Tag: podcast

194 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp194.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by View From Valhalla.

 

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, master frontiersman and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, finds himself ensnared in a legal predicament.

 

Flash Pulp 194 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 6

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

 

Thomas BlackhallOn the second morning following his unplanned departure from civilization, Thomas Blackhall sat alongside a cottage hearth, with Layton, the Private who’d first lead him to his family dwelling. They’d arrived the afternoon previous, with the intention of Blackhall taking lodging for a final night of proper bedding in preparation for delving into the lands beyond the map’s edge.

Layton, a lad of twenty, had extracted his pipe – a fine piece purchased with a sizable portion of his enlistment bonus, and was smoking contentedly after a large breakfast.

“Likely my last furlough for quite some time,” he said, “I’m going to miss this place. Hopefully they won’t ship me far – and, to think, my Betsy will remain behind with that scoundrel, Green. Bah, although I will be surely mashed in our coming bout, I look forward to the meager chance of dispensing his comeuppance. I do fear, however, that I may not feel such when I find myself in the whiskey’d-hands of the old surgeon.”

From somewhere outside the shanty’s walls, Thomas could hear the youth’s father grousing at his cattle and crops, and the familiar sound pulled at his heart, as if the intonation were carried from his own home across the broad waters of the Atlantic.

He nodded.

Blackhall had received an earful of the boy’s situation while they’d marched through the tall trees, and he was now all too intimate with the lad’s concerns regarding one Betsy Russell, especially as they related to a certain enlisted man, a warrant officer named Green. A recent tussle over the maiden’s regard had left the pair of suitors with a scheduled bout of pugilism – a boxing match Layton knew he had no hopes of winning, but persisted in to maintain face.

Before Thomas could cut the forlorn lover short, he’d once again launched into lamenting his predicament.

While feigning interest, the frontiersman retrieved a small satchel from his traveling kit.

* * *

Two days earlier, after being placed under nominal arrest and escorted to an ostentatiously decorated hovel, Thomas had refused the plush winged-back chair he’d been offered, instead continuing to stand while he laid out his complaints at being roughly hauled away like a common drunk.

Captain Gordon Fitzhugh, who suffered the brunt of the berating, found himself smirking well preceding his being allowed an opportunity to reply.

“Ah, old Bowman is a likable enough lot. A bit superstitious, but who can blame him considering the fate of his lad. Well done, that – on your part I mean. The problem was eating at me for quite a while, and, honestly, each time the girl would come about my office begging for some hint of assistance, I’d oft think of you, and how it would be damned good to have your exotic skills at hand.”

As the captain talked, Blackhall had seen fit to use the army officer’s desk as a platform over which to first extract one of the fine Spanish papers he kept in a waxed pouch, and then apply, untidily, a ragged line of Virginian tobacco.

He made no effort to clean his scraps from the muddle of papers layering the well varnished oak.

“It still seems an oddly hard hearted bit of business to have me rousted,” he said, tearing the twisted-end from his finished work, and leaving the waste to fall amongst the mess.

“Perhaps it was not entirely Bowman’s idea,” replied the Fitzhugh. “Perhaps I noted your entry of the establishment, and knew you a man to rarely be in need of a barrel – at least, not unless you’ve come across, or against, something truly interesting. Whatever the case, we had a conversation, here in my office, which left poor Harold inclined to stand for his property.”

“Fine. To cut to it then, I’ve no interest in fetching milk for the Queen, and, if my accounting of our history is correct, it is you who owes me all of the favours anyhow.”

“I may have harangued that barrel maker into signing a complaint, but I’ll push it if you make me.”

“I think we’d both regret that.”

Fitzhugh took a sip of his scotch, then cleared his throat. “I’ve gone about this the wrong way, and I’m sorry. I know how the tally lies, but I ask for a final accommodation – and, before you refuse, hear me out.”

Digging through the ashy heap within the room’s fireplace, Blackhall found a particularly hardy coal, and lit his ragged cigarette. The captain took the action as acquiescence.

Wiping the damp remnants of his drink from his drooping moustache, the military man stated his case.

“At first it was just a few trappers willing to risk the hinterland – which, frankly, didn’t raise many eyebrows, as we lose those lads all the time. You watch them trot away with a canoe, and you can never assume you’ll see them again, unless you happen across them in town at some future date. It did reach a point, however, when the numbers ran strangely high. Then came the stories – in the Chippewa hunting territory it was said there was a breed of locust roaming the land, razing tracts of forest, and gnawing moose to the bone while still on their feet. Rubbage, I thought, but the reports persisted. I’ve dispatched six men now, in two groups, but have no word since their departure. It was “Rosy Red” Archer I sent out in charge of the second lot, and I ought have heard from the codger.”

Thomas had stood alongside “Rosy Red” when he’d earned his name, while breaching the walls of Ciudad Rodrigo. The man had an unpleasant aptitude with a bayonet, but was also known as greatly competent in all aspects of brutality.

“If the bush has done in Archer, I’m not sure what help I might be,” he replied.

“Don’t dunder about with me now,” answered Fitzhugh, “Will you do the job, or should I bottle you till dawn, to allow for further consideration?”

* * *

When Layton, who Blackhall truly felt some warmth for, had finally run his mouth dry, Thomas offered the favour he had pondered since they’d embarked on their journey.

“It may pain you to see your foe, Green, advance, but I hold a few of your Captain’s debts in my pocket, and I’d be pleased to cramp the old man’s hand with the letter writing required to earn your rival a promotion.”

“What? You’d see him a lieutenant?”

“I can not say what impact it may have on Ms. Russell’s affections, but at least a commission, and the risk of court martial, would restrain your competition’s ability to thrash your soft face into gruel.”

Layton nodded in consideration.

The necessary puppeteering, and paperwork, was only a minor revenge on Fitzhugh, but it seemed to add an extra serving of satisfaction to the bacon Blackhall’s stomach was still greedily digesting.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

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.

193 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp193.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by View From Valhalla.

 

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, master frontiersman and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, encounters a reclining concern while visiting whisky-soaked civilization.

 

Flash Pulp 193 – Support: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6

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

 

Thomas BlackhallBlackhall had been adrift in the western districts for some time, the route to his missing wife, Mairi, having been temporarily hidden from his scrutiny. It was with the hope that he might once again take up the trail that he’d set his ear towards any happening which seemed to be of an occult nature, and this tact is what lead him to the workshop of a cooper named Harold Bowman.

Perth was a bustling settlement, filled beyond capacity by farmers looking to supply, and inbound transplants waiting out various legal necessities before being allowed to claim their muddy plots. The same river that brought settlers, also carried whisky, and Thomas had heard it boasted in the Bucking Pony that they arrived in equal amounts, but it was only the drink that quickly found its way to the dirt.

Chronic unruliness necessitated authority, and, as such, the town was further bolstered by a strong military presence – as often cited as the cause of trouble as its solution – and, while bunking within their purview, Blackhall had walked a straight line, with his hat brim low, in hopes of remaining below notice.

It was at having avoided a well-decorated officer of his former acquaintance that Thomas wore a smile as he entered the saw-dust strewn works, a grin which was at first mistaken by Bowman as the token of a pleasurable encounter.

“In need of barrels, sir?” said the carpenter, “I make the strongest in these parts. Plenty tough to send home a trove of pickled fish, or a gold strike cleverly labeled as a barrel of pickled fish, or even yourself, should your dreams of a gold strike, or pickled fish, have been a bust. Let me know how many you lack, and I’ll let you know how long you can expect to wait.”

Thomas did then smirk in honest enjoyment, but it was short lived.

“While I may yet require such a stingy homecoming, I’ve not come for your labour, but, instead, your lad.”

The barrel-smith flattened his grin.

“What would you want with that layabout?” he asked.

“I believe I might help him.”

Ripping a crescent of nail from his index finger, the father spat the paring onto the floor.

“Fine,” he said, pushing aside a frayed green and white blanket which had been hung as a curtain across a darkened opening at the rear of the room.

To Blackhall’s first glance, the space appeared little more than a large closet, with a knitting woman in the corner to his left, and a ragged honeycomb of floor-to-ceiling shelves running along the wall to his right.

“Ms. Amelia Burton, once the sluggard’s intended,” said the establishment’s proprietor, by way of introduction.

The needles continued to clack as she gave a nod at their approach, but, as she finished her row, she set aside her work to curtsy from her stout furnishing, and Thomas felt compelled to provide a small bow in return.

“Mr. Bowman, I again request that you do not speak as if Christopher has passed. He may perish, surely, but I may also marry him yet, and I’d rather you not pass pronouncements till it’s come to one or the other.”

The target of her admonishment simply harrumphed in response.

“I do apologize at the interruption,” said Blackhall, “I’m no minister, but I believe it within my skills to help see you to the aisle. I’m here on the matter of your betrothed, and his condition.”

“Any solutions you might provide are welcome,” she replied, “but it’s been many a quacksalver and charlatan who’s given my Chris a thorough prodding, and none have yet brought him awake. After several hours of sweating, the last fellow claimed we’d a corpse equipped with a bellows, and declared the whole thing a fraud – which seemed quite the affront, as he had arrived in town with the intention of retailing a dysfunctional ointment claiming to cure baldness and syphilis.”

Her voice softened as she continued. “If only it were artifice – truly, my days are spent on the verge of joy or sorrow, with never a resolution. Despite his lack of nourishment, he does not die, but neither does he stir.”

A silence fell then, and the distant din of the street beyond drifted through the kinks in the building’s rough-hewn planking. Finally, Thomas broke the still with an inquiry.

“If it’s not too impertinent, I might ask as to where the lad is laid up.”

“Why, amongst yonder rack,” replied Amelia, pointing towards the motley array of slabs and brackets that dominated the opposing side of the room.

Following the line of her finger, Blackhall discerned an immobile forearm resting below a rusted saw, and a boot set askew upon a short piling of lumber scraps, salvaged for their fine grain and possible use as trim in future projects.

By squinting, and stooping slightly, Thomas began to see the outline of the enduring sleeper, as buried beneath a stacked grave of carpentry flotsam.

“How did it happen?” he inquired of the woodworker.

The ragged curtain taut in his fingers, Bowman scowled, shook his head, and remained mute.

“I’ve watched the structure rise around him,” said Ms. Burton, turning from the curmudgeon. “The longer it seemed he would slumber, the less concern Mr. Bowman was prone to show – and it was a decrease from an already short supply. Once this room had only a low bench for adornment, and it was upon it that they laid Christopher when they carried him here from the woods. Mr. Bowman constructed the first tier of storage atop it, during a period in which I was away soliciting assistance, and by the time I’d returned – empty handed – there was already a rickety tower overhead. As the months wore on, he continued his construction, and my pleas have changed nothing. I feel as if a life of accusing his son of laziness has driven all sympathy from his heart – as if this were simply another Sunday on which Chris has slept through the pastor’s sermon.”

“- and has he had nothing more than the ministrations of mountebanks then?” asked Thomas

“I’ve done my best, but, unmarried, I am barren of assets with which to obtain the services of a skilled physician. In truth -” she broke off with a glance to her intended in-law, then cupped her slender hand to Blackhall’s battered ear. ”As in the fairy stories of my youth, I have tried on more than one occasion to wake him with a kiss. Despite the sincerity of my efforts, I’ve seen little result. Hopefully you will not think less of me for the silly notion, or the impropriety, but I felt as if it were my responsibility to test all avenues.”

Rubbing at the three-day’s growth at his chin, Thomas squared his shoulders, and shrugged off his ashen great coat. Offering the crook of his arm, he escorted the premature dowager into the main room, and returned to his position, so that he was now speaking past the reticent craftsman.

“Perhaps if his father had not been so rushed to lose his child amongst his business, you would have had the opportunity to properly examine him.” Damning himself for the notion, Blackhall removed a fat sack of coins, and dropped it at Bowman’s feet. “Take what I’ll owe for the damages, and leave me what change you think your boy’s life is worth.”

Giving no further warning, the frontiersman grabbed up a heavy-headed mallet, which had previously rested five askew platforms above Christopher’s sternum, and swept the majority of the contents near to the lad onto the floor.

The work was not so different from wielding an axe, and with a series of deft strikes – each one accompanied by a gasp issued from the bloodless face of the senior Bowman – Thomas was able to free the slumberer from his timber-cocoon, all while avoiding the total collapse of the lofty storage.

Draping his snoring load on the heavy chair’s backing, Blackhall lay a hand forcibly upon his shoulder, and began pounding at him as if the beating alone would be enough to rouse the boy.

“Come now, sleeping beauty,” he muttered.

It was the third blow that brought up the desiccated fruit – after a spit, and a pop, what appeared to have once been a bite of crab-apple arced across the room and landed with little bounce at the threshold to the adjoining workspace.

With a snort, Christopher gave a yawn, then stood, his face contorted as if in a daze.

Blackhall steadied the boy with a firm hold on his shoulders.

“Was it the old woman then, offering you a snack?” he asked.

“Yes,” came the yawned reply, “Do you know her? A strange crone, that one.”

“Which way did she go?”

“I don’t know – I must have fallen asleep?”

Winded from his exertions, and his disappointment, Thomas steered the awoken to the seat that had so recently constituted Amelia’s post, and eyed the elder Bowman.

The man kicked back the sack of coins, and Blackhall stooped to arrange it in his pocket, as well as retrieve his coat, before exiting the establishment.

He was carried out on the sound of Ms. Burton’s joyful tears.

The following evening, as he sipped a cup of ale at the Bucking Pony, and made effort to think little of his woes, or his missing Mairi, Thomas wondered if he’d been too hard on the man, and if he’d possibly taken the girl’s words regarding callousness too close to heart without provocation. He dismissed the concern, however, when a pair of uniformed Corporals arrived, and informed him of his detainment under considerations of property damage, as levied by the town’s respected cooper.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Slap.wav by scarbelly25
00553 coughing man 2.wav by Robinhood76
thump_G_1.L.aif by batchku
AmishCountry.mp3 by acclivity
CalecheForHire.wav by acclivity
Anvil Strikes_5.wav by alan3809
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Curtains Opening or Closing 2 (www.rutgermuller.nl).wav by rutgermuller
00651 putting pot on table 2.wav by Robinhood76
Inhale_10115a.wav by otherthings

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.

SE4 – The Final Broadcast, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, special episode four.

Flash PulpTonight we present, SE4 – The Final Broadcast, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpSE4.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Geek Out with Mainframe.

 

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, in lieu of our usual fiction, we present The Final Broadcast, a modern myth of improbable pedigree. To find out more on this terrible transmission, visit http://wiki.flashpulp.com

 

Flash Pulp SE4 – The Final Broadcast, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Read more about it at the Flash Pulp Wiki

 

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.

SE3 – The Haunted Mixtape, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, special episode three.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Haunted Mixtape, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpSE3.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Geek Out with Mainframe.

 

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.

Next week we’ll return with our usual tales of fisticuffs and the occult, but, tonight, we present The Haunted Mixtape, a folk tale of suspect origin. To find out more regarding this supernatural album, visit http://wiki.flashpulp.com

 

Flash Pulp SE3 – The Haunted Mixtape, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Read more about it at the Flash Pulp Wiki

 

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.

SE2 – The Ragman, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, special episode two.

The RagmanTonight we present, The Ragman, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpSE2.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Geek Out with Mainframe.

 

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, in place of our usual tales, we present The Ragman, an urban legend of dubious origin. To find out more regarding the lurking shade, visit wiki.flashpulp.com

 

Flash Pulp SE2 – The Ragman, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Read more about it at the Flash Pulp Wiki

 

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.

192 – The Murder Plague: Open Hours, Part 3 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Open Hours, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp192.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project.

 

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 discovers the truth regarding the interior of an apparently occupied former place of commerce.

 

Flash Pulp 192 – The Murder Plague: Open Hours, Part 3 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueMy left leg demanded I back out of the doorway, but my right insisted that I lunge for the girl in an attempt to save her from whatever lurked in the store’s interior. While I was still mediating, most of my decisions were made for me.

A pair of retirees stepped forward with hunting rifles at the ready.

“There’s only two of them,” Grandma said over her shoulder. While she launched into a stage-whispered argument with someone beyond my line of sight, her partner indicated that I ought to move closer to Minnie, and out of range of the entrance’s sensor.

I complied, although I must admit that I was keeping an eye on the teen’s knife-hand.

“Where’s the other?” asked Grandpa, waggling his barrel with practiced insistence. Given his stance, I guessed he was, at some point in his past, a fellow graduate of Uncle Sam’s two-booted finishing school.

“Well, that’s a complicated question,” I replied, trying for a tone several notches in tension below his own. “He’s dead – I left him moments ago, around the corner, with a fairly large hole in his neck. Now, while I realize that does not immediately bode well for my companion here, I should say, in her defense, that she’s never appeared infected, and that she’s under quite a lot of stress lately.”

The rifleman harrumphed. “Haven’t we all?”

With a gasp, Minnie took in a double lungful of air, preparing, I thought, for a protracted scream.

She did not.

“Listen,” she said, turning on me. “I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but I did not leave a mother####er dead in this parking lot because I’m “under quite a lot of stress”. That grabby bastard went for my zipper as soon as you were out of sight. I’m not sick, and I’m not just in a ####ty mood. It could have happened while I’d been riding a rainbow unicorn in Candy Land and I’d have done the same thing over – twice.”

She realized, then, that she was punctuating her remarks with thrusts of her still bloody blade.

Neither Gramps, nor I, could muster a reply.

“Come here, hun,” said the silver-haired woman, shouldering her weapon and wrapping an arm around the girl.

They disappeared into the dim interior of the store, and I followed.

Behind our greeters stood a second line of defenders, a motley bunch awkwardly holding looted wares from the sporting goods department. They seemed relieved to be able to lower their armament unfired.

The massive open space had been transformed into a small, covered, shanty town. Most of the racks were re-purposed into makeshift tents, their skins a collage of pinned together t-shirts and sweaters; or billowing layered sheeting; or taut plastic tarps.

From beneath many peered the eyes of children, or the occasional mutt.

I couldn’t help but notice that, even if he’d slung his gun, Pappy was sticking close.

“Am I wrong in thinking you spent a little time overseas?” I asked him, figuring I’d rather be chaperoned by an acquaintance.

“Nope.”

“What’d they discharge you at?”

“Lieutenant.”

“Why’d you stay home?”

“An injury.”

Given his apparent agitation over discussing personal topics, I decided to change my approach.

“You keep pets?”

“Yep.”

“The uh, odour in here isn’t exactly an ocean breeze, but it’s not an internment camp either – and yet, I didn’t notice any dogs wandering the lot, how do you, uh, keep it so tidy?”

“We let ‘em squat in a corner of the maintenance area, then bag it and collect it on the roof. Actually, we use it as part of our SOS for passing planes and helicopters. There’s a herd of cats in the back, nearly feral now I guess. We don’t see ‘em much, but we got a place we pile the litter deep – helps keep the smell down.”

“So,” I said, motioning towards his compatriot, whose arm was still draped over Minnie, “where are we headed?”

“The maintenance area,” he replied, “if we’ve got to shoot you, we’d rather the mess all in one place.”

“Oh. Do you think that sort of thing will be necessary, then?”

“Not my call. There’ll be a vote.”

Pushing through a set of swinging double doors, we came to a semi-circle of folding chairs, set on the barren concrete of the stockroom.

A half dozen faces observed our entry, and they didn’t appear friendly.

They wanted an explanation of our presence, and I gave an overview of our adventures, with occasional interjections from Minnie. I was careful to throw the weight of my opinion behind the girl’s account of her crimson state, but I must confess: although I suspected she was healthy, I couldn’t be sure. I did realize, however, that if the inquisition thought her infected, it would put my own state under heavy suspicion.

Once we’d satisfied their historical questions, a slight faced man with a wreath of short hair ringing his bald pate asked, “So, what are your intentions?”

Without hesitating, I laid out my plan.

“Well, if you’re agreeable, I’d like to get a hold of the keys to that transport outside, and maybe a fill up before I go, if you don’t mind. From what I can glean you’re looking for rescue, but Uncle Sam helps those who help themselves. Detach the truck and let me drive it out of here – I’ll ride it straight to the blockade, and my first priority will be to get a helicopter out here to pick everyone up.”

It was a long shot, but even if I had to settle for staying a while, it was my thinking that at least I’d have planted the seed. I couldn’t have planned what happened next.

Mr Baldy stood.

“Carter, you always were an aloof bugger. It doesn’t sound like you’ve gone any more off your rock than usual, though.”

I had to squint to recognize him in his unshaven state, but it dawned on me that this man had once been my neighbour – the previous time I’d seen him, he was fleeing his home, even while I attempted to save my own from burning. We’d never exchanged words, and, frankly, after our last encounter, I’d rather suspected he’d murdered his family.

He continued.

“We’ve known for a while that someone would have to go. We pushed the crazies out once, but we can’t risk their return – or worse yet, infection running through the store – and the shelves are getting emptier every day. To be sure he doesn’t forget his obligations, and to increase his odds, I’ll go with him.”

The group murmured consent, some going so far as to reach out and touch his hands in thanks.

“The sooner off, the better,” I said, afraid any delay might lead to a sudden change of minds, or a call for a more trusted driver.

Minnie cleared her throat.

“I’d like to stay,” she said, pointedly not looking at me. “I’ll try to find a way to earn my keep – I’m good with animals, so maybe I can help with the cats somehow.”

I won’t lie, I felt a pang at the turn.

As the gathered debated, she faced me, to explain.

“You’ve been nice, but there’s safety in numbers – and, well, after you left me with Newton… I’m not sure you’re the best travel buddy.”

Before I could come up with a response, the small council came to a decision.

“Fine,” said Mr Baldy.

They’d already prepared supplies, in case of an emergency evacuation, and we were on the road within an hour.

With a bit of experimentation in moving, then replacing, the burnt van-husks that acted as corks to the parking lot’s exit lanes, I was feeling much more confident in my admittedly rusty rig-wrangling skills, and it was some consolation to my wounded ego to see Minnie wipe away a tear as we hugged our goodbyes.

I couldn’t know then how well the girl would actually make out, and, I must say, as we departed, I felt some concern that I may have just left an infected killer amidst a gaggle of strangers, or a vulnerable teen amongst an unfamiliar horde.

Still, as my babysitter and I accelerated, it was difficult to argue with the pull of the engine, the blue sky, and the speeds achievable on the open stretches of deserted highway.

 

(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.

190 – The Murder Plague: Open Hours, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and ninety.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Open Hours, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp190.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project.

 

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 traveling companions find hope, as well as a stranger.

 

Flash Pulp 190 – The Murder Plague: Open Hours, Part 1 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueIt seemed to me, as I marched through the forest alongside my pair of companions, that I had somehow become the odd man out.

Worse yet, my misgivings regarding the age gap – Minnie being fourteen, and Newton, at a guess, thirty – were stymied by a duo of unavoidable facts. One: that it was a free apocalypse, and, having seen her friends murdered, as well as attempt to murder her, that the girl could do what she wanted. Two: that I was probably only so riled about it as she was of such an age, and, uh, fiery disposition, as to remind me greatly of my own wayward daughter, Rebecca.

There’s a great temptation, when those around you are on the constant lookout for a virus whose primary symptom is homicidal paranoia, to keep all unpleasant thoughts to oneself – but, by avoiding showing my annoyance, I came off feeling like someone’s uncle trying too hard to demonstrate his youthful vigor to a younger generation.

Anyhow, there we strolled, Newton gallantly taking the brunt of our passage through the brush, Minnie laughing over-heartily at his flat jokes, and I trailing in the rear.

Sticking to the woods may have saved us a head on collision with wandering maniacs, but it also made progress tediously slow. Still, better to be bitten by insects than madmen I suppose.

To pass the time, I’d been counting the number of flattened mosquitoes I’d left in my wake, but my tally was lost when, an hour before dusk, we suddenly came to a broad expanse of pavement.

I believe it to be the largest Walmart I’ve ever encountered, but my memory may be coloured by what lay on the far side: We’d finally come across a major highway.

Between road weary travelers, and the local, if diffuse, population, that particular patch of nowhere was deemed a profitable enough stretch to commercially colonize, and I silently thanked the profiteers for their craven decision.

Spanning the parking area were dozens of potential rides, laid out in rows like a used car lot.

“What do you think?” Minnie asked Newton.

“Hmm,” said the big man, hunkering at the edge of an oak’s shade.

I took it to mean “hurrah for transportation, but where are all of the drivers?” – and I had to agree.

Stroking my chin, I said, “my feeling is that we wait for nightfall, then locate a vehicle old enough that I might manage hot-wiring it; or, better yet, one abandoned with the keys in the ignition.”

Then we all nodded, and considered ourselves pretty clever – until the codger started yelling.

“You bunch by the trees, stop gawking and give a fella a hand.”

It’s unnerving to have an invisible stranger address you from afar at the best of times, but, given our recent experience with the persistent sniper, I was especially enthusiastic in my search for the source of the demand.

Atop the wild grass, some distance further along the edge of the cement, was a bobbing red and white baseball cap.

“Hurry, I’m pretty messed up over here,” said the hat.

It was my feeling that if the speaker had had a gun and poor intentions, he would have been considerably less conversational, so I opted to break away from our cover and into the trench.

Minnie, and then Newton, were quick to follow. The altered position made it clear that the exit lanes had been barricaded, by Minivans positioned to form a wall, then smashed to ensure their immobility. Given the massive ditch that otherwise surrounded the place, I began to wonder if we might have to make our getaway in the style of Steven McQueen in the Great Escape, but my considerations were quickly knocked aside by the talking shamble that lay before me.

Or, actually, nearly before me. I came to a stop ten feet away from he who’d summoned us, but I can’t claim it was forethought – the snail’s trail of blood is what did it. He’d come from somewhere across the road, likely the shuttered Dunkin’ Donuts which stood as the only other building of note in sight.

Whatever the case, I was hard pressed to immediately explain his missing left foot.

“It hurts real bad,” he said.

“What happened?” I asked.

A few yards behind me, Newton had halted, rooting Minnie at a safe distance.

The mustachioed man wiggled the red bill of his cap, then set the whole thing back on his head, as if he were a small town mechanic about to explain the cost of a particularly severe repair.

“Well, I was across the way with Selma and we were thinking we’d try and see if we might find food and smokes, or that maybe there was information left over from when the Wally World was an evacuation point. We saw that someone setup those wrecks to keep folks out, but we figured there was coffee left at the donut place, and she, she…” his explanation became lost amongst his tears, and it was finally too much for Minnie, who broke free and rushed to the injured.

Frankly, I was surprised he was so coherent, considering his apparently relatively fresh amputation.

Continuing to cry, Selma’s beau took Minnie’s hand in his own. Newton and I were rapidly closing the distance even as he continued.

“She was gonna murder me. Her thoughts were whispering it for days, but I reckoned I was just hearing the meth. Then she cuffed my leg to a booth and abandoned me with only a dozen god damn stale croissants to snack on. I showed her.” From beneath his muck-encrusted plaid shirt, the storyteller brought up a gory folding knife, miming his escape while maintaining his grip on the teen. He smiled. “Staggered on for a while, but I don’t know how long I’ve lied out. Must’a slept here last night, though.”

Somehow he’d managed to tourniquet the wound with a green and white bungee cable.

Maybe it was my and Newton’s approach, or perhaps it was Minnie trying to pry herself from his grasp, but his face sharpened.

In a flat voice, he said, “you too, huh?”

His first stabbing swing was a miss, but, before he could properly bring his weapon around, his captive began to stomp wildly. We were immediately beside her, but, as we endeavoured to intervene, her simple white sneaker had a shattering confrontation with her assailant’s neck.

There was a snap, followed by a brief silence.

While Minnie wept, and Newton cooed, I searched the body for keys.

I found nothing more than a half-eaten puff pastry, but, in my distraction, I missed the girl pocketing the dead man’s blade.

 

(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.

188 – Coffin: The Appearance, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Coffin: The Appearance, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp188.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Absolution

They say it’s free, but what will the real price be?

Find out more at http://www.scrivenerscircle.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, Coffin encounters something unusual amongst Dorset’s occult patrons.

 

Flash Pulp 188 – Coffin: The Appearance, Part 1 of 1

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

 

CoffinIt was Saturday night, and Will, with his roommate on hand for company, was sitting in a corner booth at Dorset’s. Bunny was vigorously moving a glass of vodka and coke from the table top to her mouth.

“So I can’t have x-ray vision, then?” she replied between gulps.

“Well,” said Coffin, “I’m not saying it’s an impossibility, I’m saying you may not like what you find. A few years ago, I met a big time nature lover. A rich widower, he’d traveled the world looking for someone who could grant him his deepest wish: He wanted a Doolittle, you know, the ability to speak with animals.”

“Oh hell yeah,” answered Bunny, “that’s what I’m talking about. Adopt me a pooch I can order to get beer out of the fridge, maybe a budgie that can fly ahead and let me know if there’s a line up at the Pita-torium. I’d be all “who’s a good boy,” and they’d be all “Me!” – I could even tell them to clean up their own ####!”

“Listen, because you can communicate with someone doesn’t mean you can convince them to do anything. The guy I knew got his way eventually, and, within twelve months, he despised wildlife – pets too. He said engaging them was like trying to have a conversation with a brain damaged toddler in need of massive doses of Ritalin.” As he spoke, Will noted the glass entrance swinging open. “I saw him rush a Siamese cat once. I guess Doolittle had spent the better part of his morning having to listen to the feline declare its lust to the neighbourhood.”

“Poor horny pussy,” replied Bunny with a smirk.

“To be fair, he was also that impatient with people – probably why he hankered for the company of beasts, though he didn’t realize it was the mystery of the lack of understanding that he loved.”

Will had dropped his tone as he completed his story. Just inside the doorway, a tall blond scratched at his unshaven stubble as he took in his surroundings. After a moment’s consideration of the outlying booths, and the round tables at the center of the space, the newcomer approached the bar.

At the sight of the man, the three Steves, who’d been sipping at their Coors while chatting up the establishment’s owner, pulled their caps down low, and spread out. One headed towards the washroom, another chose a distant seat, and the third readjusted his focus to the cable news channel playing endlessly to the left of the liquor shelves which stood behind the long run of oak.

“What you got on tap?” asked the stranger as he settled on a stool.

“Yeah, yeah, in a minute,” replied Dorset, whose eyes were fixed intently on the television. The murmuring box was unwinding a commercial for Chicken McNuggets.

Five minutes later, the patron’s second call for service finally pulled the bartender’s attention to his job.

Pointing at the remaining Steve’s beer, the blond asked for a helping of the same.

The Englishman selected an ill kept mug and pulled a draught from the taps, which seemed mostly foam – worse still, the ale further suffered when, in placing it before the customer, an apparent accidental tweak of the wrist sent a portion of the lager onto the purchaser’s jeans.

Without apology, Dorset returned his focus to the silver-haired news anchor.

Bunny noted that the smattering of regulars around the room had fallen silent, and that all were intent on sipping at their beverages with down-turned faces.

“Fella doesn’t appear very welcome,” she said to Coffin, her voice a whisper.

“Nope,” he replied.

“If he’s some sorta Megadeth kiddie-chewin’ demon mother####er, aren’t you supposed to be this dive’s bouncer?” she asked.

Will leaned forward.

“He’s not a demon, and he hasn’t caused any trouble – yet.”

A scrawny twitching man burst into the quiet from outside.

The visitor, who Bunny thought of as The Insomniac, gave Coffin a wave, then headed towards the proprietor to place an order – which was quickly filled.

“Can I get a second?” asked the damp-panted tippler.

“Yeah, yeah, in a minute,” replied the server.

With raised brows, the rebuked turned on the recent arrival, and they briefly locked gazes.

“Stare at something-####ing-else,” said the spastic drinker.

His pupils shivered with his decades of sleeplessness – a condition often confused, by local law enforcement, with a raging methamphetamine addiction.

Abandoning the dregs of his mug, the insulted, and thirsty, man stood.

“This dump is balls,” he muttered, slamming down a five dollar bill and not bothering to wait for change.

As the latch clicked shut, there were multiple audible exhalations across the tavern.

The barkeep tossed Will a smile.

“Jeez, you’ve totally gotta tell me that guy’s story – was he, like, angry drunken Thor or something?” asked Bunny. “Reincarnation of Jack the Ripper? A ###damn inter-dimensional, tentacle-pervert, Nazi experiment?”

Coffin cleared his throat.

“Who knows. Some civilian. Just a schmuck off the street who’s better off being along his way,” he said.

 

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.

187 – Lair, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Lair, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp187.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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

Tonight, Veronica Peralta awaits a monster.

 

Flash Pulp 187 – Lair, Part 1 of 1

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

 

ChillerThe Peralta’s house rocked with the intensity of the assault. The less stable amongst their collection of porcelain dogs – a dozen of which rested above the gas fireplace – began to topple and shatter on the well-swept faux-wood flooring.

Mrs. Veronica Peralta contemplated the black masses pressing against the windows, and the silhouetted limbs bouncing from the all-too-thin glass behind her drawn curtains. She had stationed on the couch, well away from any potential flying shards, and she was careful to keep her face impassive.

Across the room, her husband, Danny, cringed at the roar. The tumbler in his left hand was shaking as he slammed down the useless telephone. He set the drink on the room’s dominating coffee table, ignoring the coasters Veronica had strategically positioned about its surface.

“What the sweet hell is this!?” he asked, grabbing up a poker that had, until that point, largely been ornamental.

Veronica wondered if the double-panes would flex and burst under the assault.

She clasped her hands on her lap.

“Vern – is that music!?” asked Danny, his ear cocked as if it might help clarify the morass of chanting and roars that emitted from the exterior.

She thought there was a hint of an organ grinder’s melody on the wind, but she wasn’t sure – whatever the case, she didn’t bother to respond.

As the deadbolt, which had so far stymied the advance, tore through the wood of the flimsy barrier in a series of splintering pops, Veronica smiled, and allowed her fingers to brush away a joyful tear from her purple cheek.

* * *

She’d spent the morning in preparation for the monster. Her feather duster had worked furiously over the gleaming surfaces of the home, while her free hand re-arranged pillows, straightened ornamental blankets, and gathered up wandering television remotes.

Fear made her eyes keen and her fingers industrious, and by noon, with the chemical smell of Pine-Sol thick in the air, she had to admit that she was simply re-polishing unnecessarily, and forced her legs to a halt.

Filling a glass with tap water, she sat at the kitchen table, and fell silent. She considered retrieving her laptop – her one refuge – but her mind, unable to relax even in the absolute stillness of a suburban Tuesday, began to circle the monster endlessly. What would the view be as the door opened? Were there imperfections along its path?

She assured herself that she’d anticipated every possibility, but also recalled she’d done similar in the past with unfortunate results.

The thought drove her to stand again, and the afternoon was spent in a cycle of doubt and confirmation.

Then she’d heard the slam, followed by the wrenching back of the entrance’s screen.

Danny was home.

* * *

Supper had gone smoothly, but she’d missed starting the coffee maker while retrieving his desert, and he’d given her a cuff to the left ear. His seated position had made it an awkward smack – while it stung for some time after, it was a lesser blow than many she’d endured.

He’d told her he wanted a glass of his whisky anyhow, and she foresaw a turn in the evening that did not bode well for her.

While she was opening a new bottle of Johnnie Walker from amongst the supply of liquor Danny kept in the shelving below the living room’s entertainment center, she’d heard a squawk from the lawn beyond the bay window.

A crowd had formed on the grass while she’d been handling dinner service – a mob of over-sized black suits and gloves, above which floated the rubbery visage of a mutton-chopped metal musician reproduced in mask form. Across the street, Mrs. MacDonald stepped onto her porch, dragging along Stony, her shitzu, for the mutt’s daily inspection of the neighbourhood.

Spotting the gathering, the dog walker quickly turned, scurrying for safety.

Remaining focused on Mrs. Peralta, inside her living room, the mass raised their right hands in unison, and waved hello.

Veronica screamed, and nearly let go of the bottle, but clenched, instead, at the fear of reprisal if she were to waste a drop.

She’d heard the rumours of The Achievers; she’d thought they were a bunch of kids playing at games on the Internet, a sort of digital urban legend, like haunted YouTube videos. She hadn’t truly believed, when she’d unraveled her brutal history into a General Discussion thread on her favourite kitting forum, “A Stitch In Time”, that anything would come of it.

Not really.

* * *

It was over quickly, once the hole was forced, and the horde had entered.

“Vern, call the cops! Do something!” was the last thing she ever heard from Danny, as he was carried away on the upraised arms of a dozen masked marrauders.

“I hate that frigging nickname!” was the last thing she ever said to him, as he was conveyed onto the driveway.

He didn’t know it then, but his years in South America would be incredibly educational.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Standing at the foot of her imploded entry, she watched the evening begin to settle at the edges of the city. A teenage boy on a mountain bike drove by, oblivious of what had just occurred.

She waved, and he returned the gesture.

Close behind the lad, a silver Cadillac SUV slid to a stop.

Another suit exited the vehicle, but this one was sharply dressed, and wore no disguise.

“Elden Lozada,” he said, as he approached with his hand extended. “It’s my understanding that you require a decent lawyer, and I happen to be mandated by state law to work a certain number of pro bono cases.”

A dog barked in the distance.

With her former husband out of the country, Veronica was quite pleased with the court’s settlement ruling.

 

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.

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.

HeavyFootStompsInForest3.wav by skiersailor
Town or suburbs amb – summer night.WAV by eric5335
00170 steps on a forest road 1.wav by Robinhood76
crash.wav by sagetyrtle
ScooterBy.wav by acclivity

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.