Part 3 of 3
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Tonight, Ruby and her companions face off against a hunger greater even than that possessed by the ravenous dead.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP291 - Ruby Departed: Contact, Part 3 of 3
[music] Sunday's gloomy, my hours are slumbless, dear is the shadows I live with by nonetheless. Little white flowers will never awaken you, not where the brach ultra-sol is taking you. [music] Angels have no fire ever returning you, or they'll be angry if I so don't join in you. Welcome to Flashpulp, Episode 291. This evening we present Ruby Departed, Contact, Part 3 of 3. This week's episodes are brought to you by the Ice and Fire Convention. As Tyrion Lannister once said, "Never forget who you are." And really, what you are is a Game of Thrones fan, right? Arm yourself in it by visiting the Ice and Fire Convention running from April 26th, 28th, 2013 in Ohio at iceandfireconvention.webs.com [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, Ruby and her companions face off against a hunger greater even than that possessed by the ravenous dead. Ruby Departed, Contact, Part 3 of 3. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and narration by Popenax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [music] August 12th, 11.30 a.m. We collected up all the white t-shirts we could muster. Frankly, most of them were only white because we remembered them that way and stuck them to the top of poles. Wait, no. I guess I need to explain yesterday still. The wanderers and farmers did their best, but, well, let's just say neither side was filled with X special forces. Given the distance, it was really a waste of time, anyhow, but try telling that to a panicked crowd being shot at for the first time. Bullets move a lot faster than dead folk. The tally was four injured on our side, and I think we managed to kill one of their horses. I suppose they had a spare anyway. Once everyone got low on ammo, we kind of ran out of things to do. They weren't willing to approach us, and we weren't interested in heading over to give them a forgiving hug. So, we just left. Last night was pretty miserable. The beaten stragglers didn't make it. There was a lot of crying from their friends, and people with uncomfortable looks on their faces kept coming by asking me if I had any ideas. They never want to talk to me about who's sneaking into which sleeping bag or if I've seen Jurassic Park. I shouldn't complain. At least they listen when it's important. Have I mentioned why the farmers mostly wear kilts? They're recreationists, sort of. Not quite as hardcore as, say, some civil war buffs I've encountered, but still a bunch of Scottish junkie families who happened to be camping on the old man's land during the town's annual Highland Games event. That's why it's weird that I thought of the idea first. I suppose a bit of cabertossing doesn't make you a full-on history nerd. The Scots were once famous for their ability to poke things from a distance. What remains of those poor, funny-talking bastards across the ocean? With no cable news or cell phones, the world feels like it shrunk to nothing bigger than the distance to the next corner you can't see around. Sorry, I'm rambling. But I haven't stopped shaking from the adrenaline and fatigue. Slicing the pipe on an angle was surprisingly tricky, but one of the farmers found a toolbox in a maintenance area and managed the job by candlelight. When he was done, we basically had a bunch of steel tubes whose ends slanted like the tips of juice-box straws. Then we hung the white shirts and waited until dawn. When we finally marched into the parking lot, I was amongst the 19 in front. Given the lusty desires of our attackers, it was unpleasant to feel as naked as I did without Bethany. But I couldn't ask the rest to do anything I wouldn't. Behind us were three rows of surrender poles, maybe 40 of them, and everyone else was clutching their makeshift swords, kitchen knives, and claw hammers. The cowboys weren't immediately visible when we exited. I think they left a few lookouts and found somewhere to hide for the night. It took maybe ten minutes before the posse came, trotting from behind a big rig garage on the far side of the road. I guess they weren't terribly worried about being able to catch our bicycle brigade. I can't blame them either. There was plenty of time to watch them come, and their skill in the saddle was obvious. They joked and jostled and shifted places like a pack of school boys hustling to the yard at recess. Kimberly Parker was to my left, with the kinda white flags waving over our heads. I was surprised to see her there, but she was one of the first to step up when the call for volunteers went around. The girl beside her was maybe 16, and Kimberly had her close in a motherly "there there" hug. The teen had the waterworks going pretty loudly by the time the Jesse James gang made it to the gap in the fence that was the parking lot's entrance, but the riders were already a little distracted. Six shufflers had arrived overnight, probably drawn out by the clomping around of the watchmen. Their shattered ankles and clumsy footwork weren't much of a match for the animals, but even at a distance, their thrashing stumbling was obviously tweaking the horses. The cowboys came to a jittery stop just inside the gate. They didn't say anything, but they were smiling, greasy, hungry smiles. We didn't link hands or anything so dramatic, but I did realize I was holding my breath after Kimberly followed my step forward. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was childhood memory blue, and it sounded like there were a thousand birds singing in the trees beyond the truck garage. Moving across the pavement was painfully slow. There was ragged breathing and hushed murmuring behind us, lip licking and collar adjusting in front of us, and all of it was underlined by the creeping moan of a particularly eager James Earl Jones to look alike, with misplaced his left arm somewhere. We came close enough to feel the spray of the horses' breath in the chill air, and smell the grass they must have gnawed at for breakfast. Then our weeper turned with a wail, and sprinted back towards the white flags. We were trying to look surprised. We followed her. The horseman had no interest in seeing their evening plans denied, and two-thirds of the group came thundering after us. Now, I know she was faking, but damn, that girl would be the pride of her high school track team, if it still had one. We slipped between the now lowered spears like water, and our would-be molesters couldn't see the thorns until it was too late. It was a good thing the pipes were braced against the lot's curve, though, as some of the impacts were meaty. The rush wasn't the worst of it. Honestly, most weren't immediately impaled, but they were in thrusting range. All I can say for the people with the makeshift pikes is that they volunteered, and that they were scared and angry. I eventually managed to get a hold of Bethany from one of the peats, but it was really pretty much over by then. One of the horses, the brown beast that had clearly been beautiful before losing so much weight, had a five-foot length of pipe sticking from its neck, and the shaft had entangled in the chain-link fence as it went through its death throes. The cowboys who were smart enough not to charge were gone, but that makes maybe five survivors. We didn't give them time to start cooking up revenge plans. After pushing the gore far enough out of our way to leave without getting entangled in an intestine, we rolled on. We haven't seen a pony since. To be sure, we went back the way we came. If there's anyone following us through the burnt ruins, they must be wearing a cloak of invisibility. I've been wondering, did I ever learn the chief's real name? I'll have to read back and see. Marion is such a pretty one. Have I been ducking learning those sort of details? Maybe it's not just everyone else who's been avoiding small talk. Alright. The pickles are nearly done. Our little trail-breaking scout party found a random jar of homemade pickles sitting in the back of a pickup that obviously had been hastily packed for evacuation, but never used. It was sitting between a sleeping bag and a box of photographs, but it was the only food. Not enough to bring back to the group, but definitely enough for a nice roadside snack on a bright august morning. There's something friendly in passing the jar from grubby hand to grubby hand. Back on the road we go. Maybe I'll try to strike up a conversation. I wonder if these guys have ever seen Jurassic Park. [Music] 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]