Tag: Flash

Flash Pulp 129 – Coffin: Bunny Davis, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present Coffin: Bunny Davis, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the collected jabberings of Captain Ignatius Pigheart – tales that’ll warm the cockles of any musky urchin.

Buy the stories, full of humour and high adventure, at CD Baby

 

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 introduce Will Coffin, a man of unusual knowledge and charms.

 

Flash Pulp 129 – Coffin: Bunny Davis, Part 1 of 3

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

 

Will Coffin ran his eyes over the shimmering expanse of parking lot, idly wondering what made the power lines hum on a hot day, and dipped his hand into the small bag of sunflower seeds that sat beside him on the bench. He hated his new spot outside of the Eats & Treats, it got too much sun during the day, and there were never any pigeons around to feed, but his old haunt had burned to the ground, and he didn’t feel comfortable loitering in a vacant lot.

Still, people knew where to find him.

He was spitting out the last of the seed husks when he noted Bunny Davis, from the north tower, crossing the street. She was wearing a long, white-fuzzed bathrobe.

Will tossed the plastic sack in the garbage, and laid mental odds regarding her destination: the interior of the chain-store, or his own curb-side office. He stood at a fifty-fifty split until she was close enough that he could better make out her face, and then the odds began to slide. When her housecoat slipped open to reveal her puffy body covered in blood, Coffin moved to stand.

“Will, I need help.”

Rather than interrupt, he simply waited out the obvious part of the discussion.

“I’ve killed Tim!”

It was the last coherent statement she would make for a while, as Bunny seemed to begin an attempt to curl her extremities into herself. Her arms became locked against her rough face, covering the spider-lines left on her cheeks and nose by drink, and she sank to the ground.

“Come on now,” Will said, placing a hand on her shoulder- the knotted knuckles of his long fingers looked out of place on the white fuzz. “You’ll hurt your knees that way.”

He lifted her to his.

Embarrassed on her behalf, regarding her robe, he attempted to draw it closed without bringing her attention to the fact that it had been open. In the end he had to take off his own beaten leather jacket, and place it over her knees. She’d been relatively oblivious during the process, resorting instead to expressing herself through an unwavering, extended-squeal.

Coffin suspected it might have been a scream too large for her throat.

Mr. Nickels, from the east tower, came into the view, hustling his wheelchair across the street while raising a hand to Will. As he neared, he took in the weeping white fluff, and his course altered slightly – instead of intersecting the bench, he sailed towards the store’s automatic doors and disappeared inside.

Unmindful, Bunny continued her kettle-screech.

After a while, Nickels exited the shop. In his lap was the victory prize of a pack of smokes, having been won after ten rounds of jawing with Lornie, the shop’s owner. As he passed, he gave Will a quick nod, then turned, setting his jaw as he made to cross during a blinking yellow light.

Will eyed the sky.

The time was coming when people would be arriving home from work, and he wanted to be clear of the street by then. Between five and midnight, they too shared the neighbourhood.

He stood, pacing a little, which seemed to be enough for Bunny to finally get a grip on the emotional valve that had given way. Her squeal contracted to a halt, and she looked up at Will. She attempted to speak, but at first she could only manage a cough.

After a moment, she did a poor job of spitting a combination of blood and mucus onto the pavement, then she tried again.

“We were just sitting around talking. That song, “Heart of Glass” came on? I love that song.” She made a sound that could have been either a throat clear, or a laugh, and spat again. “Tim says ‘Shut that —-ing thing off,’ but I’ve got half a bottle of backbone in me, and I figure, —- that, we know they ain’t home in the place above or below, so why not have some fun? I turn it up a little and that’s when he —-ing kicks me on the leg, just below my ass. I don’t know if he was aiming for my cheek, or what, but he probably would have broken my tailbone with those —-ing work boots of his.

“I go over, and suddenly I’m staring at the bottom of the table and realizing how much gum we’ve actually shoved under there. He reaches across and turns down the radio, then sits down to butter his toast like nothing ever happened – like he can just ignore that —-. I sat up, got the rest of the bottle down, and went into the kitchen to get the cleaver with the wood handle that my Mom left me when she passed. I’m standing there, and I’m yelling at him, and he just looks so mad that I’m pretty sure if I put the cleaver down, he’s going to pick it back up again, and that’ll be the end of me – but then he starts laughing, and I KNOW if I put it down, it’ll be the end of me.”

Her telling was interrupted as she began to shiver, and Will, glancing at his watch, decided it might be best if they got traveling. He stood, offering her a hand.

As they waited out the cross traffic at the light, Bunny continued.

“Well, after a while he sort of realized we were at a standoff. He decides he’s going to go into the kitchen, and he grabs a fish fillet-er out of the block. I’d followed him into the room, screaming not to —-ing move, when I really should have been running out the —-ing door. Anyhow, he gets the knife and he starts threatening again, and every now and then he takes a swing at me. At first he’s just trying to scare me, but then he cut me, “ she raised a hand to her stomach, but never broke stride on the cracked asphalt of the crosswalk. “I was sure he was going to really mean the next one, so I brought the knife down on his forehead like I was chopping wood. Damned if Tim didn’t fall straight over on his spine – toes of his boots up in the air and that handle pushin’ down his nose – just like Daffy Duck catching a frying pan with his face.”

Her story carried them through the front door of her building, past the red brick work, the Sears artwork, and the fake potted palms flanking the elevators. A Vietnamese woman, holding a brown paper bag of take out, stood waiting. The up button was already illuminated. Bunny distractedly attempted to knot the front of her robe, failed on the first attempt, and had to loosen it once she had succeeded. After a ten minute wait, the panels slid open, and the three rode upward while trying to ignore the unsettling grinding noises of the ancient hoist.

Bunny led the way as they exited, directing him to a long a barren hall, adorned only with a harshly-patterned carpet that reminded Will of his few experiences with Las Vegas casinos.

The smell of the hall filled his nostrils as he passed through it. His stomach growled at the smell of a simmering curry, but was quickly quelled by the stink of a chain smoker. Beneath it all, there was something more: a vague hint of sulphur.

Will followed Bunny’s lead in keeping the door as closed as possible as they went through, but the entryway contained nothing but a filthy rug and a pair of worn sneakers.

“Huh.” Will said, passing through the small dining room, towards the kitchen. He was familiar with all of the interior layouts of the towering apartment blocks that populated his neighborhood.

Upon viewing the sprawled body of the former Mr. Davis, his initial thought was that the knife – a thick bladed affair, its long wooden handle smoothed by years of honest use – had pushed Tim’s nose so far down that it might have been almost funny, if it didn’t look so uncomfortable. He considered pulling the handle up a bit to give the dead man some breathing room, but decided it wasn’t worth leaving the weepy killer to explain why it had been wiped down.

“I want to tell him I’m sorry,” said Bunny.

“Huh.” Will said again.

The cooking area was long and narrow, with a small, floral-topped table on one side. Over the knife-scoured counter a pass-through revealed the living room’s lop-sided couch, from which peeked yellow stuffing from numerous cigarette burns.

“Do you know the price?” Coffin asked.

“Yep,” she replied.

“Go into the bedroom and wait.”

He watched until the white robe had disappeared through the doorway, then bent low over the corpse.

Unzipping the right hand pocket of his beaten jacket, he pulled forth a silver charm on a length of slender chain. The talisman had something of the appearance of a hook, but it’s sharpened point bent into a swirl of intricate lacing, so that threading anything onto it required some maneuvering. At the base of the hook, stuck firmly through the middle, was a drying hunk of meat, which Will made every effort to think of as nothing more than beef jerky.

He dipped the links onto the body’s left cheek, and let the cold metal drag along its temple.

Then he tugged.

Will CoffinThe un-affixed hook had suddenly taken on weight, but Coffin put his arm to it, and out popped the ghost of Tim Davis, as if pulled by an ethereal magnet.

“That —-,” said the phantom.

Will shrugged. “I don’t think the police are going to think so – that’s a mean slash across her belly, and you have a look about you which suggests you may be the the kind of fellow around which a lady might require a little self-defence.”

The apparition narrowed its gauzy eyes.

“You looking to move in on my woman?”

“No. Bunny wants me to tell you she’s sorry.”

“Sorry? Oh, I’ll make her —-ing sorry.” Tim took a step towards the doorway, but was stymied at the end of his tether. Without turning, he demanded to be let go.

“Fine,” Coffin replied. Dropping his grip, the chain went suddenly limp, passing through the spectre and landing in a heap on the battered linoleum.

Davis attempted to bring another leg forward, but found himself pulling against a terrific force.

“What?” was all he managed before he dropped to one knee. His efforts were useless, however; he tumbled into his own remains, once again assuming their exact position.

Will rubbed a tired eye, then picked up his artifact and re-pocketed it.

As he pushed his way into the bedroom, Bunny jumped to her feet.

“Is it over?”

“I told him.”

“Did he say anything?”

The leather jacket raised in another shrug.

Realizing any further answer he gave would be just as unlikely to satisfy her, she moved on.

“About what I owe you – there’s a flat screen in the living room…”

“No, you may need to pawn it for bail.” The woman’s eyes misted as Coffin spoke. “I’ll just take this twenty-one inch, it’s a better fit to the price of the job. I’m going to go, but you need to call the police as soon as I’m out. Show them what he did, and tell them what you told me. Just be patient, and you’ll make out all right – but, by the crushing damnation of Kar’Wick’s-brood, don’t mention I was here.”

Will believed firmly that people better followed his instructions if he spiced them up with some of his professional jargon.

He scooped up the small TV, then waited for some response from his patron.

Bunny nodded.

He exited the apartment, pausing at the door only long enough to hear the three flat beeps that began a 911 call.

 

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.

Will Coffin’s theme is Quinn’s Song – A New Man, by Kevin Macleod of incompetech.com

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

(Part 1Part 2Part 3)

Flash Pulp 128 – The Absent Idol: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty-eight.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present The Absent Idol: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp128.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp Facebook page.

Join now, and get half off the cost of your next free Flash Pulp episode.

To join us, click 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, the Collective Detective finds itself investigating the loss of an Internet icon.

 

Flash Pulp 128 – The Absent Idol: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

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

 

The 2nd of January

Welcomebot: Welcome To #CD-Chat, Harrisment!

FrameScalpel: I’m not saying most of her fans were following her for the right reason, but, honestly, her ability to cut clips in a way that fit her music was fantastic. She was like a combination of Thelonious Monk’s sense of timing, and Banksy’s sense of humorous visuals with a message.

MitchSlap: – and there was also her overdeveloped rack.

Harrisment: Stick it, Welcomebot.

Frame Scalpel: Hey Harris. Just explaining to MitchSlap why IdolChan was so great.

Harrisment: I was kind of under the impression it was the amount of cleavage she showed in her video blogging.

FrameScalpel: Screw you guys.

Harrisment: Ha, kidding, kidding. Lady like that wouldn’t continue to have the following she does if she hadn’t had some talent.

MitchSlap: I’m sticking with my theory that she’s actually a fake personality Spike Jonze used, but, seriously, at this point don’t you think the only reason anyone remembers her is because of the mystique of her disappearance?

FrameScalpel: No.

Harrisment: I do think that’s part of it, but Scalps has a point. She’s still the person I start throwing out links to when I find someone who’s under the impression that the vidder-community is all crappy dance music layered over badly edited anime-clips.

FrameScalpel: WTF

Harrisment: Hah – I don’t mean YOUR badly edited anime-clips.

FrameScalpel: …

Harrisment: Joking. You know I’m a fan of your work.

MitchSlap: Whatever – how far into your search have you gotten?

FrameScalpel: Well, I’ve been through all of her email addresses, her twitter account, and her Facebook communications. She had thousands of followers, and chatted with nearly anyone who’d send her something, but everything was routed through an encrypted anonymizer service, which I have yet to break, and I can’t find a single message that I can trace back to a meat-space friend. I still have no leads as to who she really was.

Harrisment: Well, don’t take it too hard, if you did know who she was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’m between tasks at the moment, I can lend you a hand, if you’d like?

FrameScalpel: Sure, I’d appreciate it.

MitchSlap: Well, if you ladies are going to spin your wheels on this, I may as well crack the case for you. Send me what you’ve got.

* * *

The 5th of January

To: framescalpel@thecollectivedetective.com
From: harrisment@thecollectivedetective.com
Subject: IdolChan Clue

Hey,

I think I may have found something. I was watching video #23 – the one in the park? – and I finally caught a break: there’s a moment where she’s busy talking about how little respect she gets from idiots on youtube, and a guy with a dog jogs by. She mentions how cute the mutt is at 2:36, then she swings her phone around to record its passing.

If you look closely, you can catch a glimpse of the city skyline over top of the trees. I know you were thinking she was from New York, because of her accent, but that’s totally the Transamerica Pyramid – she’s got to be from San Francisco!

You weren’t around in the channel, so I passed the info onto Mitch. He seemed to think he could make some use of it, although, of course, he wants to play king and keep his hunches to himself. Still, who knows, that tool might come up with the next piece. I’m going to see if I can figure out which park she was recording in – the timestamp says it was around lunch on a Tuesday, maybe it’s somewhere near where she was attending school?

I feel like we’re getting close.

Harris

* * *

The 8th of January

To: harrisment@thecollectivedetective.com; mitchslap@thecollectivedetective.com
From: framescalpel@thecollectivedetective.com
Subject: Just Got Back

Hi, sorry about taking so long to reply.

First the greyhound was late getting into San Fran, then I had to figure out the stupid local transit. Five hours on a bus had me cranky, and maybe a bit confused, and I accidentally got on the wrong trolley.

After I finally got everything figured out, I had to walk another half-hour to her house. It looks a lot like the street view, but it seemed bigger, and a little more run down, in real life.

I’d imagined a lot of possibilities before I knocked on the door – I mean, it’s been years since IdolChan’s last video, so she’d be in her late twenties now – but the old woman who answered wasn’t what I’d expected.

I knew the address was right, I’d been staring at it long enough to have it permanently burnt into my brain, but all I could come up with when the lady answered the door was “Hi, is Lara here?” and she says “Speaking.”

I nearly fell over – but the woman had IdolChan’s eyes, and it was then that I realized that she must have been named after her mom.

We talked, and I explained about the search, and how Mitch had plowed through reams of yearbooks to find her. That’s when I started cluing in to how little Mrs. Dunning knew about the level of fame her daughter had, and has, online.

Even after my story, I’m not sure that she really got it.

Actually, at first she seemed pretty weirded out by my even being there, but, once she realized I wasn’t some crazy from the Internet, she wanted to talk about things. Eventually she showed me around the house.

The last room she brought me to was Lara’s.

It’s a time capsule, really – it’s got all these stuffed kittens on the bed. I admit, we both ended up crying.

The theories are wrong. She wasn’t Spike Jonze in disguise, she wasn’t killed in a car accident, she wasn’t kidnapped, and she wasn’t hired away by MTV to do video production.

Mrs. Dunning explained to me that she’d been sad for a long time after the move from Brooklyn, that she’d never really made any friends once they’d re-located – that she was lonely.

On her 18th birthday, with her ‘net down, and leaving only a short, soggy, note for her mom, she grabbed a bus and jumped from the Golden Gate.

After a while, we both dried up, and I just kind of drifted out the door. As she said good bye, Mrs. Dunning seemed to take a little comfort in the fact that, online, IdolChan’s legend lives on.

I’m going home now, but, if it’s all the same to you guys, I’d like to leave this case open indefinitely.

FS

 

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 127 – Mulligan Smith and The Bystander, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Bystander, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp Facebook page.

As the movie Freaks once said: Gooble Gobble, Gooble Gobble, One of us, One of us!

To join us, click 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, Mulligan Smith, PI, finds himself out in the cold.

 

Flash Pulp 127 – Mulligan Smith and The Bystander, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Regardless of the dusting of snow, a small crowd had come to gather outside 240 Maple, most of them having been drawn in by the blinking red bubble-lights of the four police cruisers parked along the road.

Mulligan, his hoodie zipped tight against the chill, watched as the KOCC reporter wrapped her story. Once the cameraman had barked out a quick confirmation that the transmission had completed, and even as the onlookers’ retinas were still aglow with the directional light’s after image, the one man crew, and the correspondent, hopped into the bright-blue news van and gunned the still idling engine.

The PI had used his rubber-necking of the brief broadcast as an opportunity to eavesdrop on the whispered conversations that shot amongst the bystanders, but his time had been largely spent listening to the spouting of an old man whose hat would’ve better served a Cossack. The pseudo-Russian had gone on at length, in a stage whisper obviously intended for more than just his wife, that if there were this many police on hand, they certainly must have the flasher in custody.

Despite the bumper-to-bumper parking, Smith had his doubts.

With his excuse for silence gone, he struck up a conversation with a wispy haired fifty-something, whose face was lost deep in her massive parka.

“Funny what some people will do,” he said.

“Yeah, guess so,” she replied in a thick Wisconsin accent. “Must be a real perverted-type.”

Mulligan Smith“Usually I’d agree, but I’m not so sure this time.” Mulligan took a step closer as he spoke. “Generally a pervert can make do just jumping out of the bushes at a park, or trawling bus-stops – by the time they get around to breaking and entering, it’s not just to share a brief view of their pride.”

“Oh?” replied the parka. “Then what happened here?”

“My guess is that the culprit is seeking attention. They probably don’t get much of it in their regular existence.”

“That’s not what the news-lady said, and everything I’ve read in the paper has made the flasher out to be a goddess in a gas-mask – a little beauty with some sort of weird fetish.”

“Yeah, well, these stories have a way of taking on a life of their own, and legends spring up. Have you ever heard of the Mad Gasser of Mattoon?”

“Uh?”

“The Mad Gasser might have been a person running around Virginia and Illinois in the ‘30s and ‘40s. See, supposedly there was this fellow with a spray gun – the old type that looks like a bicycle pump with a can stuck to one side and a nozzle at the far end – and he’d creep about in peoples bushes until they were sitting around at home watching TV, or whatever – then he’d user the sprayer to try and gas them through cracked windows, or even nail holes.”

“Gas? Did anyone die?”

“Nope, a few folks got sick though.”

“Are you saying you think she used something on her victims and that’s why she wears the mask?” the woman seemed pleased with the idea.

“No, the mask is just so she doesn’t get caught. What I’m saying is that the police chief in Mattoon actually ended up declaring the whole thing a hoax – likely just the product of hysteria, and maybe some chemical releases from a nearby factory.” Smith shrugged. “I don’t know what the reality was, but, as I mentioned, these things tend to collect their own mythology. Maybe claiming you were awoken in the middle of the night by a supple, nude, twenty-year-old makes for an easier confession than the reality of having the bejesus scared out of you by a, uh, stout mother of four, whose children are all college-aged.”

The woman’s eyes grew large, but Mulligan went on.

“Truth be told, I’m actually working for the first victim. Seems he feels his original description of the assailant may not be the most helpful thing in the world, but he’s got too much pride to go back to the police for a second round of red-faced recounting.”

“Why does he still care?” the ex-Wisconsinite asked, her voice now a squeak. “It’s never happened to the same person twice, has it?”

“Well – never mind that if this were a crime committed by a man, the outcry would be triple what it is – the basics are that my client, despite the fact that the increasing media coverage is handling this almost like a case of prankster-ism, spends most nights waking up in a sweat, and now has to get out of bed to check his door locks a dozen times an evening. I do understand a bit of where you’re coming from, though – a guy with that much money rarely has a kind word for the help, and if he’d been more honest in the first place, his pride wouldn’t be in such a bind.”

“How did you know?”

“Well, first off, I actually bothered to look into who’d temped in the house when, and if, each victim’s main cleaning lady was unavailable.” He wanted to be stern with her – he knew he should be. He damned himself for smirking. “You were the only coincidence. If your employers had paid you more heed while you were busy dusting their shelves, they could have recognized you themselves – but then, my suspicion is that if those men had been less inattentive while you were tidying, you wouldn’t have felt the need to make your nocturnal visits.”

He’d thought the woman would break down crying at the news, but she seemed increasingly happy just to be noticed.

He decided he’d actually allow the interview when the KOCC lady called later – it was the least he could do after getting the aging mother fired, and he suspected she’d enjoy the spin he’d give her saga.

He let out a short laugh before continuing.

“Anyhow, it didn’t help that you were pretty easy to spot in the background of the last incident’s news footage. Those boots are pretty tall, and your coat is pretty long, but, if people were paying a little more attention, it’s definitely noticeable that you’re not wearing any pants.”

 

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 126 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty-six.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp126.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Walker Journals.

Ever been to a funeral where you’re greeted at the door by the guest of honour’s slobbering mouth?

Find all the tips you’ll need to survive the zombie apocalypse at http://youtube.com/user/WalkerZombieSurvivor

 

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, Ruby wrestles with her conscience – and the undead.

 

Flash Pulp 126 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 3 of 3

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

 

[Text to be posted]

 

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 124 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty-four.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp124.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Walker Journals.

Cut back on the Beyoncé videos a little, and enjoy one man’s tales of zombie survival, as told to youtube.

Find it at http://youtube.com/user/WalkerZombieSurvivor

 

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, Ruby Departed walks a hard road as she comes to grips with the realities of the zombie apocalypse.

 

Flash Pulp 124 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 1 of 3

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

 

[Text still to be posted.]

 

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.

Many thanks to Wood, of Highland & Wood, for the intro bumper. You can find their podcast at bothersomethings.com

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

Flash Pulp 120 – The Rocket Men, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and twenty.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present: The Rocket Men, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp120.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This episode is brought to you by Mr Blog’s Tepid Ride.

It’s not him, it’s you.

Find it at http://www.bmj2k.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, four men engage in their singular obsession.

 

Flash Pulp 120 – The Rocket Men, Part 1 of 1

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

 

There were four of them: Chris, Paul, George, and Chuck.

Chris was good with math, Paul was a born artist, George’s Dad ran a scrap yard, and Chuck was a genius.

At the age of eight their skills mattered little, as their friendship was forged in a common goal: the destruction of all Martians. While about them their compatriots wasted their recesses imitating the cartoon ninja spectaculars of the day, the four took up the mantle of The Rocket Men, laser toting defenders of Earth. Whatever the weather, the group could be found beating back the imaginary green menace, and keeping the schoolyard safe from alien doom.

Eventually, though, the Martian threat no longer seemed so ominous.

By the age of ten, one thing remained: their combined love of rockets. Each boy had an image of their own custom space vehicle, hand-drawn by Paul, and each was sure that, given enough time and access to George’s father’s sprawling rubbish pile, the group would be able to create a ship capable of carrying them beyond the bonds of gravity, and their mundane lives.

In July of their twelfth year, Chris’ father gathered The Rocket Men into his Chevy Astro and spent two days subjecting the boys to New Country. They didn’t mind, however, as they knew where they were headed: Florida.

On a warm evening, surrounded by hundreds of other enthusiasts of all ages, the former Martian-fighters witnessed the launch of an actual NASA flight – it was a moment they would reminisce on during sleep-overs, while camping, and, one day, with their own children.

During their fourteenth Earth-bound year, Chuck struck upon a plan, and presented it with a smile: they would build a rocket. It took a summer’s worth of saving, and no small number of raids upon George’s familial heap, but a week before entering ninth grade, the boys gathered. They met at dawn, and by the proposed time of launch their sneakers were soaked with the night’s condensation.

They’d created a thing of beauty.

The red cone, entirely decorated by Paul – except the sharpie signatures they’d scrawled along the side – was to be largely driven by powder salvaged from fireworks they’d purchased at a disreputable convenience store. The resulting explosion was a topic of marvel and remorse that would remain a point of contention amongst the boys for months.

At the sight of the destruction of their labour, the youths had nearly fallen into despair, and that might have been the last of The Rocket Men had it not been for an outburst from Chuck. The prodigy had always suffered through any defeat or disappointment in the same way: wild laughter. Within moments the entire group had taken his lead and tumbled to the ground, their jaws aching with mirth.

When they finally collected themselves, each one scooped up a shard of peeled metal as a reminder. As Chris and Chuck spent long hours arguing the math of the thing, Paul and George would often fill the time by staring longingly at their keepsake fragments.

All were agreed that someday they would make another attempt.

At sixteen, the group took up model rocketry. It never scratched the itch that building something entirely of their own design had infected them with, but each success was a spectacle that drew them together, even as life seemed to be pulling them apart.

They still talked of constructing a flight from scratch, but privately they could feel the chance slipping away as college loomed.

At eighteen, Chris left to become a physicist, Paul departed for art school, George joined his father amongst the garbage, and Chuck received a scholarship in aerospace engineering.

Letters, phone calls, and emails, were exchanged, but, in time, they petered to a halt. A wedding in their thirtieth year marked the last meeting of The Rocket Men for over a decade, despite the tipsy promises of renewed communication that each had made during the reception.

Eleven years later the silence between them was broken, and it was Chuck who once again brought them together.

The plans he’d prepared were complex – well beyond the model rockets they’d built in their high school days – but he’d also fitted the bill, and provided plenty of suggestions on where to locate any answers they might not have.

After six months of weekend effort, The Rocket Men once again found themselves in the dewy grass of a breaking summer morning, now accompanied by Chuck’s wife, Cynthia, who’d transmitted her cancerous husband’s designs and request.

It wasn’t a massive ship, it could really only manage to lift the dead man’s ashes, but, still, the grinning maniac of their youth had had the last laugh: he would be the first amongst them to reach orbit.

 

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 119 – Mulligan Smith and The Missing Woman, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and nineteen.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Missing Woman, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp119.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This episode is brought to you by Mr Blog’s Tepid Ride.

Don’t be fooled by the name, it has almost nothing to do with those long car rides to your grandma’s house when you were a kid.

Find it at http://bmj2k.wordpress.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, Mulligan Smith, PI, is tasked with the job of locating a thousand dollar thief.

 

Flash Pulp 119 – Mulligan Smith and The Missing Woman, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan finally found the woman in a highway-side greasy spoon named Trudy’s, an hour’s drive out of Capital City. She looked rough.

He took a seat in a booth, and, as she approached, he prepared to give her his order.

“Just an orange juice, please,” he stopped to read her tag, “Eileen.”

It was sloppy – she hadn’t attempted to hide her real name.

“Coming right up,” she replied, a weak smile touching her lips.

“Just a sec, Mrs. Musgrove.”

At hearing her married name, her sensible white shoes planted themselves, mid-stride. Even from behind, Smith could see that her gaunt arms had begun to shake.

“Sit down – please?” he asked.

She scooted onto the bench across the table.

“William wanted me to find you to -,” it was his turn to be stopped short, as Eileen’s tears began to soak the pink t-shirt of her work uniform.

“Hey, it’s OK. William has sent me to bring you home. He forgives you. Every thing’s going to be all right now.” She nodded, but remained silent. Even her weeping made no noise – he wouldn’t have known it was happening if it wasn’t for the moisture rolling down her face.

They sat that way for several long moments, then, with a deep sigh, Eileen finally spoke.

“I’m going to clean myself up, then we can go.”

She walked to the ladies’ room with an unsteady gait, and Mulligan guessed she was likely going to swallow or snort some of the illicit supply her husband had warned him about. It was a calculated risk, but, if it got her home and to help, he was willing to take it – besides, she couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds, and he had his Tazer on hand, just in case.

It was only once he saw her hustling through the parking lot to an ancient Geo Metro, a tall fellow with bad teeth close behind, that he realized the chase wasn’t complete.

She was moving pretty quickly for a seventy-three-year-old.

He jotted the license number down, and waved over another of the waitresses.

* * *

William Musgrove, the client, was an aging gent with sharp bird claws for hands.

“One day she pulled a thousand dollars out of our account and ran. She has a drug problem. Find her, and tell her I don’t care – that I understand, and want her back, and I’ll help her in any way I can,” he’d told Mulligan.

It was only later that Smith felt like an idiot for not having realized at the time: the whiskey breath, the patronizing tone, the vague allegations; he’d seen it all before.

A week after his first encounter with Eileen, he stepped up to the deli counter of a small town grocery store, two hours away from Capital City.

She was busy working a block of cheap bologna over the slicer.

“Don’t run,” he said. He used a gentle tone, and it worked. When he saw that she wasn’t going to make another break for it, he followed it up with a quick question to keep her mind from changing. “Is it true you’re a junkie?”

“What? No! Is that what Bill is saying about me?”

“You did steal a thousand dollars from his account, though.”

“It was our account. I deserved that money.”

“How so?”

“I may not have worked his years at the plant, but I certainly kept his house and cleaned up after his drunken mess for long enough.”

He nodded.

“Tough for a lady to vacate a fifty-five year marriage. I’ve seen similar with the occasional meth-head, but, well, if I had to guess, those hands of his were a little rough after a bottle of Jameson?”

Her mouth flattened to a slit. He thought she might attempt to flee, and he knew he’d hit the truth of the matter.

Pulling out his cellphone, he began snapping pictures of the shriveled woman, bologna still in hand.

“I’ve answered enough – I think it’s your turn to do some explaining.” she said.

“Well, first, the next time a guy like me says “don’t run”, run. You trust men too easily.”

“How did you find me?”

“Well, actually, I found your friend with the Geo. A few twenties later, he was more then willing to tell me where he’d left you. As I was saying, you trust men too easily.”

“Listen, son, I’m seventy-three years old. When I married, I hadn’t even finished high school. If I don’t trust the occasional stranger, I’m going to end up homeless. I’d love to have dragged that mongrel through a proper divorce, but I had never held a job until these last two months, and I’ve yet to find a lawyer who’s willing to work for free. I’ve got little more than my pride, but I’ll be damned if I let you drag me back to that old whiskey-hound’s shack.”

“Well, frankly, this store is pretty crowded, and I don’t think I’d get far if I were forcibly hauling a lady who looks like my grandma out the front door.” Smith paused in his photography. “Could you remove your hairnet, please?”

She did.

“So, what now? I won’t come with you, but are you going to tell Bill where I am?” she asked.

“No. I’m going to strongly suggest you move a little further – at least a state away. After that, I’m going to write up an invoice for three more day’s worth of expenses, then talk to a friend of mine who knows a lot about Canada, and photo editing.” Mulligan thrust his phone back into his pocket and zipped his hoodie. “Can’t catch ‘em all.”

 

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.

Many thanks to Wood, of Highland & Wood, for the intro bumper. You can find their podcast at bothersomethings.com

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

Flash Pulp 116 – The Murder Plague: Caretaking, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixteen.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present The Murder Plague: Caretaking, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp116.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This episode is brought to you by Dancing Ella’s Words.

Enjoy the cream of Viennese culture, but without the jet lag – or the TSA grope down.

Find her work at http://dancingella.blogspot.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 is forced to make a sudden stop, during the apocalypse.

 

Flash Pulp 116 – The Murder Plague: Caretaking, Part 2 of 3

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

 

I was three blocks shy of getting on the highway when it struck me: a brick. Well, to be fair, it ricocheted off the passenger-side door.

I’d been turning at a corner, and the action on the cross street had been hidden from me by the darkness and a row of poorly-maintained hedges. The slab wasn’t the only thing to impact the car, either – its target was close behind. His shorts were billowing, and his t-shirt looked as if it had been designed by an unstable Bonobo, but there’s something pathetic, and mildly endearing, about the way a ten year old can plaster his pudgy face across a window that you just won’t see when a grown man does the same.

The woman behind him – the irate lobber – came pumping down the street, her legs short, but vigorous, and her arms extended in a way that made it clear she was on a mission to strangle. Collecting himself, the lad yanked at the handle and hopped into the passenger seat.

In response, I gunned the Explorer’s engine.

I wasn’t considering where we were going, I just wanted to put some distance between my passenger and Grabby.

There’s something off-putting about seeing any child out after dark, and this was my first taste of basic violence on the open street. For the umpteenth time that night, I was shaken. The problem with a virus that turns everyone around you into a homicidal lunatic is that there’s never really a moment to relax.

Well, I mean, one of the problems.

The Murder PlagueI took a left, then a right, then a left – just to be sure the choke-ist wasn’t going to make a horror film villain’s sudden reappearance out of the shadows – then I paused at a red light.

I turned to my fare and asked his name.

“Tobias, sir,” he replied.

I’ve always been a sucker for a civil tongue.

“Well, Tobias, did you happen to know your intended throttler?” I asked.

“Yes, she’s my oldest sister.”

I nodded, my brain running over the possibilities of where I might drop him off. I’d seen the local fire department in action recently, or, at least, what was left of them, so I wasn’t keen to entrust him to their axe-happy hands. I’d also guessed that the police were likely just as badly off, but with guns.

Before I could summon the wits to ask him if he had any family who wouldn’t murder him, his face dropped, and tears began to dampen his vulgarly coloured tee. He thrust out his arms in a simple gesture I’d seen a hundred times from Rebecca, when she was a little girl. Physics has yet to calculate the force of gravitation that a child in need can generate on a heart – even a heart like the one propping up an old ruffian such as myself.

“Come now,” I said.

I reached across the console with a hug.

Later into things, I met a woman who’d set up her car as if she’d had engine trouble. She’d go so far as to get some passing fool to stop and stick his head under the hood, then she’d slam it down on them and finish the job with a flat-head screwdriver. After stuffing the poor schmuck in a nearby culvert, she’d roll their jalopy into a treed gully across the road, wipe her bumper clean, and start the whole process over again. When I asked her, at gun point, how she could possibly explain such a thing, she told me it was because she was sure they’d all intended on making off with the aqua Nissan hatchback.

Oddly, that was exactly my intention.

My point, however, is that, even despite the complex paranoia that is brought on by the plague, children are simple, and they seek simplicity.

Two things happened at the same time: the image of my neighbour’s youngest came to mind, her fingers entangled in the fishing line I’d found her father strangled with; and I felt Tobias’ weight shift awkwardly in my hold.

My ribs suddenly feeling exposed, I pushed the boy away, unbuckled my belt for freer access – or possibly due to a sudden attack of claustrophobia – and, in my sudden need for space, accidentally dropped my foot solidly onto the gas.

As the acceleration pushed him into his seat, I identified his weapon of choice: a thick Swiss army knife, the longest of the blades extended. It was either rusty, or blood encrusted.

I slammed on the brakes, hoping it might stun him into dropping the thing. He barely winced as he bounced off the glove compartment, then he came at me over the gear shift.

What could I do, kill him? As I struggled with his raised hand, the crude string of suggestions he made regarding my heritage made it pretty clear he wouldn’t stop unless I did.

After a moment of consideration, I made a hard choice.

I stepped out of the car.

Well – I suppose that sounds a little more elegant than the reality. I popped open the door and fell out, backwards, as the Explorer continued on at a power-walker’s pace.

Rather than chase me onto the road, little Toby decided he rather liked the feel of the steering wheel. It was stop and go at first, but after a moment he gained in confidence, and started to swing the truck into a wide turn. He didn’t seem terribly concerned about the well-manicured front yard he tore up along the way.

I began to run.

It was a near thing, but I lost him after he blindly bulled through a row of mahogany-stained pool fencing, and landed himself in the shallow end of someone’s cement pond.

Still, I didn’t stop moving until I’d reached the babysitter’s house.

 

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.

Many thanks to Wood, of Highland & Wood, for the intro bumper. You can find their podcast at bothersomethings.com

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

Flash Pulp 115 – The Murder Plague: Caretaking, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifteen.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present The Murder Plague: Caretaking, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp115.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This episode is brought to you by Dancing Ella’s Words.

As Oscar Wilde famously said: “A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.”

Find her work at http://dancingella.blogspot.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 takes a moment to seek sanctuary while considering his difficult situation, and attempting to avoid assassination at the hands of any passing stranger.

We’d also like to take a moment to thank Highland & Wood for their excellent audio intro – you can find their podcast, Bothersome Things, at bothersomethings.com

 

Flash Pulp 115 – The Murder Plague: Caretaking, Part 1 of 3

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

 

It’s hard to explain how I felt once I was back on the road. It was as if I was part of a great ballet – or, really, as if I was at a costume ball, with all of the dancers masked, and each moving to their own rhythm.

Was the man across from me at the stoplight an infected lunatic plotting to bury his wife in a backyard flowerbed, or was he simply a harried fellow out to pick up a quart of milk? Was the lady deep in conversation at the corner really discussing the cost of a sausage with the vendor, or was she attempting to determine if her dinner had been poisoned by a plague-ridden paranoiac?

I’ve never been much of a religious man – doubly not-so once Kate died – but, after a few blocks of aimless driving, I realized shock had my hands shaking at the wheel, and, at that moment, the rolling bell of a heavenly summons came peeling from a house of prayer to my left.

I wasn’t raised Catholic, but, in that instant, I was willing to grasp at any higher power that might have me.

Pulling into the parking lot that fronted the gray-faced building, I found all of the spaces empty, and yet the broad wooden doors were pinned open.

Honestly, I don’t know what I expected inside – I do recall feeling some relief that I hadn’t encountered a crowd of parishioners, as they would have likely turned into a riotous brawl before the communion was delivered. What I did find, instead, was silence and vacant pews.

As was tendency in my schoolboy days, I took a seat on the rearmost bench.

I was stalling, I suppose – I knew I needed to get to Rebecca’s babysitter’s, but I wasn’t keen on what I might discover there. It was the inevitable that had me tripped up – what if I did find her, alive but as sick as the rest?

The problem was a drain my mind couldn’t quite finish circling on its own, and I would have likely spent a few hours in further consideration if it wasn’t for the priest’s interruption.

He was a short man, and I hadn’t noticed him standing behind the lectern; or possibly he’d moved to the position while my brain was off wandering. His hair was wild, but his face – it seemed as if his face had been molded by a lifetime of smiling, as if he could do little else, even in those deadly times, after having formed such a long standing habit.

“You look troubled,” he said, his practiced voice easily carrying down the long red carpet of the center aisle.

“Well, to be fair, these are troubling times,” I replied.

“What is weighing on you?” he asked. It struck me as a bit of a personal question for such a great distance – but, on the other hand, I could only imagine the kind of confessions he must have been hearing at that point, and didn’t blame him for wanting to maintain the separation.

“Oh, just tough decisions to be made, I suppose.”

He nodded, apparently taking more from my words than I’d meant for him to.

“Yes, it is a time full of tough decisions,” he answered. Even as he said it, he continued to maintain that empty imitation of a smirk, and it was then that I realized his hands had been out of sight, below the pulpit, for the length of our brief discussion.

The Murder PlagueBack in my fighting days I knew a fellow who’d been a stand up comedian before his chronically-broke status had forced him to enlist. I only found him funny when we were under fire, and the more determination the other side demonstrated, the faster he would spit out gags.

He was killed when he strayed into a bullet, while imitating a goat.

There was something about the clergyman’s expression that reminded me of that joker – a mix of intense panic layered under a survival instinct of good humour.

I cleared my throat.

“Actually, you’ve helped me make my choice. Many thanks, Padre.”

I stood.

“I have?” He was surprised at the news, but, for a moment at least, I think his smile became genuine.

“Yes, sir – and I’m off to do something about it.” I started edging past the bulletin boards and abandoned collection baskets, wondering if his improved mood would last for the duration of my exit.

His arms remained fixed, and his hands remained hidden.

“A final bit of advice then, to carry with you as you go,” he interrupted, his grin collapsing. “Sometimes the only choice is the lesser of two evils.”

Frankly, it was that sort of simplistic advice that had put me off of churches in the first place.

I waved in agreement, then hustled through the vestibule and down the short flight of cement steps, pleased to see the street empty of pedestrians.

I was in the middle of a hearty round of self-congratulations regarding my narrow escape as I reached my car door – and that’s when I heard a single gunshot echo from the still-gaping entranceway.

 

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

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

Big thanks go to Highland & Wood for the audio introduction – you can find their fantastic Bothersome Things podcast at bothersomethings.com

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

Flash Pulp 114 – The Chase: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fourteen.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present The Chase: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp114.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This episode is brought to you by the Bothersome Things podcast.

It’s like eating a unicorn for dinner.

Find them at BothersomeThings.com, or find them on iTunes.

 

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, Blackhall participates in the end of the siege of the Elg Herra, and concludes much outstanding business.

 

Flash Pulp 114 – The Chase: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

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

 

Moments after the departure of Thomas’ former companion, panic began to march through the beds at the edges of the rolling longhouse, and down the center aisle which held the iron bowls of flame that maintained the Moose Lord’s heat and cooking fires.

Blackhall could not translate the flurry of speech which surrounded him, but he could see that all were focused upon the small closets at the rear of the wagon which acted as the home’s latrines, and he moved quickly to scrutinize what he suspected was Marco’s work.

The cramped space stunk of spilled gin and the involuntary releases of death.

Within, his sockets bulging and his legs thrust straight, was the corpse of Mathus, the Elg Herran shaman. A length of folded cloth remained at this throat, the obvious instrument of his murder.

His body had been stripped of ornamentation, the fled Frenchman having rifled anything that might be of value, monetarily or mystically.

For a moment Thomas shut his eyes, rubbing at their dry and rasping surface with forefinger and thumb. Fatigue was heavy upon his shoulders, and the imagined spectre of Mairi’s dead face drifted up to him from the inky depths of his closed lids.

As he let out a long breath and once again opened his vision, Mairi’s aspect was replaced by that of Disa, who stood before him.

“Was it my Marco?” she demanded.

Blackhall confirmed the worst with a short nod.

“He also removed all that might have some worth from our shared bunk – including the ring he gave me in safekeeping till our ceremony of binding.” She spoke in husky tones, and a flash of despair crossed her face.

Before she might weep, the pregnant woman strode away.

* * *

The attack came at noon, and Thomas, who’d relocated to the roof of the rear-most in the procession, finally had his first close-viewing of the Presters, as a raiding party detached itself from the larger force and moved against his perch.

They came with fire in hand, and their dogs baying in the lead. The alabaster-skinned men huddled close behind the hounds, with leather shields held high to stave off arrow attacks, and those without torches toted long, rough-hewn logs on their shoulders, to act as pikes against a bull moose rush.

Blackhall’s unsettling plan had formed soon after the discovery of Mathus’ body, but the knowledge he intended to implement had come straight from the old man’s tongue, and he knew the shaman would gladly give anything to bring an end to the threat against his people.

Still, Thomas had kept up a stream of apologies as he’d conducted his grisly work – all the better to keep his gorge from rising.

Now, as the approaching contingent moved to catch their wheeled target, he set aside Marco’s cast-off gin bottle, which harboured the old man’s sight organs, and raised his Baker rifle. His targeting was arbitrary, as any of the encroaching assailants would have happily seen him dead.

The crack and roll of gunpowder filled the air, and the lead of Blackhall’s foes fell, his torch landing amongst the trampled grasses, forgotten.

Construction of the larger charm had been considerably less disgusting, although the moving of the fire bowl had been sweatier work. Once in place, Thomas had wound leather about a wooden lid, to hold it over-top a concoction he’d mixed within the basin itself.

With Asmund’s assistance, he sent the vessel tumbling to the ground.

The volume of the cauldron had allowed him more room for reagents than during his original demonstration to the old man, and, as the cedar covering shattered upon the ground, a misty feline of immense proportion rose up, nearly overtaking the height of the wagon itself.

The dogs ceased their forward movement with animal terror in their eyes. They turned and began to flee.

At the cowardice of their beasts, the pallid-men also pivoted, and the retreating mob was soon moved to panic as a cluster of mounted defenders arrived in response to the prearranged signal of the birthing of the ghostly cat-daemon.

Blackhall knew the phantasm would not remain corporeal long, only until the last of his whisky supply ran into the earth, but it was ample for his intentions. In short moments the riders had retrieved the fallen Prester corpse, and returned with it to Thomas’ station.

It was easy enough to extract the necessary blood from the cadaver’s weeping wound, and, once again taking up the gory gin bottle, the frontiersman mixed in the last component necessary for his preparation.

A man came running from the assaulting line, shouting to rouse his people. Blackhall noted another beside him – a familiar, hunched form, which he suspected to be Hakon.

Thomas could only guess what fearful words the traitor must have used to press the desperate plan after realizing that this might be his final attempt to lay low those who had spurned him. Nor, for that matter, did he know what volume of riches the Presters must have originally promised the defector to turn against his people – Blackhall wondered if it was a sum greater than that which had purchased the loyalty of his former friend, the voyageur.

Whatever oaths the Prester King now pawned in his own tongue, it was enough to rally his host, who moved forward as a mighty wall, driving the flood of frightened hounds before them.

Although it still stood, the summoned whiskey spirit’s form had begun to blur, and, despite its aggressive stance, its clawed hands had begun to dissipate in the breeze.

Blackhall implemented his closing scheme, tipping the now sealed gin bottle on its side, upon the roof, and setting his boot heavily through the glass, crushing the blind orbs within.

The rushing line fell forward, suddenly asleep upon the unyielding plain.

The pack, spooked by the apparition before them, and the swooning of their masters behind them, scattered as if a cloud burst, draining into the dry turf.

This left an odd moment: all those of Prester blood having suddenly collapsed, and their mongrels absconded, there were but two figures still standing amid the dense heap of slumberers. One stood at the forefront of the failed rush, and one stood in the rear, having been happy to let those he considered savages carry out the grim work of fighting.

A single arrow arced over the fallen sleepers, it’s flight strong and true – Marco was allowed no scream as its shaft passed through his traitor’s throat.

Blackhall turned to see Disa standing alongside him, a bow in her hands.

She spoke.

“I will tell little Marcus, or Ida – whichever happens to arrive – that he died defending us from the Prester siege.”

With that, she moved to re-take the ladder, disappearing once again into the depths of the longhouse.

The lone figure of Hakon had only made five steps when the simultaneous wrath of the multitude of long-stymied archers was unleashed, cutting him down mid-stride.

Seconds later, the grunting efforts of the harnessed buffalo had pulled the triumphant Elg Herra beyond bow range.

Blackhall turned to Asmund.

“They’ll sleep two full days, more than time enough for the caravan to make an orderly escape.”

“We should turn about to cut their throats,” said the Earl’s son, “but I’ve no stomach for butchery. Considering their intentions, we have been kind to them.”

“The dogs will not stay long from their master’s guiding hands, and it will not be so kind a fate if they have been too long in feeding their animals,” replied Blackhall.

The frontiersman stooped for his rifle, eager to be once again on the path that would lead him to Mairi, and yearning for the distance which would put him well away from the politics of others.

 

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