Part 6 of 6
Read the notes at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, Ruby is caught between devouring flames, and devouring dead.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP265 - Ruby Departed: Wasting Time, Part 6 of 6
[ Music ] >> Welcome to FlashPulp Episode 265. This evening, we present Ruby Departed, Wasting Time, Part 6 of 6. This week's episodes are brought to you by Hume Speaks, Philosophy, Space and Game Programming. Find it all at http/humespeaks.tumbler.com. [ Music ] >> FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age, 3 to 10 minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings. Tonight, Ruby is caught between devouring flames and devouring dead. Ruby Departed, Wasting Time, Part 6 of 6. Written by Jaredie Skinner. Art and narration by Popenax. An audio produced by Jessica Ma. [ Music ] >> August 7th, notes from my smudged palm. >> Number 80, a shirtless guy in cut off shorts. Just got too close. Those pretty frayed. It was obvious that 80 had once taken a lot of care of his Salvador Dali mustache. I saw him gaining on a 10-year-old who'd fallen behind her neck. Number 81 was quick to step over her friend's punctured corpse despite her badly damaged left leg. She was in a pink nightgown. The sort of thing a classy mom might wear to bed, but bugs and weather had made her age unguessable. A swung hard and brought Bethany up through her temple and at the roof of her noggin. She went over sideways into number 82, a chubby man wearing jeans and a denim jacket. My first thrust missed because he was trying to juggle her corpse, but it bought me enough time to try again and my second poke landed in his forehead. Somewhat had gotten the kid in the cart by then, but number 83 was right on top of me. I had to give him a bump with Bethany's hilt, but he was a tiny old man and his skull wasn't able to take the impact. His hair was thin and wispy and seemed to slide away at the hit then he crumpled into a ball of brown sweater and sensible slacks. Four motionless deli piles were sufficient to slow the rest of our pursuers. Number 84 was nearest to the gate, and we had a bit of a moment together as he was the only one to manage to get his arm between the bars. Tall guy with a mop of brown locks. He looked like he might have had a nice smile. He wore a light blue t-shirt with a vintage looking superman logo on it. I pushed Bethany into his face while I was shoving against enough meat for the top of the skull that I could push him away from the big latch. 85 I saw briefly. I believe she had on a dark purple dress and a matching blazer dressed for a funeral really. I bet she had a large brim hat that went along with the outfit. Maybe she lost it in an attack by the beloved deceased. Anyhow, like I said, I barely had a glimpse of her before she was crushed under the fence. Practice is making me better at this sort of thing. I'm not sure what to think of that. I'm going to sleep now. August 8, 9 a.m. I found a watch. More walking and writing. Sorry. So starting two days ago, by the time we made it to the farm, the smoke was burning my lungs. There was just one fellow at the gate when we did, and he almost didn't let us in. He denies it now, of course, but there was a long second in which he looked from us to the red horizon and considered shrugging away the problem. I could see it in his eyes. It was Olivia that made him change his mind. Once everyone was safely inside, however, I think he figured he might be a hero. I mean, suddenly he was showing up with a couple of hundred helping hands to assist in chucking pond water at the barn. Little did he know I had other ideas. Grab a bucket. Grab a bucket. He began shouting, trying to lead us towards the line. There was a brief scene of reunion between the parkers. I swear, I haven't heard Olivia mutter a single coherent word since finding her, but she still managed to fuck you, dad. There was a look of surprise on the faces of the surrounding farmers, and I won't deny feeling some satisfaction at the response. I didn't know what to expect from the homesteaders, but their attempt to save their sanctuary nearly broke my heart. Every one of them had their shoulder squared and their jaws set, determined to rescue that barn and the crops they'd worked so hard to coax from the earth. It was never going to happen. The thing about the fire was that every time I thought it was close, it would get closer. By then, the smoke was like a smothering blanket, and the beads of sweat on my skin had formed a river. Trouble really started, though, when the blaze ate through the tree line on the far side of the road, then jumped the dry ditch grass. Before anyone could do anything about it, the gate was engulfed. I noticed it almost immediately, but I don't think many others did, at first. I began yelling, "Forget the water, and wait here!" I shouted at the wanderers, who'd basically followed me into a flaming trap. Then I left. They're not used to taking orders, and worse, they almost immediately discovered that the sole exit was in the middle of a bonfire. Panic hit the wanderers and spread to the farmers. I could hear the chief shouting, trying to keep it all together, but the field beyond the black bars was glowing, and the barn had seconds left. Most of the able-bodied fled then, pounding towards the cornfields and tearing up the carefully arranged gardens with their flying feet. But there was slim chance that they'd be capable of clearing the eight-foot bars that had been so effective in keeping out the hungry public. And never mind the Carter's, who only stood and watched while they cried out for someone to save their poor children. The uneven dirt of the yard was hard on the buggies, and pushing them through the crops would have been impossible. Fortunately, the keys were left in Dalton's stupid, bloody tractor when they parked it. The heat was such that it was unpleasant to touch the metal, and I wasn't sure I'd make it back around the building. But once I had the structure to shield me, and had doubled check that I still possessed my eyebrows, things were a bit more manageable. The chief hadn't panicked, and his right-hand man, the drummer, had stood strong. They were the ones who hooked on the trailer. The same one the old man had stood on to make his speeches. I don't think he was any more eager to watch those little ones barbecued than I was. It wasn't room for everyone, but there was enough for the weakest among us. Listen, when the world's falling apart, you take your joy where you can find it. There was exhilaration in gunning the engine along the cracked mud track that ran the length of the cornrows, and I let the wave of adrenaline carry us right into the fence. There were screams behind me, but the black spokes bent and buckled, and we rolled over them to freedom, with the rest of the mobs streaming out behind us. The stumblers who'd been stopped at the gate had spread over the countryside or been charred to a crisp, and it was relatively easy to push everyone past the stragglers. We returned to the slow motion chase from there, but at least we could use the trailer as a rolling rest station, letting people swap on and off occasionally to catch their breath. The locals said there was a river ahead and a bridge, so there was nothing to do but keep marching. When we finally crossed over that dusty span of cement and watched the flames pool on the distant river banks, there was a weird sort of moment. The wanderers, who were exhausted from the escape, cheered and hugged. The farmers, who had lost their home, took the opportunity to begin openly weeping. We stopped at the first place we came to, and climbed up on a long tin roof of a cattle shed. I wasn't sure it would hold us all, but by the time I staked out my own sleeping space, I could only muster the energy to get some notes down, then I curled into unconsciousness. In the final tally, we lost five people, not that the disaster it might have been, I guess, but Mikey Parker's girlfriend is amongst the dead. She was trying to pull cracker through the gap in the fence and the stallion panicked. At least she couldn't feel the flames. The horse ran for the far corner of the barrier, and later we could hear his pained winnies under the grind of the cheating tractor. It's been decided that we're all headed for a place called Cornwall. This suits me fine, actually, as there's a bridge home there, home. Is there such a thing anymore? It's only one way to find out. I've spent a lot of the walking time thinking, why am I doing this to myself again? Why not simply leave and let these people disintegrate into warring tribal groups, or be whittled away by the shamblers, or stab each other in the back till they're all dead? I don't know them anymore favors. I think it's because I won't let myself be reduced to the level of the rotors, mindlessly fighting and maneuvering for the last mouthfuls of the decaying world. That's not the tomorrow I want. And there's going to be one, damn it, even if Bethany and I have to cleave it into existence. I love you, Ben. 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 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] Some day I flew me in my hours. I stumbled out. Here is the shadows I lived with our number left. [MUSIC PLAYING] (upbeat music)