Part 1 of 3
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The Skinner Co. Network
FP295 - The Murder Plague: Fencing, Part 1 of 3
Some days gloomy my hours are slumberless Dearest the shadows I live with by nonetheless Little white flowers will never wake in you Not where the bright coach of sorrow ends taking you Angels have no fire ever turning you Or they'll be angry if I so don't join in you Welcome to Flashpulp episode 295 This evening we present the murder plague Fencing part one of three This week's episode's "A Brought to You" by Nettie Bytes Wake up, go to work. Work. Come home, eat dinner, rot your brain out, go to bed, lather, rinse, repeat. Are you tired of an old humdrum life, tired of things that just weigh you down and depress you? And you rather just focus on things that are awesome. Tune in to Nettie Bytes, find out what's awesome. Nettie Bytes, nimlas.org/blog 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, Harm Carter finds a home for himself amongst the infected maniacs. The Murder Plague Fencing part one of three Written by J.R.D. Skinner Art and narration by Opoponax The door to the house on Washington was open, but not too open. The driveway was abandoned and the garage left gaping at the street. The backyard faced on to other cookie-cutter suburban homes, but the front had a wide view of a playground that provided no place to hide. The exterior had the look of a factory-age full brickwork, and the hedges had been painstakingly maintained before having run riot during the plague times. It was exactly what I was searching for. At first, though, I walked past it. Now, I should clarify, it wasn't as if I was strolling about like a grandmother on her way back from Sunday's service. The madness of Hitchcock's disease had fully gripped my mind by then, and I managed forward momentum only through slow progress and carefully affected casualness. I thought the rules had changed since entering the city. While hidden riflemen were an issue in the country, anyone crazy enough to shoot a stranger on site was also too scared to give away their position so easily. So long as I wasn't rushed by a knife-wheeling maniac, I reasoned, I'd be okay. That's not how Hitchcock's works, of course. It was always more important to worry about the smiling man with extended hand than the risk that a slasher film villain would come bailing onto the street. But the viral fear running among my veins couldn't consider that far. Anyhow, I went around the block, moving cautiously, but not so cautiously that I appeared paranoid. Oh, so I hoped. Everything seemed a threat, a recycling bin, brimming with plastic bottles. Noted forgotten at the roadside, doing a panicked evacuation, became an improvised explosive device. The abode on the corner, whose door was slamming against its protruding deadbolt with every tug and thrust of the wind, was obviously a death trap, bristling with shotguns and poison broken glass. Every window contained a watcher, and every useful item I passed was clearly set there to lure me into danger. In my mind, my chosen neighbourhood was against me, but I was smart and sober and sane, and I would use this clarity to kill any one of those murderers bastards who might attempt to show their heads. This mix of anxiety and twisted justification carried me back to the molded cement stoop of 276 Washington. I did not pause in my approach, as I worried it would give extra time to anyone inside. Despite the fact that the house met the careful criteria I had worked up during my walk, any delay was an excuse to envision a thousand threats, and my stomach was a knot. I was well into convincing myself that the whole thing was a trick, and I finally entered the front hole. When I flipped the deadbolt, it was like erecting a wall to keep the world out. I immediately began to fear whatever might look beyond the barrier more than whatever might look on the second floor. Moving through a small sitting area, I ignored the staircase and beeline to the kitchen. I located a stout knife in after some covered fumbling of flashlight. I searched the ground level, then searched it again. I descended into the unfinished basement, largely used for storage, and turned over the boxes of Christmas decorations and photo albums, just in case. When I returned to the main floor, I searched it again. While arguing with myself about being trapped inside, I shuffled around the living room furniture to block the French doors that led to the back patio. Finally, I climbed the stairs. Seven doors. Subtract two, as one was an open closet that had clearly been raided for blankets in a hurry, and the other was a laundry room that stood empty in the gloom. The entry on my left, I revealed a wall dominated by a slightly risquaped poster of a woman washing a sports car. At a number of logos and pictures from a number of bands I had likely complained about if I would ever hear their music. I popped my head in, and the place was a mess of clothing deans and forgotten soda cans. Telling back, I scaled the bathroom, then encountered a home office that looked like it had never been fully unpacked, despite being used regularly. Next came a nearly antiseptic bedroom, with a plush bed and a flat screen on the opposing wall. I assumed it was the parents. The final chamber belonged to a girl of perhaps nine. There was a large framed picture of a family on the shelf, but I wasn't terribly interested anymore, as it didn't seem as if any of them were on the cusp of leaping out to stab me. Of course, my inspection hadn't been about trying to piece together who these people were. No, I was allowed only to think in terms of traps and advantages. Could I use their blabs as a weapon? Perhaps I could rig it to the windows, somehow, to electrify the pain. Was that a murderer in the closet? No, it was just a Halloween mask hung on a hook. But could I use that guy somehow? Was there some worth in a scarecrow? Perhaps his bait? And so it went until I noticed the spidery fellow. From the shelter of a pink curtain, I could see a square of six back yards. My own, but too on either side of my little plot, and most of those belonging to the three houses that faced us. The creeper moved slowly. He'd peep over the fence, scan the windows of the house, and pull himself over. He was methodical about it, and every enclosure took at least ten minutes to clear. I can't say exactly what he was seeking, but I suspect food. I did see him try one patio, but it was locked. Rather than shatter the glass and draw attention, he simply turned to analyze the next residence. He'd made it perhaps a third of the way across the lawn, directly behind my own, when he disappeared. The turf seemed to fall away beneath him, and I caught a brief flash of aqua blue ceramic tile. In the spring that held up the plank's hinge must have snapped back into place. There was not a disordered blade of grass, and even having just seen the trapdoor magic trick, I didn't entirely believe it had taken place. At least, I wouldn't have if it weren't for the scream. The potato sack sound of his landing made it obvious that the pool drained, and rather deep. It was then that I realized I likely had a neighbor. Flashpulp 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 Free Sound 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]