“She was working with Paul – imagine that, my own boy, trying to kill me. Not at home? Where else would he be? Coming to find me, of course. No other way about it. You two were in there way too long for it to be otherwise – long enough to plan. Where is he? Where’s Paul!?”

Having a gun aimed at you is an uncomfortable experience. Like a game of twister in reverse, your entire body wants to contort away from the one spot that would mark the passage of the bullet.

“Dammit,” said Jeremy, conceding his error.

The former grandfather, realizing just how close we all were, took a step back – that’s when a face appeared between the ads for scratch tickets. He was a big guy, with meaty cheeks, and his skull was clearly visible through the multitude of skin flaps on his forehead. The stranger put a bloody hand on the window, and suddenly I wasn’t the one in the line of fire anymore. While I was busy scraping my palms and knees on the pavement with a rushed dive, Minnie scooped up a jug of blue windshield washer fluid.

After several pops in quick succession, the weapon clicked on an empty chamber. The teen let fly with both arms, crushing the codger’s nose.

To Jeremy’s credit, he thought to try for a grab before Tyrone could pull any more rabbits from beneath his sweater.

Imitating the moves of a TV wrestling champ, the youth managed knock away the ordnance and entrap his elder in an awkward headlock. For a moment, the senior stopped struggling, and the situation seemed under control.

There was nothing we could do for the interloper.

I stooped to pick up the barren armament, and asked, “well, what now?”

“I vote we leave him,” replied Minnie. “Like Alyssa. Just get in the car and go.”

“He just killed someone!” shouted Jeremy.

“Two someones,” I corrected.

“So, you were wrong on Johanna,” said the girl, “- but this time you’re sure, so it’s OK to execute him?”

“Hey – I never said I was wrong about her, for all we know she infected him,” responded the captor.

“You’re on his side,” announced his captive.

Trying to hold onto someone who’s vehemently opposed to the idea is a much tougher bit of business than cop shows would have you believe. Four flailing limbs can make brutal clubs. The senior’s illness gave him the energy of a man a quarter his age, and one who’d been doped up on pharmaceuticals and thrown into a gladiatorial arena at that. Jeremy couldn’t maintain his grip.

Once free, Tyrone lunged for the door’s gray metal handle, danced over the store’s original occupant, and absconded inside.

No one was interested in giving chase, but, as we watched through the ragged holes in the safety glass, we soon realized it would have been a short pursuit anyhow.

Instead of breaking towards the washroom, as Johanna had done, he ran through a gray entrance marked “Employees Only” – towards the stock room.

I didn’t get close enough to investigate, so I don’t know how the shop’s first resident had rigged it, but, if Tyrone hadn’t sprouted an inverted axe handle from the top of his skull, it would have simply looked as if the old man had come to a sudden stop. I suppose the idea had been that any looters would make directly for the supplies, but the hoarder’s suspicions hadn’t considered that a traveller’s bladder might take precedence above their stomach. At the appearance of Johanna, he’d been forced to take matters into his own hands.

Even then, it didn’t prove he’d been sick – at best, it proved he’d been greedy.

We rummaged around and found three jerrycans, which we filled to the brim with fuel. None of us felt like snatching up any snacks – it wasn’t the corpses, it was the fact that we couldn’t be sure that the trapster hadn’t poisoned everything he didn’t want to eat.

Call us wasteful if you like, but we took another vote then, and pyre won out over burial.

We were a long ways away before the burning station’s column of smoke disappeared from my rear-view mirror.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP155 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifty-five.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp155.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites Podcast.

Find out more at http://nimlas.org!

 

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, Harm Carter explores the interior of a companion’s son’s home, while considering his future in a land brimming with homicide.

 

Flash Pulp 155 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 1 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueThere’s not much in the way of conversation starting after you and some friends have abandoned a bound paranoiac-madwoman, even if she was sick and likely to murder the lot of you.

Still, I suspect the thoughts of the five of us remaining in the Escalade spun around the same few questions: when was she infected? How was she infected? Were we now infected too?

Well, maybe all minds except Jeremy’s. That boy rarely had anything on his mind beyond the interior of his pants and his own position in the world.

After an hour’s driving, he broke the silence.

“So, uh,” he said. As he spoke, I remember him undoing his seat-belt and lifting himself off the leather so he could tug at his over-sized t-shirt. I also remember wondering how he’d managed to wrangle the passenger-side spot. Old man Tyrone didn’t look terribly comfortable wedged in back, between the ladies, and I felt like a chauffeur to the trio – with the middle row missing, it seemed like they were sitting at the far end of a football field. I could only guess where the former owner had stashed the rogue bench, as peculiar objects often went missing during the time of Hitchcock’s. “We should nominate a leader. I think we all agree that, as the strongest dude here, I should probably be it.”

“This isn’t a game of schoolyard red rover,” I replied. “We don’t need a team captain.”

Two days prior my discharge from Uncle Sam’s marching penguins, I’d been directed to kill a sixteen-year-old looter. The sole person to issue me an order from then, till the plague, was Kate, and cancer ended that chain of command well before the young hooligan’s suggestion that he might elect himself as a tinpot President.

“My boy lives a half mile down from the next right-hand turn,” said Tyrone.

I have to give the codger credit for knowing when to change the subject. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or not – it struck me as odd that he he hadn’t mentioned anything until we’d gotten so close, but, in retrospect, I can’t blame him for avoiding answers.

I rounded the corner.

The house had a big yard, slightly overgrown, and various children’s toys seemed to float on its surface, half-submerged in the greenery. There were no lights behind the windows of either floor.

“Don’t think anyone is home,” said Johanna.

Minnie cleared her throat.

“You guys can go poking around all you like, but I’m not going in. Leave me the keys, though.”

I killed the engine, watching Tyrone’s rheumy eyes in the mirror as he sized up the shadowy front-porch.

“OK then,” I said, “This decision is simple enough – we break into two groups: everyone going in, get out.”

There was a pause, during which nobody moved, then, for some bloody reason, I opened my door.

The real surprise came next, however. It was just me and Johanna.

“It’s really appreciated,” shouted Tyrone, from behind the glass.

I damned my mother for raising her son so well.

Johanna cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing. She did crack a bit of a smile when she noticed me dropping the Escalade’s starter into my pants-pocket.

What else was there to do?

We walked down the cobble-stone path that split from the driveway and took the double tread up onto the welcome mat. Out of sight of the rest of the group, my companion snuck a flip of her flask, then offered me some of the same.

It was tempting, but I declined. As she raised another tipple, I alternated between the brass knocker and the buzzer. No one responded.

Tucking away her thirst, Johanna tried the lock and found no resistance. I followed her inside.

Across from the entry, sitting on a buffet below the flight of steps leading to the second floor, was an ancient answering machine. The only source of light in the room was the digital counter, which was blinking five. I would rather have avoided it, but, while I was still fumbling for a switch, she hit the barely visible play button.

The device gave a few metallic clicks, then started talking.

“Paul, Maggie,” said Tyrone’s voice. “It’s, uh, Tuesday, 9AM. I’m not liking the looks of the neighbourhood. Your dear old dad is coming to visit. See you soon.”

As it was a Tuesday, the communique must have been at least a week old.

There was a flat beep, then a woman’s suburbanite mutter. As she spoke, I managed to locate a row of dimmers and flooded the entrance area – which included the living room to the left and the kitchen to the right – with illumination.

There was a fat dead dog at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hi,” said the machine. It sounded as if she were calling from a moving vehicle. “Nick was telling me about the birthday invitation you guys sent last week. I’ve just got a few quick questions, if you could give me a call back.”

She left her number, but my memory isn’t as reliable as a cassette tape.

We went around the couch, ignoring the tidy stack of magazines and remotes on the coffee table at its center.

There was a large fireplace beside the flatscreen, so I picked up a poker, and Johanna followed my lead by grabbing a solid metal ash-pan. There wasn’t much else of interest, nor in the little office that adjoined the space, nor in the dining room that lead off of that.

The litany of missed calls continued.

“It’s pretty rude not to give some simple answers,” opened the third message. “Nick is, uh, really upset that he doesn’t know what’s going on. You better call me.”

Our exploration brought us to the kitchen’s other access, and our path at that point inevitably lead back to the canine cadaver. It looked in rough shape. It’s dark brown fur contained streaks of dried blood, but the thick coat also hid the exact nature of its injuries from view. Fortunately, it didn’t smell terribly rotten yet.

I spent a moment guessing if Tyrone would be offended at my idea of using one of the canvas grocery bags, which were hanging on a hook beside the pearly white microwave, to collect up some canned goods.

The box gave another beep.

“Listen to me. I’ve driven by your house twice now, and I can see you moving inside. ANSWER MY CALLS.”

I decided to skip the pillaging and move directly to the second floor. Keeping my eyes firmly on my feet, I took the steps two at a time. Johanna was right beside me, close enough that I could tell it was rye she’d been drinking, and we moved in unison.

Neither of us made it beyond the baby gate which barred the opening to the upper hallway.

There was a lot of someone, or someones, spread around the carpet.

“Beep,” announced the phone-minder.

“I’m coming over,” said the woman. Then she hung up with a clunk.

“Why did she kill the dog too?” asked Johanna, as we made our way back onto the porch.

“She didn’t,” I told her. “The mutt’s what made the mess. Poor pooch probably hid under a bed while it was happening. Then, days later, once there was nothing usable left to eat, it must have tried to jump the gate, breaking its neck in the process.”

Before climbing into the vehicle, we agreed to tell Tyrone the house was empty.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Flash Pulp 143 – The Murder Plague: Community, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and forty-three.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Community, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp143.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Ladies Pendragon.

Find out more about their Pendragon Variety Podcast at http://pendragonvariety.com/

 

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, Harm Carter finds himself suddenly in a trust-building exercise, while attempting to avoid the homicidal urges of Hitchcock’s Disease.

 

Flash Pulp 143 – The Murder Plague: Community, Part 3 of 3

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

 

I drove the Escalade north, skirting the city, and pulled to a stop at Grant’s overlook. The spot was poorly maintained at the best of times, and park services had obviously been abandoned early in the ongoing cataclysm. The open, cracked, cement wore a crown of tall-grass, and the picnic table, along with its adjoining trash barrel, stood as lonely islands amongst the growth.

Jeremy, the first out, was eager to exit the vehicle and hunker down on the peeling bench. Alyssa, the blond woman, who I’d originally thought was Minnie’s mother, was the last to leave. She seemed to be lost in thought while scrutinizing my face, and it was only once she realized the teen-aged girl was already on the pavement that she also slid across the leather seats and dropped her slender legs to the ground.

I must admit, there was a temptation to simply roll up my window, wave a merry goodbye, and depart the area. We’d gotten this far without anyone making an effort to impale another with some makeshift weapon, and I was hesitant to risk breaking the streak.

The Murder PlagueStill, I let the engine die, then tucked the keys into my pocket. The doctor had attached a thin Swiss Army Knife to the chain, and I fumbled with it while I strolled to the group. I wasn’t eager to see if its tiny blade, and quite a bit of gumption, would be enough to overcome the strangers I’d found myself surrounded by.

We conducted a second round of introductions, more formally this time, then spent a moment in silence, watching the east end of the city as it was eaten by fire. I couldn’t process that the distant smoke was the cast off of the flame below – it felt as if I was watching my existence drifting high into the blue, where it was blown away in stringy-wisps.

It was Johanna who broke the silence, with a “Jeepers.”

I hadn’t had much opportunity to talk to the old girl at that point, and I didn’t know what to make of her floral print dress and utilitarian haircut. I hadn’t learned of her hidden flask yet.

“Well, we have a ride, just like you wanted,” Jeremy said, turning to Tyrone.

I wasn’t sure if it was a threat, or an assumption.

The codger harrumphed.

“You’ve been wanting to take a drive to this forgotten make-out spot?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at the odd pairing.

“What? No I mean -” It was Minnie, the teenager, who cut Jeremy short.

“Can we get a lift?” The girl used her interjection into the conversation as an excuse to get away from the slathering hugs that Alyssa had made repeated attempts to wrap her in.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure I could say no – to buy time, I mentioned that it didn’t strike me as likely that any specific corner of the apocalypse would be less exciting than the others.

“We want to head to the army roadblock at the state line,” she replied.

Now, you have to understand that the concept of a military blockade held a lot of implications in my mind. I’d spent no few hours walking the perimeters of such outposts, often while the starving folks I was on hand to protect moaned at the gate. As I stared down at the angry red patch creeping over the city, though, I was nothing but welcoming to the news that somewhere the old uniforms still held some starch.

Before I had a chance to grow misty-eyed with patriotism, Alyssa broke in.

She’d positioned herself by the now open trunk, and I couldn’t see what she might be holding in her fist.

“I don’t think we should go with him,” she spat, attempting to lock her free-hand’s fingers around Minnie’s elbow. “He just wants to take her away from us!”

Her traveling companions exchanged a glance that told me they’d come to the same conclusion that I had – the high tone she was using brought to mind the sort of squeaking self-assurance that a child gets when they think they’re in command of information unknown to anyone else.

Alyssa caught the pity in her friends’ eyes.

That’s when she beaned me with my own can of StarKist tuna.

It hurt, certainly, but I was glad that the puck-like container was what she’d come up with, and not, say, a handgun.

As I cradled my bleeding temple, Alyssa snatched up a a bottle of Ragu, raised it in a two-fisted grip, and rushed me.

It was Minnie who tripped her.

We had no rope, but the doc had left a varied collection of cellphone chargers in his glove compartment, and, as Jeremy and I used their retractable chords to create restraints, the others held her in place.

It was while watching her shrink in my rear-view mirror, writhing and screaming atop the picnic table, that I realized I was stuck with them: not because I liked them, but because I needed people around me willing to do the same if, and when, I too went over the edge.

 

(Part 1Part 2Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Flash Pulp 142 – The Murder Plague: Community, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and forty-two.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Community, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1Part 2 – Part 3)[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp142.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Ladies Pendragon.

Find out more about their Pendragon Variety Podcast at http://pendragonvariety.com/

 

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, Harm Carter encounters a new obstacle to remaining alive in a world dominated by a homicidal epidemic.

 

Flash Pulp 142 – The Murder Plague: Community, Part 2 of 3

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

 

The wall of heat that was following the five strangers down the road was oppressive, and yet, bless their foolish hearts, they stopped to help me. There was little time for discussion, but, for whatever it was worth, Jeremy took up the hose attached to the Hernandezes, and started spraying the closest wall, while Johanna grabbed Baldy’s, and did the same for the other side.

I was grinning, I must admit. Human kindness can be quite touching when the majority of your interactions with other people lead to a murder attempt.

The remaining three looked up questioningly, having run out of reasonable water sources.

“There’s some food inside, it would probably be a good idea to grab as much as you think is suitable to travel, and relocate it to the trunk of the Escalade.”

To be fair, I wasn’t entirely swept away by their good will – I knew the keys were safely in my pocket.

The Murder PlagueTwo of the group, Minnie, no older than fourteen, and Alyssa, a blond woman just old enough to be mistaken as Minnie’s mother, began to transfer canned goods from my pantry to our escape method.

Through the process of elimination this left the laziest of the bunch, the old man, Tyrone, to make the introductions. After he provided a quick explanation of names, my throat was growing agitated from the heat and smoke, so I invited him up.

Once he’d topped the ladder, I asked the obvious.

“This may sound like an odd question, but aren’t you concerned I’m going to murder you?”

“Well, you had time and opportunity for a better set up than getting us up on your slick roof in hopes of an accident, and, really, no one locked in that whole murder or be murdered mindset shouts hello.” He had a point, but he pushed on with a grisly detail. “I was trying to save my place before it went up as well – you’ll see, as the fire gets closer a lot of these garage doors will burst open and the last of the rats that have been hiding inside, instead of helping you, will abandon ship.”

It wasn’t something I’d considered – frankly, I’d thought Baldy to be amongst the last.

I nodded, sloshing tepid water across the tiles.

“Where do those kind of paranoids lodge? The Bates Motel, I suppose,” continued Tyrone.

He went on, but I don’t really recall the dialogue. Despite the approaching crackle, and the marching pop of backyard barbecues, he’d immediately fallen into a posture that I can only imagine was familiar to his normal life: idle conversation while watching others work.

He talked, and we scurried about, and it all amounted to about the same anyhow: it was obvious well before any flames touched my house that it was a lost cause.

Minnie and Alyssa had joined us by then, helping share some of the brunt of Tyrone’s unceasing prattling, and Alyssa specifically struck me as having a solid handle on how to direct his energies.

“Shut up and do something useful,” she’d said while clearing the final rung onto the roof.

It wasn’t an easy decision – it felt as if I was abandoning the memory of my wife to smolder with the rest of my possessions, and it stung to think that Rebecca, should she ever come looking, would find no home to return to. There was no real option, however, and I could almost hear Kate’s voice, as it had been just before her death, calling me an ornery mule for having waited so long.

It was the grinding of an automatic garage door, followed by the swift departure of a white, bloody-windowed, Lexus, that finally sold me. If even the crazies knew it was time to go, I reasoned, so should I.

“I believe we ought to be rambling on.” I announced, making sure my volume would carry the words to the two still on the ground.

We descended, and began to take up our places within the stolen vehicle I’d so quickly fallen into the mindset of calling my own.

Jeremy was the last straggler, and his reply reminded me oddly of my daughter.

“Screw that man, we can totally do this.”

A small explosion two doors down rained flaming debris across my back-deck, and there was no need for further argument – though he did find reason to complain when he finally arrived at the SUV, as all of the plush leather seats had been occupied.

He’d opened the rear door where Minnie and Alyssa sat, side-by-side, and there was something in his weighing gaze that I did not enjoy.

“You can sit on the old man’s lap,” I said, reaching across Tyrone – who’d presumptively taken the front-passenger seat – and opening the door. I began rolling slowly away from the curb in encouragement.

He hopped in, yanking the handle shut.

As the pair exchanged awkward glances in their new-found intimacy, I peeled away from my doomed lawn, eager to be gone before I could consider what I was leaving behind.

 

(Part 1Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Flash Pulp 141 – The Murder Plague: Community, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and forty-one.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Community, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp141.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Ladies Pendragon.

Find out more about their Pendragon Variety Podcast at http://pendragonvariety.com/

 

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, Harm Carter encounters a new obstacle to remaining alive in a world dominated by a homicidal epidemic.

 

Flash Pulp 141 – The Murder Plague: Community, Part 1 of 3

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

 

The exhaustion from my initial foray into Murder-Plague survival was overwhelming, and, when sleep finally found me, I was out like a college freshman on the opening day of spring break. The rest did me good.

When I awoke, my immediate thought was for my wayward daughter.

I knew Doc Henley, rotting away in his living room, had little use for the Escalade he had once used to putter between his home and his practice, so I stepped into the crisp morning, noted that I had no paper awaiting me on the doorstep, then crossed the street. On my way, I caught a strong whiff of smoke, and had an opportunity to get a sunlit look at the blackened plank-teeth that made up the remnants of the residence five down from my own. I didn’t realize then how lucky I’d been that the place had guttered, instead of sharing its fiery bounty with its neighbors.

I started my search of the doctor’s bungalow by ransacking every room that didn’t contain the man I’d killed, then, once I was sure that it was the only option, I entered his death chamber. His corpse lay across his white leather couch, just as I’d left it, and he put up little fuss as I rifled his personal materials – even when we were forced to become more intimate than I was comfortable with. Now, so long after, I can still tell you with confidence that his keys were in the right-hand pocket of his khaki slacks.

The Murder PlagueThe second excursion was nothing like the first. I’d learned my lesson, and didn’t allow myself to get caught up in the business of others. In truth, while passing the few pedestrians brave, or sick, enough to risk the sidewalks, I had a terrible urge to gun the engine – but I was just as worried that someone might take it as an act of war, and start tossing bullets my way in plague-fueled paranoid-reflex.

It’s also worth mentioning, however, that politeness seemed generally at an all time high, as a survival instinct. There were no tailgaters during Hitchcock’s – or, if there were, they’d been quickly eliminated via unnatural selection.

The house in which my daughter had been squatting was empty when I arrived. I loitered for a while, hoping she’d return, but it was obvious that Becky had taken everything of use and departed. I sat on her borrowed bed for a while, considering the situation.

Had Rebecca left because, somewhere in her infected brain, she knew that I would return, and she didn’t want to be responsible for my death? Or was she lurking, awaiting an opportunity to do me in?

Eventually the thoughts chased me home, where they were immediately displaced by an entirely different set of concerns.

When I’d stepped onto the roadway that morning I’d assumed the tickle at my nose was the smouldering pile down the street – as I approached, this poor reasoning was corrected by a wall of smoke marching out of the west.

I parked the Escalade on the pavement, facing east.

The issue was the wind. The smoke, and the flame, were being carried along by a stiff breeze, and, as I clambered over my rooftop with the garden hose, hoping to dampen things enough to keep my suburban castle safe, the exploding propane tanks of my neighbours’ barbecues provided a sort of “from the lightning till the clap” method of measuring the time I had till the fire was upon me. It was obvious within an hour of my return that the situation was getting out of hand.

As I stood on the soaked shingles, pondering my predicament, Mr Baldy came bursting from his home. Not his real name, of course, but I’d never introduced myself to the family on the side of the house opposite the Hernandezes’. As I raised a hand in greeting, I realized that he was alone – that is, without his wife or trio of sons. In response his own fingers went to a gun tucked into his belt, and it took no further encouragement to send me hurtling to the far side of the peak.

I was pleased when the next sound to reach me was his car starting, and not the clanking of a ladder.

Once he was well gone, I picked up my rubber spout and took stock of my corner of the apocalypse.

The air was getting thick, and dancing red was clearly visible beneath the gouts of black that blanketed the western horizon. Before I could decide it was a good time to follow Baldy’s exit, I noticed a cluster of five, prowling down the road like traumatized cats.

They moved slowly, with a motley array of weaponry in their fists, and their heads were constantly craning about to scan the surrounding doorways.

It says something about how quickly I’d become acclimatized to a terrible situation that I was surprised to see a group of people not occupied with attempting to kill each other.

With Baldy in mind, I damned my idiotic need for company, then bellowed a hello.

 

(Part 1Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Flash Pulp 135 – Influence, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and thirty-five.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Influence, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp135.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the free audio-novella, Boiling Point.

Find out more at http://neilcolquhoun.com

 

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 tell a chiller tale, regarding Clifton Wade – a man who finds himself in a tenuous situation.

 

Flash Pulp 135 – Influence, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Clifton Wade leaned against the exit, his eyes locked on the ground, and the sliver of light that was the only illumination in the tiny room.

His breathing seemed to bounce from the ceramic tiles and close walls, in perfect time with the metronome tapping of the dripping sink. He whimpered in the darkness of the bathroom, his left hand solidly locked on the brass knob, and his right on the white, plastic, light switch.

Flooding the room with fluorescence was tempting – so much so that his fingers were sweating. He knew, however, that he couldn’t; if he flicked on the glowing tubes, he would be unable to tell if a shadow passed over the far side of his meager barricade.

Fearful tears stung his eyes.

There was little he agreed with his Mother-in-law on, but now, as he wished himself invisible, her words rose to taunt him.

“Cliffers, you should have that doody-mouth washed out with soap.”

In the apartment beyond, a latch rasped, and the sharp click of a suddenly-released handle brought his lungs to a halt. He brushed aside the pink bathrobe, hanging down the back of the door from a white hook, and pressed his cheek to the cheap plywood.

At first there was nothing, but, after a moment, a dragging tread began to shuffle across the carpet, approaching his hidden position.

The glimmering thread, at his feet, dimmed – grunting snuffling filled its place, and he clenched against the urges of his bladder. Long seconds were measured by the ever-leaking faucet.

With a final snort, the sounds moved further along the hall, and the faint sheen returned to the tiles.

He knew it was only a brief respite.

* * *

ChillerIt had started an hour earlier, while he’d been sharing a breakfast of bran flakes with his wife of twenty years, Vanessa.

“Maybe we could consider looking into a nice place for your mom to go to? I don’t mean like a home with meanie nurses and rude neighbours – I could get a second job and swing one of those fancy golf villas in Florida? Like that pamphlet we got in the mail?” he’d said.

“Oh dear, sweetie! How in the heck can you even start talking like that? Mama doesn’t know any place but ours!”

“Honey-bunches, when you first asked if she could move in, you said it was just going to be for a bit.”

“Darnit: “The keys to patience are acceptance and faith. Accept things as they are, and look realistically at the world around you. Have faith in yourself and in the direction you have chosen.” Mama sent me that quote – I don’t remember who it was by, but it’s on Facebook – and she’s absolutely gosh darned right.”

“I have shown patience – but she… she always tells us what to do. I don’t like spending my evenings watching The Bold and The Beautiful. I don’t want to learn to knit! I don’t like that she picks out what we wear! I don’t think it’s appropriate that she makes me a packed lunch every day for work, and that it always includes stuff I repeatedly ask not to have! I don’t like bananas, however much potassium she may think I’m deficient of!”

“She’s just trying to do what’s good for you.”

“Honestly, honey, I love you, but – she kind of scares me.”

“Jeepers! You’re impossible when you’re like this. Let’s wait till Mama’s here, she always knows best, she can talk some sense into you.”

“Oh, #### off,” he’d replied.

It had just slipped.

Vanessa wasn’t a child – she didn’t say “I’m telling” – but he knew she’d thought it. He could read it on her cockamamie face.

* * *

There was a knock

“Mamas gotta number two. Please don’t be in there much longer, Cliffers. Poopy, or get off the pot, as they say.”

Clifton decided he had no choice but to face his fear.

Picking the knife up from the counter, he blew a kiss towards his wife’s punctured corpse. Her body was smeared in a mixture of Mr Bubble and blood, and lay awkwardly on top of the rubber-ducky patterned bath-curtain which she’d ripped down as he’d chased her into the tub – but he could see none of it in the dark.

He turned the door handle.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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