Part 1 of 3
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny, his wobbly compatriot, find themselves watching a race.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP268 - Coffin: Infrastructure, Part 1 of 3
[music playing] ♪ Sundays glue me my hours are slumbless ♪ ♪ Dear is the shadows I live with by nonetheless ♪ ♪ Little white flowers will never awaken ♪ ♪ Not where the bright culture soild is taking you ♪ [music playing] ♪ Angels have no fire ever turning you ♪ ♪ Would they be angry if I'd sort of join you ♪ ♪ Ooh Sunday ♪ Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 268. This evening we present coffin, infrastructure, part one of three. This week's episodes are brought to you by Heywire, by Justin McCumber. [music playing] When the aliens known as the Hesrin invaded our solar system, we were defenseless against them. But from the mind of a mad genius came our salvation. The Titans, super soldiers encased in nanotech armor with the strength to tear starships in half. They not only repelled the alien invaders, but vowed to chase them across the galaxy until the Hesrin were destroyed. That was 100 years ago. Now, finally, the Titans have returned. But they've been infected by a virus that's driven them insane, compelling them to destroy everything they'd fought so long and hard to protect. Heywire is a science fiction novel written by Justin R. McCumber and published by Griffin Woodpress. It's available in print and ebook formats from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, and the iBook store. To learn more, go to Justin McCumber.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, Will Coffin, Urban Shaman, and Bunny, his wobbly compatriot, find themselves watching a race. Coffin, infrastructure, part one of three. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, and audio produced by Jessica May. [music] Nicholas Grettes, in a dirty pair of loose-tongued sneakers, eyed the murky pavement before him. Beside him, roared a maroon 1965 Chevelle, which shivered under the forces its idling engine pushed through the bodywork of the car. Nicholas had come to see a race. Although he stood on the blacktop, the man had no fear of oncoming drivers. In a former life, the road had been a highway. But decades ago, its hazardous contours had caused it to be unhooked from the network that carried vacationing families and heady-hole transports. The broad ditches had grown thick with underbrush, and the spruce and oak that lined the run sagged over the cement like weeping mourners, crowding the abandoned asphalt. It hadn't seemed so remote when he'd exited the new interstate. It had taken some searching before he could wheel gingerly onto the proper mud track. But when he'd exited the driver's seat and stretched his legs, he could hear far-off traffic. Now, the close-walled lane was dominated by the rumble of the V-8. It was five minutes after midnight. The evening had brought on a strong moon, but a brewing storm made it difficult for the light to find its way through the trees. Despite the conditions, Nicholas felt as if his gaze could trace every crack and pothole from his position to the turn a short mile away. He'd walked the place enough in the daytime that it might have even been true. He certainly needed no assistance to spot Lena. At the distant corner, a girl of eighteen, whose long bleached hair shone against the dim, drifted from the scrub, and took her station at the center of the bend. She wore a man's white t-shirt over a ragged pair of jeans, and her thin wrist was laden with a cascade of glowing neon bracelets, pink, green, and purple. Nicholas remembered watching that same delicate wrist intently as they'd stood waiting for her mom's red Buick in the parking lot of Cowan's Roadhouse. She'd been working. He'd been loitering. "Lena!" he shouted. There was no answer, no look of recognition. The girl raised her illuminated bangles, and the Chevelle's rumbling thickened. Gretz had once been a racer. He'd driven in 1987 Buick Regal. At 1211, a brown Ford pickup had approached in the northbound lane. And, without thinking, the girl had dropped her hand to indicate they should wait. But, instead, had set free the finely machined steel. The air filled with the howl of controlled explosions and youthful disregard. Then, with its departure, the Chevelle deposited a smoking layer of quickly vaporizing rubber in its wake. Its headlights made no impression on the deep shadows. But its flame-hued rear bumper was somehow easily visible against the gloom. Even in the roar, Nicholas recalled how a 65 Chevelle had seemed like a relic, and how quickly he'd been to tell Dylan such. For Gretz, time slowed. At the half-mile mark, he could see Lina's face turned horror, and her neon flailing become panicked. There'd been some question as to her heart's preference. But the concern in her round eyes was clearly intended for the Chevelle. Within, Dylan had made an attempt to pull onto the soft shoulder, but his delayed reaction came too late. The truck didn't appear. The driver had spent the rest of his life learning to eat and write with his left hand, but it otherwise survived. And yet, the noise was just as real as the original impact. The momentum of the pickup's heavy work engine was enough to deflect the still-turning Chevelle, so that the muscle cars back-end jumped from the concrete, and the vehicle twisted into the treeline. Upon liftoff, however, the rear bumper carried with it, Lina's jaw and skull, sending her airborne in a radiant arc. She landed in exactly the spot he'd watched her rise from. From within the tangle of bush and timber that had grown along the road's edge, the soft glimmer played on the leaves. And Gretz realized he was witnessing the afterglow of the Rex Blaze. He began to walk in its direction. At the halfway point, he passed the races to other observers. "I want to respect your privacy and all that bullshit," said Bunny. "But Oregon's nights are f***ing cold. Could you shuffle a little faster?" Coffin, standing beside her, swung his arcane silver chain and kept his focus on the flickering ghostlights that were once a burning car. Nicholas's memory had no trouble filling in the blanks. His legs faltered as he moved beyond where he'd wrestled the regal to a stop, but pressed on. He worked hard to ignore the girl's broken form as he pushed through the ferns and prodding branches. Finally, standing beside the shattered Chevelle, he retrieved a mashed wad of ten dollar bills from the depths of his jeans pocket. Then, as he'd been instructed, he tossed the money into the Rex' phantom flames. The race had kept him awake at night, had pulled him from his bed. Maybe he had ruined his two attempts at marriage. He thought of the bleach-blonde girl with the supple wrist. He began to weep. "You win," Nicholas told the dark. But the destruction had already begun to fade. Seconds later, Lena followed. 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 skitter@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 PLAYING] Sunday is gloomy. My hours are stumbled. Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled. (upbeat music) (upbeat music)