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Tonight, while surrounded by the homicidal victims of Hitchcock’s, Carter guesses at the nature of the neighbour that he suspects means him harm.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP296 - The Murder Plague: Fencing, Part 2 of 3
[music] Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 296. This evening we present The Murder Plague, Fencing, Part 2 of 3. This week's episodes are brought to you by The Way of the Buffalo. Hi, this is Hugh, the host and editor of The Way of the Buffalo podcast. Twice a month we present the best short fiction of all genres, thought-provoking interviews, and other diverse entertainments. You can find us online at wayofthebuffleopodcast.blogspot.com or search for us on iTunes. Some people say that short fiction is going the way of the buffalo. Come join us, won't you? [music] Flashpulp 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, last surrounded by the homicidal victims of Hitchcock's, Carter guesses at the nature of the neighbor that he suspects means him harm. The Murder Plague, Fencing, Part 2 of 3 Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Variation by Opoponac and Audio produced by Jessica May. [music] I could have helped. I would have, probably, if I was in my right mind. The doctors tell you about your lack of culpability, but Hitchcock's doesn't touch your memory. The dream of things you've done, details you've forgotten for years. Now, of course, plenty of things you remember always, the feeling of resistance against the blade, or the smack of the hammer, or the simple third of a trap being sprung. You never escape the memory of the rush of victory against a heated enemy, even if that enemy is only the cancer patient grandmother from next door. Sometimes, you even dreamed that your delusions were true. Now, when I was a boy, we'd start our ballgames with one lad tossing another with bat. They'd then hand over hand to the winner grab the top, meeting someone doing the plague was like that, but coming out on top usually meant a knife in the other fellot. That's how the following period felt in my mind. A series of escalations, with the opening toss of the bat being the chance revealing of the pool. It was like staring at my opponent's shadow, trying to guess what they looked like. I didn't know if it was a man or a woman, but I knew they were crafty. It must have taken quite a bit of work to construct the grid they'd laid across the pool, to hinge and balance the planks, then lay the solid camouflage. Worse still, the capital city was largely powerless. Unless their fortifications had been built at the immediate onset of the plague, they'd used only harm tools. It would mean less noise while getting the job done. Yes, I thought they were crafty indeed. Without doing it consciously, I started thinking of my neighbours that carpenter. I became convinced every object to my opponent's yard was booby-trapped, and that the homemade abyss was but one defensive line of many. The propane grill was obviously a bomb. The four broad steps leading to the rear patio door were likely breakaway, devoting some sort of foot-soul and paling devices beneath. Below the overhang of the house stood a green Dutch-dored shed. Touching the latch would no doubt mean decapitation, some equally ingeniously horrible fate. Standing there, an absent-mindedly listening to the screaming while my thumb and forefinger still held the fuzzy pink curtain, all ideas came to me. Not lingering till the wind was favourable, and trying to set fire to the opposite string of houses, or finding a car and rigging the gas pedal so that it slammed into the cream siding, or even just ringing the bell and seeing what would happen if I asked a burrow cup of sugar. All were discarded as distinctly too risky. I could sit it on. Would the carpenter appear to check the tiger in his trap? No, he or she would wait and see if the death throes brought anyone else. So in turn I would wait to see what the carpenter would see. My fevered mind began to feel my neighbor s presence in the void they had left. Of the four windows I could see clearly, two were covered with slat blinds, and the others held thick floral patterned drapes. I suspected that the blinds in the bottom right had been slanted, just enough to allow a view of the outside, as neither row had been cracked for a better view, but every now and then I would come around convincing myself that there was a flutter at the upper curtains. I was a fisherman, uncertain to use if he was actually feeling nibbles on his line and never getting a solid bite. The shrieking became wailing, and the wailing became weeping. And more than an hour later, there was nothing but silence. It got late and I got tired, but I couldn t leave my post. The carpenter, I was sure, would hold out to the darkest moment of the night, then venture forth. By the time the moon was deeply within cloud cover, however, I was positive it would be done. I peed carefully from behind my flimsy veil, determined to be just as crafty and patient as my worthy adversary. At dusk, the shed opened, and a thin-faced woman stepped from its depths. Freshpulp is presented by flashpulp.com, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to scare@skinner.fm or the voicemail line at 206-338-2792, but be aware that they may appear in a future flashcast. We d also like to thank the Freesound Project, found at freesound.org, for a full listing of effects used during the show, as well as credits for the users who provided them, please check this episode s notes at flashpulp.com. And thanks to you for listening. If you enjoyed the show, please tell your friends. [MUSIC PLAYING] (upbeat music)