Part 3 of 3
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, Ruby attempts to save a life not from the shambling dead, but, instead, from post-apocalyptic justice.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP280 - Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 3 of 3
[Music] Welcome to Flashpaul, episode 280. This evening we present Ruby Departed, Circles, Part 3 of 3. This week's episodes are brought to you by Radio Project X. Not your grandpa's mad experiment in live radio theater. Join them in person at the Black Swan, or via the inter-either at RadioProjectX.com. [Music] [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 attempts to save a life not from the shambling dead, but instead from post-apocalyptic justice. Ruby Departed, Circles, Part 3 of 3. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Poponax. An audio produced by Jessica May. [Music] 9.30 pm. I'm exhausted, but I'll be sleeping with one eye open. Still, I may be getting the hang of surviving the survivors. When we spotted the plaza, I sprinted ahead and made like I was ensuring it was clear. It was just another anonymous strip of concrete and stores, like a dozen others I've slept on since the world died and came back hungry. Of course, it was meant as a bit of a show. The whole point of climbing onto the roof is that it's supposed to be safe, but ha ha fooled me again. Number 87 was maybe 16 with wiry red hair. She was wearing jeans and a yellow sweater, despite the heat. Her wrists were covered in silver bangles, some bent out of shape, and she'd taken her shoes off and set them neatly beside her. It was blood on the left one's ankle, the one not chained to the wall. I managed to work my way up by climbing a fence, surrounding the end unit's loaning bay, and she was staring at me as I pulled myself over the lip. Hard to say how long she'd been there, long enough to smell, but not so long as to manage to pull off the foot she'd cuff to the store-blows massive AC unit. There was a pistol to her right, but she must have died before she could convince herself to use it. Seeing her snarling at the length of her tether reminded me of the canine sacrifice we'd made to exit the orchard, and I closed my eyes as Bethany slid through the top of her skull. My heart wasn't in the first whack I had at her ankle, and it took a frustrated second hit to free her. I dropped her on to the pavement, just as the others started to arrive. The pistol was tucked in her belt as she went over. We have enough problems. I wanted the wanderers and the farmers to get a solid look at me as they ascended. I wanted to lift their babies and help ease the load on their aching calves. Yeah, I was pandering to the jury. Bonnie's shirt was greasy with sweat as he summited. Two of his guards had clambered up first, while the remaining two stayed below, to prod him, should he refuse to go. It was awkward, and stressful, because of the ever-kneering rotters, and I spent the whole time trying to guess what the wardens were in their previous lives. I'm convinced one of the self-appointed chaperones, the one with the mop of brown hair in the short face, used to be a dentist. There's something about his "this is for your own good" smile. As Ronnie got to his feet, he looked at me and muttered, "Never should have left a goddamn house." Anyhow, once everyone was safely trying to find seating on the tarry rooftop, I was hoping to take a moment to snack. The grieving mother had a different idea. She was no longer a drunken shrieker. It was as if knowing her son's fate had given her a handle on her anguish. And now she was wielding it like a club. "This man's not to serve our company," she shouted, standing close to the maybe dentist, and jabbing a finger at squatting Ronnie's trucker cap. "This man does not, in fact, deserve to live. He took my son from me. There are no more police to call. There are no more judges to sit on the bench. So we must judge. And we know him to be guilty because the tale was heard from his own lips. He has confessed and should be punished accordingly." "I said it was an accident." "Then why hide it so long? Why destroy the evidence? Clearly you felt guilty. Why?" "Because I was afraid you skirt wear and wackos would overreact. Apparently I was right." I could see some of the wanderers looked as if they agreed. Ma could see the mob swaying away so she appealed directly to the kilted farmers. "We had safety and a harvest. And now we have nothing because of the outsiders. Do not let them take my justice as well. He must die. He must." The circle of homemade swords came up then, but none of them seemed terribly keen on running him through in cold blood. At the same moment, a hiss went through the crowd, and a bunch of grimy faces, wanderer and farmer alike, stepped forward as if to stop the proceedings. I could see Snowball behind the little knot of people, and I realized that A) he was standing, even if it was only because he was using his neighbor as a crutch, and B) he was probably pushing at their spines and encouragement. I hadn't expected the help, but I can't say I was sad to see it. The effort cost McKinley, though. His face was gray by the time I laced my imaginary tap dancing shoes and said, "In my most authoritative, you children better behave, boys." I propose a compromise. Clearly, it's inappropriate for Ryan to stay with us any longer, so let his punishment be exiled from the safety of the group. As I was talking, I was also walking. I set one hand on Ronnie's shoulder while the other was still holding Bethany, and the four guards seemed happy to be relieved of their duty. I don't think they had reckoned on becoming executioners. Given how close nightfall is, you may get your death sentence anyhow. Try to find some peace in knowing that your son isn't out there roaming the countryside, and that his end was quick. Let this reminder of your tragedy go. Without waiting for a response, I spun and gave Ronnie a little shove with Bethany's help. Everything was quiet except the sounds of our bootfalls and the grunts of those eating the bangle girl on the pavement. When we got three stores away, I knew it was working. When we got about five stores away, I started to worry that we'd have to go back because there was no other way down. Behind us, the prosecutor had resumed her argument, and I did not relish trying to squeeze by her. Thankfully, the pharmacy had an awning from which we could grab a quaintly ornate lamppost, but it felt like my legs were made of stretch-arm-strong material as you touch the ground. Now, yesterday, I had a very short conversation with Snowball. It went something like, "You know any bicycle shops around here?" Not the department store-type, the yuppy ones with all the fancy kit. Yeah, there's a place down by the highway that I used to sell my higher quality stolen bikes to. A shattered window later, the crowd watched him give his bowel a cheery little ring and tossed me away. By the time I made it back up, the implications of the cycle shop were spreading via lively chatter. Except her in the far corner of the roof beside the AC unit, where a small knot of farmers had gathered to lick their wounds. I could see the chief arguing with his wife, but I didn't really want to get close enough to hear the proceedings. What I keep thinking about is that the problem with my solution is the woman with the baby carrier. It wasn't a vote, as the wanderers would have held, and it wasn't a decision by the chief's council, like it would have been on the farm. It was just me shucking and jiving him off the roof. This morning, I could have gotten around that moment or dead toddler. It sucks to say it, but it's true. I made a decision out of tiredness and anger and fear. I made a decision based on what was easiest. I felt like getting Ronnie out on the road was the right thing to do. He helped us, and I honestly believe he didn't mean shoot anyone living. The thing is, it could have just as easily gone the other way. Maybe would have, if the woman hadn't spent so much of our journey cussing out those around her. Hell, I could have mentioned the cycle shop much earlier, and maybe it would have put everyone in a better mood. But frankly, I wasn't sure how things would break, and I didn't necessarily want people to be able to easily catch Ronnie and lynch him. It was all just force of personality, and personalities can be wrong. Personalities can also stab you while you sleep. Speaking of, Geneva Faye went out of her way to mention that the Pete's will be standing watch for the night. Should I want to lay out my blankets nearby? I've made some enemies, but I've made some friends too. Okay, the light's going, and the adrenaline's wearing off. Maybe things will be simpler tomorrow. Whatever else happens, though. I swear, I am going to pop some goddamn wheelies. 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 Skinner@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) Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled. Give it the shadows I live with are stumbled. (music)