Part 2 of 3
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Tonight, Ruby hears more than just the moans of the voracious dead.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP279 - Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 2 of 3
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp, Episode 279. This evening we present Ruby Departed, Circles, Part 2 of 3. This week's episodes are brought to you by Radio Project X. Broadcasting from a stage in the heart of Toronto, these young ruffians bring a flavor of yesteryear to an enthusiastic, if somewhat tipsy, modern audience. Join them in person at the Black Swan or via the inter-eather 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 hears more than just the moans of the voracious dead. Ruby Departed, Circles, Part 2 of 3, written by Jaredie Skinner, art and narration by Popon X, and audio produced by Jessica Mann. [Music] 6.30 p.m. I'm a-kingly tired, but the zombie town party just won't stop, and now I've only got maybe three hours to formulate a brilliant plan. Crap. So much nothing happens while we're walking. You're sweating under the sun, feeling the rocks through your ever thinner shoe soles. Then some spooked hooligan yells at the far edge of the crowd, and everyone braces themselves for a flood of shambling horrors to come pouring out of the nearest farmhouse. Thing is, it's almost always a truly dead guy, or a rotting animal, or even wind rustling garbage. When the occasional staggering homesteader does approach, we usually manage to pass in before he gets to us, so he falls in with the pack of persistent stragglers at a rear. If you can keep up chatter, you can even get to the point where you almost feel safe. More people should mean more defenders, but when a panic hits and you realize you're caught in a riptide of people meat, you suddenly know what sardines must feel like when the lid peels back. After catching an elbow with my ribs the first time, I've taken to bringing around Bethany whenever someone starts talking too loud. That's the extent of politeness these days. Don't jostle the lady with the spear. Well, actually, everyone knows my name. The way of the wanderers is to sort of shuffle from conversation to conversation, dropping away from the ones you find less interesting in the hopes that someone has a better topic a little further back. But when I step in lately, discussion ceases. I think it's because of my help during the fire, but it makes the march tough. Now I mostly pretend like I'm watching the perimeter, then eavesdrop. It's even more off-putting when people bring me food. No one's trudging on a full stomach. To be fair though, respect for my reputation may be all that's keeping Ronnie alive at the moment. About lunch I got word that I was needed up front. The wanderers always keep their injured at the head of the line. It helps when the person pushing the shopping cart ambulance needs to find a volunteer to swap with. When I got there, Olivia was asleep and Snowball was awake. His penicillin seems to be helping. Ronnie was shoving the cart. I learned later that McKinley had been awake a while and had called for Ronnie before me. McKinley, or Snowball, or whatever, is looking rough. His face is gaunt from barely having eaten anything, or at least, that's what I assume. And he smells like a dude who's been living in the same set of clothes for the last week. His leg bandages are all he has that's clean, and only because they're mostly made of rags that we throw in the ditch after use. He may also be insane. The first thing he said was, "You need to tell her." Ronnie pulled at his trucker cap and frowned at me before leaning over the bar of the squeaking shopper's drug mark cart. Then he told McKinley to fuck off. Said, "You of all people should know better than to want to drag up old history." So Snowball turns to me without missing a beat. I used to be a dealer. I also, until quite recently, was an addict. Ronnie, murdered your supplier for his drugs. I didn't kill him. He already had a lamp sticking out of his chest. I just convinced him to stop crawling around so much. Before you saved me, I spent a month shooting, snorting and smoking. If you hadn't come around, Ruby, I wouldn't have made it. I don't mean only when you drag my ass from under the lawnmower. I mean in general. Like one of those rotting bastards. I live again. Thanks to you. Crap. Feeling rather uncomfortable, I was quick to change the topic. "You're gonna spill your secret or what, Ronnie?" I kind of wish he hadn't. "Doing his best to whisper," he said. I wasn't long back from beating the bushes. Had a deer's guts all over the garage floor. Had a bunch of idiots banging at the roll-up door. The blood all was draws them on. The entrance is heavy, and they never really had much chance of getting through. But I had to reinforce the windows after snapping the blade of my skin and knife off in the temple of my former postman. Anyhow, what I'm saying is that I had trouble before and I always kept my rifle in here. That banging, especially on the metal, where ripples and echoes fill in the room. It drove me nuts. I've even came all my life, but cleaning the meat is not exactly my favorite part of the process at the best of times. Having a bunch of hungry assholes insisting on being let in had me in a tight mood. Hell, I'm always a little tightly wound on hunting days. He paused to watch a tree pass. "The other door handle started to move. I thought I'd locked it behind me, but I figured I must have forgot. My hands were bloody. I had to rush to get my clothes off while the thing was swinging open. When I finally got my 308 around, the entrance was wide, so I pulled the trigger. It was as he was falling backwards that I realized he'd been surprised to see me, or maybe the dear goods. Whatever the case, zombies don't do surprise. I dragged him in and closed the door, but I left a good portion of his brain on the paving stones. When a little ape shit with the rifle killed all the dead guys around the house, got to a point where I was just screaming and weeping. So the killer came to see what the problem was. Thing is, I knew the kid. I mean, not at first. That split second he looked like any grimy face cannibal stumbled around these days. Maybe he was lost, or maybe he thought I was trapped and needed help. I have no idea. But recognized him as the chief here's youngest. In the end I drove him to the woods and let nature, or rather, the unnatural, take care of the evidence. It was kind of open frankly that someone would find part of him and blame the usual suspects. I was also open snowballed, dilated pupils and rambling about the wonders of the universe, and he wouldn't remember anything. Well, how? He'd been careful with the secret, but not careful enough. The one pushing Olivia overheard the whole thing, and I didn't even register that it was Mikey Dalton until later when I saw him standing behind the drummer's outrage. He must have immediately taken the news to his dad, who in turn must have tried to use it to get in good with the chief's people. He probably isn't sleeping too soundly after his recent mistakes, so I'm not sure I blame him. Anyhow, the drummer catches the rambling hospital area, and he starts yelling. This draws everyone's attention, and people start bunching up behind and beside us, but leaving some space in the middle. It was like watching a 50s street gang movie, but without anyone breaking into dance. We simply kept shuffling and arguing. Some of the wanderers tried to calm things. They explained that shouting was going to excite the locals. When a bunch of the farmers arrived with their makeshift swords in hand though, mediators evaporated. The chief wasn't there himself. At first he was probably holding back his wife, but she must have found a bottle of high-proof strength somewhere. The only thing loud enough to stop the drummer's accusations against Ronnie were the flood of the woman's own. "Last night we did it your way," she was screaming at the wanderers. "This time we'll do it ours. Hangin's too good for him, but a danglin' treat will slow the bastards at our heels. If I can't have a grave to cry at, I just hold a tree to pray under all I have to do." I should have held my tongue. The apocalypse didn't make me a lawyer or a cop any more than it made me a leader. Regardless, the old woman's words from the evening previous came to me, and I cleared my throat. With Bethany's blade conspicuous, but unthreateningly so, I said, "We're not monsters. We should have a trial, even if it's a makeshift one." Besides, if we stop that long, we'll be overtaken before you find the right branch. The pack was as quiet as I've ever heard it. Nothing but the clatter of wheels, and a lucky bit of breeze kicked up behind us, carrying eager moans. Almost as if they were trying to drown it out, a murmur of approval backing my proposal rolled through the crowd. The grieving mother said fine. A guard of forest pacing us now. I suppose in case Ronnie tries to run. Actually, that's when I remembered my dumb question. Surprisingly, Snowball had an answer, and I now know where we're holding trial. Still, crap. I'm achingly tired, but we're getting close. And now I've only got maybe two hours to formulate a brilliant plan. [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 skier@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]