Part 1 of 2
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Tonight, Harm Carter, while making his way through the legions of paranoid infected, finds himself caught up in a series of awkward introductions.
The Skinner Co. Network
217 - The Murder Plague: Positioning, Part 1 of 2
[Music] Welcome to Flashpulpe Episode 217. The Murder Plague. Positioning. Part 1 of 2. [Music] This week's episodes are brought to you by Jimmy and the Black Wind. [Music] In the most unlikeliest of places, I find it here. [Music] Jimmy and the Black Wind. Coming soon. Beginning November 6, 2011 at newpuhan.com. [Music] [Music] Flashpulpe is an experiment in broadcasting freshpulpe stories in the modern age. Three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, harm Carter, while making his way through the legions of paranoid infected, finds himself caught up in a series of awkward introductions. The Murder Plague. Positioning. Part 1 of 2. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Opoponax. An audio produced by Jessica Met. [Music] [Music] It's an odd thing to introduce yourself to your neighbor when you're both miles away from home and you can't be entirely sure they haven't murdered someone. Worse still, it was soon obvious that Mr. Boldy, who presented himself as Virgil Grady when I admitted I couldn't recall his proper name, knew much more about my affairs and I knew his. I also learned at that time that it was very difficult to identify a smirk from a sneer on Grady's rap-like face. The view of the open road that the tall truck provided had at first seemed optimistic, but as soon as we continued on encountering neither signs of humanity nor an end to the road, our spirits began to deflate. Getting off the highway was an unpleasant proposition. It felt as if every house we passed was thick with paranoid eyes, and like any deviation from the stretch of smooth pavement might leave us lost and unable to find our way back. We had collected together plenty of maps and atlases before leaving our friends to make shift warm out shelter, but really enjoyed trying to read one of those flapping monstrosities while I'm being shot at. For a time we didn't speak. I avoided communication for hours, largely by appearing alert for any sort of threat that might have been rigged along the gravel shoulder by an infected pumpkin, afraid that passing vehicles were intending on stealing their carefully arranged supplies of canned beans. The boredom, however, eventually led to conversation. "I'm afraid I've never mastered small talk," I opened. "Yeah," I noticed, boldly replied. I tried to chuckle it off, but that's what I admitted that I didn't know what I ought to call him. At least, not as loud. It was perhaps twenty minutes later, while he was recounting having dated the sister of Katarina, my former housekeeper, when our discussion was suddenly sidetracked. Frankly, I almost welcomed the interruption when it arrived. The memory of the shallow grave I'd buried by poor chef in was sitting heavily in my throat by then. Grady was saying, she was a nice enough woman, but her love reality television was abrasive. When we spotted a man waving at us from across the double-ditch grassy divide, which separated the lanes, the fellow was standing beside a stalled Nissan truck, and his arm motions were quite emphatic. Immediately, Mr. Baldi began to slow. I accidentally asked, "Are you serious?" It was obvious it was, though, as by then we were already largely across one of the dirt access pass that we were once so fondly camped on by police looking to rack up a budget cushion through speeding tickets. Stop was the beginning of many mistakes I feel Grady made. I can only assume because he'd been so sheltered within the safety of the store. Reminding me of the war, actually. In a way, the new guys often seemed to think they'd have the situation licked in and are, and they hung pinching their loved ones bottoms by early the following week. Those were the names I worked hardest to avoid learning. At least my companion thought to bring the rig to a halt at a distance. "I'm out of gas," said the man to our open windows. I had some reserves, but I got... I got in a car chase, I guess. There was a tiny woman. She was old with a sharp face, and her gray hair and a bun. She wasn't driving anywhere. She'd just been waiting. Waiting for me. Dan near T-Bone me from acrossroad. I might have accomplished it if it hadn't been changing lanes at the time. She tore after me, though. You see, my bumper's pretty ragged from her having at me. "Wait, you guys aren't feds, are you?" "No," replied Baldy, raising my brow. It was another mistake. Everyone wandering around in the motor-plague was constantly measuring those around them. But it was always best to keep your uncertainty to yourself. Yeah, yeah, of course not. Sorry, I'm a little discombobulated. I've never had to... I've never killed anyone before. In the end, she wouldn't let up. I gave her a good punt with the passenger-side door. Figured I'd put her in the ditch, but I didn't see the electrical pole. That post went through her hatchback like baseball bat through a loaf of bread. Sounds stupid now, but I stopped. Tried to see if she was okay. I swear to God. With blood running down her chin and her chest impaled on the steering column. She still managed to spit at me. Tell me that I'd never take her poof. I don't know what she meant by her poof. Her mouth was pretty full of bodily fluids and car at that point. But I suspect she meant the poodle that I'd spotted whimpering on the grass, maybe 30 feet from the crash. It wasn't much I could do for the pup. Maybe I should have killed it too. But I didn't have that hurt. I just drove. "What's your name?" asked Mr. Boldy. Linwood was the reply. I wasn't sure if it was his first or last, but it was easy enough to remember, which I was thankful for. Anyhow, I had more pressing questions. "Why would you think we were feds?" Linwood, a round-faced man who looked like he'd spent the majority of his life in an office cubicle, bitted his lip and ran his fingers through his hair. I remember the brown curls being damp with sweat and his fingers shaking as he did so. "I'm here to find my mom." I knew it was illegal, and I never meant to hurt anyone, but I'm from the outside. From beyond the quarantine line. 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. ♪ ♪ Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled ♪ (dramatic music) (dramatic music)