Tag: Harm Carter

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.

stream2.wav by mystiscool

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.

FP160 – The Murder Plague: Barriers, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Barriers, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp160.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)


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

It’s vaguely like the Diary Of Anne Frank, but with zombies instead of Nazis.

Find them all at youtube.com/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, Harm Carter and his travel-mates must make a hard decision before suddenly finding themselves with few options.

Flash Pulp 160 – The Murder Plague: Barriers, Part 1 of 1

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

The Murder PlagueWe were shooting down the road like a greased eel amongst the groping hands of country-fair attendees, when we spotted a goliath by the roadside.

He had his thumb popped to the east, and a bored expression on his face, as if it weren’t likely that any passers-by would just as soon run him down as pick him up. I suppose if I had the physique of a well constructed Victorian-era strongman, I too might have had a little more confidence while loitering amongst the homicidal infected.

Another problem with a virus which turns everyone around you into a paranoid maniac is that you spend a lot of time second guessing your decisions. We spent ten minutes in silence, as we attempted to reassure ourselves of our own logic.

“We should try and talk to him,” said Minnie. I’d brought the Escalade to a halt at the crest of a hill, well away from the stationary traveler, and I was fairly confident that he hadn’t noticed us.

“Balls to that,” replied Jeremy. “Were you not paying attention back at the gas station? Why would we ever want to risk further exposure to those friggin’ nutters?”

Despite his callous tones, I was inclined to agree with him. Even if the wayfarer wasn’t sick, I was too out of patience for another seismic change in the world. A fatigue sets in after your second murder scene of the day.

“Maybe we’ll just wave,” I said. “I hate to ignore a fellow survivor, but I’m sure he’ll understand, given the circumstances.”

When he did spot our approach, he started flailing both arms, vigorously.

If he saw our return greeting, it was as a blur. I had us up to top speed by that point, as I thought he might impart a few bullet holes in our bumper as a parting gift for spurning him.

The countryside was a smear of farmhouses, fields, and fencing – the rustic beauty seemed unmarred, except as we passed a single abandoned Greyhound bus, with its tall tinted windows broken out, and its silvery husk left in a field to fend against the insistent sun.

We hadn’t slowed when we hit the ambush, almost a mile further down the road.

As we passed over the spike-strip, I veered left, sending the behemoth Escalade sliding sideways, over a ditch and into some homesteader’s forgotten harvest. As the vehicle became perpendicular, our seat-belts encouraged us to do likewise. I don’t remember much about the crash itself, but I was certainly pleasantly surprised to discover we had come to a stop in the farmer’s field with only our faithful steed as a casualty.

There we sat, waiting for the universe to settle. To my left was a patch of soybeans, pressed flat by the unexpectedly un-shattered glass. To my right was the sky. Once I was fairly convinced of both, I unbuckled, and my companions did the same.

Adrenaline – and the elation that comes when your brain realizes that it has somehow survived the latest mess you’ve put it through – made us thick and unthinking.

As we climbed onto the upturned passenger door, I caught a sudden plunk over the wibble-wobble of the still-spinning tires. I don’t know how to describe it in any better way than as a plunk.

Now, listen: this wasn’t a plonk, or a plop, or a thud; this plunk was no random result of our impact, and the plunk and I were no strangers passing each other by under odd circumstances.

Nay. I knew this plunk.

“Uh, did you hear that?” asked Minnie, testing her balance to see if she might stand for a better view.

I shoved her over backwards, sending her into the greenery and muck below, then, as Jeremy opened his mouth in question, I nudged him too.

He’d barely had time to accuse my mother of an unorthodoxed style of animal husbandry when my suspicions were confirmed. While I was in the middle of my own descent, the familiar plunk repeated itself.

“Someone is shooting at us,” I noted, brushing the muddy results of my landing from my knees.

I recognized the sound all too well, as I was on hand when similar noises had sent a favourite chess partner home from our extended overseas engagement with Uncle Sam’s traveling mud-huggers.

After a few long moments of silent continued-existence, my comrades had taken on the numb look that’s common to amateur targets – I must admit, nevertheless, that I was quite pleased with myself for having picked the right side to land on.

“Our mad-person,” I said, “has set up their kill zone quite well. We would have been ducks in a row, if we’d remained on the road. It’s quite lucky that we flipped the beast, really.”

“We’re dead,” replied Minnie.

“No, no,” I assured her, “when night falls, we’ll make for the treeline. I’m sure we’re not far from some formerly-occupied farmhouse where we might help ourselves to a pickup truck with a wide-range of amusing bumper stickers.”

“What if Assassination Jones over there has night vision?” asked Jeremy.

I must say, I hadn’t thought of that. It had been my first assumption that the perpetrator was a local deer hunter gone amok, but the setup’s precision and planning gave the new consideration a lot of weight.

There was something else as well: if it were a greenhorn murderer, I would have expected them to waste more ammunition. They were professional enough to hold off for a meatier bulls-eye.

Lacking options, we tried to find a comfortable seating arrangement. Unfortunately, soybeans offer up very little cushioning.

As the sun dipped out of sight, Minnie became assertive about her interest in departing. I don’t blame the poor girl for getting restless, as even a wall the size of an Escalade can begin to feel tiny when it’s all that stands between you and the afterlife. That said, I maintained my opinion that we’d have better odds with as much dark as possible, and she begrudgingly agreed.

Even at its blackest, though, I wasn’t willing to start running about, willy-nilly. That said, night vision isn’t perfect, and especially not the sort that you might pick up at a Wal-Mart. Taking off my jacket, I draped a few billowing-taunts beyond the engine’s border.

“Plunk,” replied our nameless assailant.

At least, on that occasion, I managed to hear the crack of the invisible stalker’s weapon, rolling towards us from somewhere to the west.

That settled, we once again took up our seating.

Not long after, Jeremy began to cry.

It was after midnight when, wiping away a thick string of snot, he spotted our salvation. The abandoned bus was headed our way. Well, moving, yes, but ever so slowly – so much so, in fact, that I thought at first the whole thing was an optical illusion.

As it neared, however, we made out why: the strongman was the only thing motivating the Greyhound along. He’d flipped open the underside baggage doors, and was using them as a handle to push against, leaving the bulk of the bus as a shield. We were fortunate to be on the far-side of the raised asphalt.

His cycle was thus: push, push, push, adjust the steering wheel, rest, repeat.

He came into conversation-range well ahead of being in safe-to-do-anything-about-it-range.

“You people are jerks,” he said. “I’ve got blisters on my hands from the first time I had to push this stupid thing across this stupid field.”

“Why didn’t you just drive it?” asked Jeremy.

“If this thing’s engine was working, do you think I’d’ve been trying to hitch over the hill from Lee Harvey Oswald?”

“Well, to be fair,” I said, maybe feeling a little defensive about my deciding vote, “thumbing a ride doesn’t really seem the most brilliant idea either.”

“This whole area is full of friggin’ nutbar recluse survivalists and farmers. Every one of these houses is a landmine on top of a bear trap that’s been rubbed down with poison. Trust me, I know – a dozen of us originally stepped off this thing. The road was the only place we WEREN’T slaughtered.”

At that point he started pushing again, and it didn’t seem polite to interrupt him with further chatter.

Once he’d finally eclipsed the shooter’s view of our little fort, we sprinted the ten yards between us. Minnie took up position at his open door, and Jeremy and I leaned into the one that was now at the rear.

Although we made much better time than he had alone, it was still dawn before we’d moved into safety, and nearly noon when we’d finished heaping high apologies – and thanks.

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.

FlashCast 017 – What's With Bees?

FC017 - What's With Bees?[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast017.mp3](Download/iTunes)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast episode seventeen – prepare yourself for bees, apes, a Harm filled novel, and multiple New Yorks.

Mentions this episode:

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If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, call our voicemail line at (206) 338-2792, or email us text or mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.

FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

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 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp157.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 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 1 – Part 2 – Part 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 1 – Part 2 – Part 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 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.

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 1 – Part 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 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.

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 1 – Part 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 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.

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.

FlashCast 011 – The Last of Sexaholics Anonymous

FC11 - The Last of Sexaholics Anonymous[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast011.mp3](Download/iTunes)

Prepare yourself for big news, Kommissar Rex, influences, Harm Carter, the last of Sexaholics Anonymous, and Chia bugs.

Mentions this episode:

Kommissar Rex!
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lhpaT2EZv04]

* * *

If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at http://skinner.fm, call our voicemail line at (206) 338-2792, or email us text or mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.

FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.