Part 1 of 3
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Tonight, we rejoin Ruby as she attempts to navigate a world filled with staggering dead and troubled survivors.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP278 - Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 1 of 3
(upbeat music) - Welcome to FlashPulp, episode 278. This evening we present Ruby Departed, Circles, part one of three. 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 the yesteryear to an enthusiastic, if somewhat tipsy, modern audience. Join them in person at the Black Swan, or via the inter-eather@radioprojectx.com. (upbeat music) (upbeat music) (upbeat music) - FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to 10 minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, we rejoin Ruby as she attempts to navigate a world filled with staggering dead and troubled survivors. Ruby Departed, Circles, part one of three. Written by JRD Skinner, art and narration by Opoponix, an audio produced by Jessica May. (upbeat music) (upbeat music) - August 10th, 6.48 a.m. More writing and walking, but I need to. It started yesterday with a whisper burning through the group. Though the moaning mob were still close behind, we were walking rough roads, sided by open fields and houses built comfortably away from our route. There were a few surprises, and I spent most of my time walking the line and chasing a dumb idea I had. That all went out the window when word arrived that we were going to conduct something called an orchard pole. It was obviously one of the weird bits of jargon that the wanderers make up, and I had to ask what it meant. I guess they've been this way before, and they're quite certain there's no better shelter than the limbs of the squat, but broad apple trees that march in rows over the Williams's fields. The Williams, I am told, are long dead. Supposedly eaten when one of their number turned and the rest couldn't get their weapons because the deceased was the fellow who was supposed to be on watch while they slept. They apparently gotten too confident in their stockpiles and fortifications, but it was the same thorough job of boarding up that prevented anyone from escaping. It should be noted that when it was presented to me, the story started with an "I heard," so who knows if it's true. I was listening to Geneva Faye explain while she was shoving her squeaky wheeled cart along, and she finished by saying, you'll get used to the groans. Despite the ache behind my eyes and my dry tongue, I kept my mouth shut about sleeping against doors while the carcasses lost their fingernails scraping at the other side. Instead, I asked how they managed to leave their little islands in the morning, Geneva. The orchard we have in mind is huge. By the time dawn rolls around, the corpses will be bumbling about with only a vague memory that something tasty was near. There are two people. They're not a couple, but they look like they should be. Pamela and Marlon, they locate the dogs. I mean, there are always mots running alongside the group, and it's easy enough to find some rope. If they're lucky, they get one that misses being captive. Doesn't even mind when they slip on the leash. Eventually, Pamela and Marlon will split from the pack with their new pets. They sleep in different spots, though. You know, in case. At sunrise, they tie their new friends to something solid and give them a few kicks. It ain't pretty, but the dog doesn't know there's an issue till he's tethered and wailing. Those stumbling bastards come running when they hear a scared meal, and that's when we make for the exit. You never shake the whole group, of course, but it thins them enough that you can avoid the leftovers. All in all, it sounded like a horrible plan. But I breathed a small sigh of relief when I saw the same farm had a pair of double-wide trailers sitting beside each other, not far off from the trees. They wouldn't hold everybody. But I preferred the looks of them over a night in an apple tree. I should mention the ascent, though, because it was like watching a well-tended forest vacuum up a riot. The wanderer's baby strollers and shopping carts were abandoned on the tractor trail, and helping hands seemed to sprout from the foliage. I couldn't help but think of the climbers as some sort of weird fruit waiting to be plucked by the crowd of shufflers below. In an odd way, the rooftop felt more familiar than any of the trees could have. McKinley is still recovering from his rescue, so he was allotted some roof space, and Olivia's doing her best not to be constantly screaming and pain from her burns. So her mom is close by to take care of her. Dalton must have slept in the field. The chief is here with his wife, but somehow it's become hard to call him the leader of the farmers. The drunk I met the other day is his wife, and her constant berating has him walking silently with the rest of us. I could see why he was hiding her in the bungalow. I'm tempted to scavenge for whiskey, just to keep her quiet tonight. The farmers aren't exactly assimilating with the wanderers. There's plenty of grumbling when the idea of sheltering in the branches was presented, but at least they're talking. For now, we're all headed in the same direction. Ronnie was there, too, hunkered at the edge of the trailer with cross legs. He was watching dusk fade away while zombies pinballed between the tree trunks and our little platform. No one was going to begrudge in the spot with the chief's wife cussing out anyone within arm's length. He spoke up when he noticed I was sitting beside him. Ronnie, I want to go home. So do I. I think my place is a few miles that way, but I'm not sure. I'm a driver, not a walker. Now I've got myself turned around. I need a landmark. It's the most he's said to me since the fire. Later, after pulling straws for look out duties and while I was trying to sleep, the drunk was griping. The chief had the situation at a dull roar, but her unintelligible whispers were enough to keep me awake. Suddenly, groggy McKinley, a few feet to my left, had a moment of clarity. He said, "Ruby, right? Snowball." His handshake was dry. But I had to reach to cover 95% of the distance between us. I wonder if he'll remember giving me that name. He wasn't talking long. He followed it up with, "As he told you yet." But Mr. Snowball was unconscious before I could ask who he meant. At five after three, I decided to have a word with the chief. I'd convince myself that I could reason with the woman. Tell her that her words were drawing a crowd on the ground. She was complaining about the wanderers when I came close. Monsters! Oh, monsters! I know a lot of no order. Before I could launch into my spiel, though, a squealing crack rushed from the dark. I couldn't see where it was. I just knew it was somewhere beyond the corrugated tin edge of the roof. But I could hear the results. One of the trunks had been more brittle than it appeared, and, guessing by the yelling, it was overloaded with folks. At first, between the shambler's muttering and the cries for help, questions jumped from treetop to treetop. But soon it was only howling. I'd also remember a man calling those feasting on him every name he could muster. By the end, he was down to ridiculous grade school insults. After maybe ten minutes of biting, however, there was nothing to listen to but the moist chewing and grunting of an undead picnic. I was still staring at the shadows when the woman repeated what she had said. Monsters! They were all monsters. I'm sure I sacrificed my boy just as easily. Quick or probably, given that he wasn't one of them. My mind was on Geneva and Rachel, and the rest of the quasi-friends I'd made. And, frankly, I was mildly tempted to give her a push. That's when Olivia started crying. The burns were simply too much, and Kimberly had fallen asleep at her post. I rushed over to Mermer useless assurances in her ear. But I found myself wondering what would have happened if the wanderers hadn't found a mutt. It was tough to ignore the image of Olivia staked out in the brush, waiting for dirty hands and gnashing teeth while doing her best to hold back or screaming. I was in a doze when distant shrieking brought me to my feet. It was our wake-up call. The sun had returned far too soon. The two escaping groups were hard to tell apart in the morning mist, with their comparably poor levels of hygiene and their pant status generally concealed by the greenery and dim light. Listening to that dog bark, I couldn't help but think of the general. Anyhow, no more stalling. There was a woman below. Maybe we could have avoided her. I don't know. She was tired, and annoyed, and frustrated, and she was persistent about getting in our way. Number 86 was a short-haired, noseless lady in black track pants. Brunette, probably. I think her t-shirt was white, but it was largely covered by the blue baby carrier. She had strapped across her chest. The wriggling infant cadaver had done a pretty good job of pulling most of the meat from her ribs. She fell forward, and it was easy to make out the occasional lifeless gurgle from the child beneath. I was considering my next move when a tiny set of fingers worked its way into view, then set to scraping at her shoulder. All I could do is walk away. 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. ♪ ♪ Some day I've glued me in my hours, I stumbled out. ♪ ♪ Give it the shadows I live with are stumbled out. ♪ ♪