Tag: Buggy

185 – The Murder Plague: Buggy, Part 3 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Buggy, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp185.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the bistrips comic Treed.

 

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, and his fellow survivors of Hitchcock’s Disease, find themselves once again on the cusp of a difficult decision.

 

Flash Pulp 185 – The Murder Plague: Buggy, Part 3 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueWhat do you do with a temporarily unconscious homicidal child? Keeping the flashlight on her eyes, I silently wished I’d brought my empty pistol, and resolved to bluff, if need be.

Frankly, I was tempted to tip her rig, rip out a few of the important bits, then retreat to the seclusion of Newton’s camp – with luck, she might’ve simply wandered off to pester some other cutthroat.

As Jeremy and I stood in silence over the girl, oddly, I suddenly found myself in the middle of just another night. It’s funny what your mind will do when drowning in stress.

There was a chill on the wind, and a rustle in the trees, but that wasn’t quite it. Maybe it was the resurgent crickets, or the feeling of standing in the dark, amid the open countryside. I looked up at the stars and took in a lung full of crisp air, and for a brief moment, I wasn’t having to consider murdering a seven-year-old.

Then she said “Snerk,” and began thrashing against the racing buckles that had held her in place during her airborne acrobatics. With the light still in her face, it was easy to make out the jagged row of exposed teeth between her snapping mandibles. She’d filed them down with something, but poorly – the gaps and misshapen points had given the young Ms. a jaw like a cartoon shark.

Minnie, who was much closer in age to the child than she was to Newton, hustled from behind us, towing the strongman by the hand.

“Be quiet or I’ll put a bullet in you,” I said to our apparent captive, hoping she wouldn’t notice my lack of a weapon, much less spare ammunition.

It wasn’t exactly the sort of threat I’d used in my years of parenting, but it brought the flailing to an end.

“What now?” said Minnie.

“Your boyfriend should cave in her skull,” snarled Jeremy, “- gonna need to unbuckle her helmet first though.”

Well, we’d been on the road for a while, but even I found the statement shocking.

“You can’t seriously be advocating for the death of a juvenile?” I said.

“No – for the death of a murderer. What else do you suggest?” he replied.

There was another while of standing; and crickets; and the night’s breeze.

Finally, when it became obvious to Jeremy that we weren’t going to supply a response, he turned on the big man.

“What’s it going to be? Maybe we tie her up, and leave her here to starve, or to be discovered by another nutter? What happens to her then? Just as bad as killing her, isn’t it? Or we can let her go, see if she can’t find some more healthy, innocent people to slaughter?”

“She’s infected, but what’s YOUR excuse for murder?” asked Newton

“That crazy killed your friends. Survival is what will separate us, in the end. You need to punish her – to make it right.” was Jeremy’s sullen reply.

At that point, Minnie, while still holding the giant’s meaty paw, interjected.

“You may not be infected, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t a psychopath,” she said.

“Screw you.”

The teen continued, despite the insult.

“If you’re so excited about seeing this kid killed, you do it.”

There was another pause, and our prisoner’s feral eyes kept trying to pry beyond the edge of my blinding beam. She likely believed she was dead, no matter who won the argument.

“Fine,” said Jeremy.

Part of me wanted to intervene, but I just couldn’t puzzle another solution to the problem.

Was he sick?

In truth, I rather believed our gasbag would step down, begin to wind himself up for the dirty work, then shrug and commence moping. Thirty seconds, I thought, and we’ll clear from the scene and continue along our miserable way.

That’s not what happened, though.

Approaching the go-kart, he made a move to reach for its driver. At the same instant, the intended victim punched the ignition, hoping to restart her vehicle. Seeing her motion, Jeremy lunged to restrain his prey, and she closed her bristling mouth on his forearm. The jalopy, responding to her summons for action, turned its engine over once, then the combustion climbed out of the engine, down an apparently leaking fuel-line, and the rig burst into flames.

The girl was screaming around her clenched fangs, but she refused to let go, and most of her attacker’s clothes were burned away before I could grab him by the scruff and yank him from the inferno.

I dragged him onto the roadway, while Minnie retrieved my dropped lantern. He hadn’t been trapped long, but the heat was immense, and the majority of Jeremy’s chest and face had more in common with scorched steaks than the young man we’d known.

Fear was driving us then – fear that the ruckus and blaze would draw attention from some other corrupted assailant. With Newton propping up the injured lad’s far shoulder, we stumbled back through the woods, not stopping until we’d returned to the sheltered site at which we’d lazed the day away.

We spent the night taking turns watching over the blistered husk of our companion, occasionally soaking a shirt in the stream so we might drip water down his rasping throat, but, by dawn, it was obvious he was a lost cause.

As the sun rose, Jeremy rattled his final gasp.

Soon after we buried him, along with what remains we could collect from the ashes of the lethal machine, in the same sandy turf as Newton had laid down his other former associates.

Minnie and I wept as we said our goodbyes.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

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

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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.

184 – The Murder Plague: Buggy, Part 2 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Buggy, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp184.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the The Flash Mob on Facebook.

It’s like a game of Twister with a thousand participants.

Find it here

 

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 and his accompaniment must weigh the choices presented by a world full of homicidal psychotics.

 

Flash Pulp 184 – The Murder Plague: Buggy, Part 2 of 3

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

 

The Murder Plague“So,” said Jeremy, his hands wringing the hem of his t-shirt like a professional sponge cleaner well on his way to a personal record, “you’re saying you just sat there, listening to your friends being killed?”

“There was nothing I could,” replied Newton, his face moist from his recounting. “I mean – honestly, I did try setting up a barricade on the road, once I was done cleaning up the pieces, figured he’d smack into it in the dark, but – well, it came by, then stopped. Sounded as if it went around.”

“You didn’t even watch it happen!? You could of jumped the bastard!”

“It was pitch black, I would have probably caught a bullet in the belly or an axe to the face.”

Minnie placed a hand on the weeping man’s sizable bicep, and Jeremy stalked to the furthest edge of the camp to glower at us from the clearing’s edge, while muttering to himself.

The day largely passed that way – which, frankly, was fine by me, as it was a change of pace from ducking live ammunition and madmen’s ill intentions.

I spent the day lounging in the sun and ignoring small talk.

Finally, as supper neared, and Jeremy’s stomach’s complaints grew loud enough to overcome his bent nose, we reconvened over some open cans of unheated Dinty Moore.

We chatted around mouthfuls, which eventually lead to consideration of future plans.

“Tomorrow we should start trying to hitch out of here,” said Newton. “We aren’t going to find any help locally, and if we can hook up with another group, we could be at the government blockade in a day or two.”

Minnie nodded her agreement. I couldn’t help but notice how closely she’d positioned herself to our new companion.

“Yeah. There’s safety in numbers. At least if we see a bunch of people together, we know they aren’t infected.”

“Unless,” replied Jeremy, “they’re a bunch of looting-rapist-murderers, or everyone gets infected and it turns into a twelve-way shoot-out.”

“We should certainly watch for any drug addled, baby murdering, ne’er-do-wells,” I said, “but, it seems to me, it’s a slim chance that we’ll run across a barbarian horde amongst the cow patties. I think we ought to go for a stroll. We’ll have to find a way through the woods for a bit, to avoid our rifle-toting friend up the road, but I don’t relish thumbing a ride with a potential Norman Bates. We can stick to the trees after we’re around him, and walk till we find a suitable vehicle, or, better yet, some space-suit wearing government fellows.”

Jeremy dropped his empty container of meatball stew.

“Before we run away, we should destroy the death machine. Make it right for those folks wannabe-Charlie Atlas here abandoned.”

The sun set while we went from debate to argument, and it was only the sound that stopped us.

Quite a lot happened at once: Minnie hugged Newton, Jeremy went crashing into the forest that blocked our view of the road, and I grabbed the flashlight.

I was unenthusiastic about chasing the hooligan through the dark, especially when I dared not use the light-source in my hand, but I had some ideas regarding what he might encounter, and I couldn’t figure any other option that didn’t require digging another hole in the site’s makeshift burial ground.

It’s approach became a cacophony as I busied myself with dodging aggressive branches, but, even as I arrived, the thing’s engines began to fade into the distance.

However, I was pleased to find Jeremy, lying on the grading at the edge of the road, still alive. I believe the idiot thought he was hidden. I suppose he can’t be blamed, there was no moon, and, below the pine-tops, the world was nothing but murk.

As I helped him to his feet, there was a change in the nature of the fading shriek. It took us a moment to realize it had turned around.

Scrambling to the timber, I stage whispered that we should waste no time with greetings. Jeremy would have none of it, however, and he simply returned to his prone posture. The clamour was approaching too quickly for a reasoned argument, and before I could muster any words that might convince him to run, it was on top of us.

There was nothing to see – the night was opaque – but it was imperative that I wait as long as possible for maximum effect.

When I guessed it could be no further than ten feet off, I flicked on my light.

I was wrong, it was a good twenty away, but its speed was such that it flung itself into my beam.

We caught a glimpse of what looked oddly like a large steel insect, then the rig plunged down the far ditch, flipped once, and went silent.

While we sprinted towards its landing spot, Jeremy scooped a set of goggles from the pavement.

“Was there a bloody Wal-Mart special or something? Where did these hillbillies all get night-vision?”

The beast of legend was a home-made go kart. A collection of kitchen knives, farm implements, and lawnmower blades, had been affixed to the running boards, and nails driven through its tin hood, giving it the look of a metallic porcupine with flaking yellow skin.

At the wheel – with her nose bleeding onto her denim jacket – I was unsurprised to find a stunned seven-year-old.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

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

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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.

183 – The Murder Plague: Buggy, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Buggy, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp183.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the The Flash Mob on Facebook.

Like discovering a clown car under your bed – a clown car full of hugs.

Find it here

 

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 is told a tale of mechanical menace and human tragedy.

 

Flash Pulp 183 – The Murder Plague: Buggy, Part 1 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueOur strenuous rescue from the sharpshooter, and the sort of sleepless unrest you’ll get when someone is attempting to assassinate you, left us fatigued and eager for unconsciousness – once we’d extensively thanked our slab-armed liberator.

The strongman, Newton, had setup a small camp alongside a creek. The site was entirely sheltered from the road by a thick wall of trees, and we took turns sleeping, bathing in the mucky water, and keeping a watch for any roaming infected paranoiacs who might suddenly pop out of the bush like a game of rabid whack-a-mole.

After a quartet of raggedly snored symphonies, we gathered at the edge of the brook and, by the moon’s glow, did some accounting.

Jeremy, Minnie, and I, had little to offer beyond the empty gun I’d taken from Tyrone, whereas Newton displayed an array of tinned stews, a bright blue high-powered-flashlight, and a functional knowledge of the area.

It certainly appeared that we were getting the better part of the deal.

“I thought,” said Jeremy, “that all of the houses ‘round here were booby-traps? If so, where’d you find the cans? You had to get those somewhere, why are we sleeping on the dirt?”

More than looking a gift horse in the mouth, it seemed to me that the lad’s tone was smacking the nag in the teeth, but our host answered before I was able to say so.

“Let me tell you a story,” said Newton, laying his massive frame out on the grass. “Like I said, back before the engine quit, there were twelve of us. We all knew the situation, we’d stolen – uh, borrowed – the bus hoping to ride it straight to the military blockade. Everything was easy-peasy, until…”

He paused then, tossing a stone into the river. I remember it because I knew it was a sign that he was truly agitated; no hardened survivor of the Murder Plague, who isn’t distracted, makes unnecessary noise.

“I don’t wanna go through the whole list, but, after some politics, some infections, and some poor choices, it came down to me and Pam and Larry. Wasn’t so long ago that they were the ones sitting here. Anyhow, they got hungry, and we started arguing. They were pushing to try looting another place, but that was mostly how we’d lost the other nine, and I thought it was a better idea to just start walking and hope for the best, or, at least, a town.

“Now, there’d been this buzzing sound going by – it’s hard to describe, sort of a souped-up weed whacker. Of course, we’d avoided it, which was easy enough, since you notice it coming at a distance – and it’s always pitch black out when it blows by.”

“You don’t know what it looks like?” asked Minnie. It was a strong question, but she proposed it in the softest tone I’d heard from the teen. I rather think she’d taken quite a shine to our Hercules by then. Less approving was the scowl on Jeremy’s face.

“Well, no. I figure, if I can see it, it can see me,” Newton replied. “My point, though, is that we’d noticed it a bunch, but, despite it only showing up when it was night, those two idiots thought they’d go out to hunt grub in the dark. Larry was a bit of a goof, but Pam had her head on pretty straight generally, and I argued with her for quite a while before they left.

“I watched their backs disappear into the trees, then I was alone, for the first time since the outbreak. The minutes dragged on. I lost track of how long they were gone. I started sweating, pacing, and generally freaking out.

“Hours later, I heard Larry, laughing. He was pretty far off – across the road still – but he was celebrating with that annoying chicken chuckle of his: rubbing it in that they’d found treasure.

“However annoyed I might have been at the jerk, I was eager for a little grub in my belly.

“Then came the shriek; that maniac yard equipment sound.

“I don’t know what happened – maybe they thought their luck might hold, or that it was a patrol of some sort – maybe they couldn’t tell how much faster it seemed than before. In any case, it ended with them screaming. Larry kept asking for help, relentlessly, but Pam was just crying and squealing. She didn’t even sound human. I thought that the roaming buzz-saw noise was leaving, but it was just giving itself running room. It came by at full tilt, then – well, then there was nothing. Silence.

“When the sun came up, I went looking. Bits of them were spread out over a good half-mile of pavement. I found a duffel bag, with those stew cans in it, next to Larry’s severed hand. The bugs had already done quite a number on the stump.”

On that note of gore, he understandably stopped the recital, but Jeremy lept into the gap with a question.

“We must have driven by this spot in the Escalade, and I didn’t see a people smear anywhere?”

“I spent a good portion of the day tidying – and vomiting. You may have noticed the duffel wasn’t amongst my contributions.”

He pointed over the stream, at a sandy patch behind a cluster of immature spruce. I hadn’t noticed, up until then, how churned the area’s earth appeared, but I was pleased with my inadvertent choice of slumbering on the bank furthest from the burial site.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

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

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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.