Part 2 of 3
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Tonight, Harm Carter finds himself the hostage of a scheming lawman.
The Skinner Co. Network
FP239 - The Murder Plague: Responsibility, Part 2 of 3
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp, Episode 239. This evening, we present the Murder Plague, Responsibility, Part 2 of 3. [Music] This week's episodes are brought to you by the Pen Dragon Variety Podcast. [Music] Hey girl! You know how I like it when you talk about your fantasies and your science-fictions on the Pen Dragon Variety Podcast. [Music] www.hendragon variety.com [Music] We'll be waiting. [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, Harm Carter finds himself the hostage of a scheming law man. The Murder Plague, Responsibility, Part 2 of 3. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Poponax. An audio produced by Jessica May. [Music] [Music] [Music] You, sir, have the intelligence of a lobotomized chimp with a penchant for model glue. I informed Mr. Baldy. I knew it would have made little difference if he hadn't attempted to flee our crash vehicle, but I was losing patience. "Weaver hasn't shot us yet," he replied. Although his argument was somewhat valid, we would find out why we'd been spared soon enough. With a wiggle of his department issued shotgun, Chef Weaver said, "You will stay close together, and you will stay directly in front of me. I am very familiar with the route, the only danger is in disobeying orders." I knew this statement to be as sold as a dead man's handshake, but I kept my silence. Takes a madman to think he has any sort of existence, within the cloud of the murder plague under control. Instead, I asked after the child. A quick inspection of her arm had convinced me that it was, at the least, badly sprained. While there was no bone protruding, I wouldn't have been surprised to learn it was broken. She did her best to remain calm and quiet, but even when she wasn't wailing, there was moisture in her eyes, and a chin suffered bouts of trembling. Their appropriate medical supplies at the apartment was Weaver's reply. At that point, I spun on my heel and took in the trees and opened fields that surrounded us. As was so often the case in my days of uniform modelling for Uncle Sam, there was nothing for it but to start marching. Baldy and I carried the toddler, so that we might make a decent pace. It was the division of labour which brought on problems. My time toting the girl was largely spent wandering through memories of Becky at the same age. On a warm August morning when she was four, Rebecca came to show me a pretty bunk she'd found while roaming the backyard. The bee had landed on a palm, and as I moved to shoot away, Becky defensively closed her hand. She'd spent the rest of the day forcing me to search cupboards, closets and couch cushions for any lurking, stinging beasts. It was one of the few occasions in her life that she'd asked me for help. As Baldy and I took his turn, my time was largely spent listening to his complaining. I believe he was attempting to bargain with the cray chef, but it sounded like a litany of reasons he was living in an unjust universe. My bit finger thawed, my legs ached, and my back was sore. I finally interrupted my Weasley companion's diatrap. If this were a fair world, I wouldn't find myself on a death march with a fellow who couldn't be bothered to trim his hedges, for the nearly a decade he was my neighbour. Baldy's rodent jaw snapped shut, but only briefly. "Who the hell are you to talk about caretaken?" he replied. "I couldn't help but notice how pissed poor a job you did of raising your daughter after your wife died. Add to hire an extra recycling guy just to haul off your wine bottles, and you're supposed to be a goddamn war hero." "Screw you and your well-groomed yard. Where's your lawn or your daughter now?" "Wherever she is, I raised her to take care of herself, and I'm sure she's above ground. Can you say the same?" His cheeks reddened, and I knew I was right in my long-held guess that he'd been forced to dig shallow graves for his family. It was a rough-tongued bit of work, but I wasn't feeling entirely myself. "We've interrupted our exchange." "I'll walk, no talk," he said. The road continued, and the sky darkened. The passing houses became suburbs, and the suburbs eventually spouted residential towers. Now the streets were lit, and many of the glass-fronted plaza stores had been opened to the world with bricks. And yet, we saw no one living. We did scare several abandoned crime scenes. A pair of nyloned legs protrude from the bed of a red pickup truck. Herculean man had been pinned to a beige bungalow with a fireplace poker, and a teen rotted in a parking lot of the tunnels from which she'd stumbled after apparently being poisoned. At least, that's my guess, as the weather had done little to wash away the slug trail of vomit behind her. As dawn broke, we were firmly within the borders of Capital City. "We must be close to the blockade," I asked. I should mention that before exiting the truck, I'd considered attempting to hide our recently acquired GSP in a satchel. But, in the end, I wasn't willing to risk Weaver confiscating our escape route. I'd stashed it beneath my seat. Still, I'd spent plenty of driving hours staring at the blinking box, and I was sure of my estimate. "The river is the quarantine line," replied the lawman. I didn't yet recognize the back alleys and side streets through which he led us, and I admit, for a moment, I thought that perhaps Weaver really was headed over the catastrophe. My hopes were done in when we stopped at the gaping doors of a stout apartment building's lobby. The balconies above had wept rust onto the cement walls, and wilted plants stood before many sliding entrances. I wondered how many corpses were decaying within, and how many units might be rigged with bullets or bombs. I had no interest in entering, though I felt increasingly sure that was our Captain's aim. Baldi had been carrying our bundle, and I turned a taker. If we were going in, it would better her odds. That's when I heard it. Have you ever witnessed an armoured vehicle in action? It's not like on the big screen where a tank can burst through a wall with little warning. They've come a long way since my days of tin can touring. There's a grinding approach to that much metal that they'll never make silent. The grey people carrier didn't seem to care for concealment anyhow, as it pulled into view. Even three blocks down, I could see the rotating sweeps of its roof-mounted pea shooter. "I'm a goddamn genius," said Weaver. I knew those sunbitches had drones. They got here PDQ though, didn't they? As the steel beetle halved the distance between us, the sheriff sprinted into the depths of the lobby. 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. [♪♪♪] Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled. Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled. [♪♪♪]