Part 1 of 1
Read the full text, as well as the show notes, at http://flashpulp.com
Tonight, we present a tale from Flash Pulp’s future history, a time of terror, tyranny, and automatons.
The Skinner Co. Network
210 - Free Alaska, Part 1 of 1
[Music] Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode 210. Tonight, we present Free Alaska, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by In Broad Daylight. Hey there, Nathan Lowell here to tell you about a new book on patiobooks.com. I think you're going to like it. It's called In Broad Daylight, and it's by My Boy and Your Seth Harwood. Seth's the author of the Jack Palms crime series, Jack Wakes Up, This Is Life, and Checkmate. And now he's got a new thriller starring FBI agent Jess Harding, who's tracking a bloody serial killer across Alaska. If you like thrills and chills, My Work, or Scott Sigler's JC Hutchins or any of the stories on crime wave, you're going to love In Broad Daylight by Seth Harwood. Give it a shot, check it out, and when you decide you love it, remember Nate sent you. That's right, it's your boy here, Seth Harwood, back with a new podcast novel in Broad Daylight, starring female FBI agent Jess Harding. You can find it at SethHarwood.com, patiobooks.com, and on iTunes. We'll be waiting. 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, we present a tale from Flashpulp's future history, a time of terror, tyranny, and automatons. Free Alaska, part one of one, written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opopin X, and audio produced by Jessica May. He wasn't a terrorist, he'd done nothing wrong, beyond being born in a place full of oil. And this wasn't the Middle East, Rulogan Clark's thoughts as he snapped down the last of the zip ties. They were overkill, and he knew it, as his welding job would either hold, or the device would be too imprecise to be useful. But he'd been nervously filling time before his departure. The Alaskan sky above his two car garage was cloudless and unending, a blue canvas stretching from horizon to horizon, marred only by the occasional flashing streak descending from altitudes beyond his ability to see naturally. Reflecting on the fact, Clark patted the plastic telescope absentmindedly, his eyes tracing the wire connecting the Walmart purchase to his laptop. His absorbed state meant missing the entrance swing open. "Dad?" asked Trinity, 14. Both of her hands were tucked in her blue sweater's pouch pocket. "Giving his head a shake," Logan replied. "Yeah, baby?" "Mom seems pretty mad." "Ah, hell." His knee is popped as he stood, his back ached as he bent to wipe the dust from his jeans. What followed was another explanatory conversation which he knew wouldn't end in his favor. But he also knew it didn't matter much, as he made his mind up. The argument concluded with the bedroom door slamming in his face, and his apologizing through it, to no response. As he moved towards the living room, he retrieved his battered miller's trucking ball cap from its resting place on the kitchen side board, then still wearing his boots, stepped onto the beige carpet, and addressed Trinity, who was working the TV remote hard to find something other than news coverage. "If she comes out, tell her I'm sorry," he said. "Dad, what exactly did you do?" "Mom hasn't been this mad since you cussed out Aunt Kim at Grant's wedding." "I've got some stuff I've got to take care of, just a quick trip." Trinity chewed at her lip and muted a Pillsbury commercial. She asked, "You aren't messing with those idiot rebels, right?" As a man said, "I wouldn't join any club that have me as a member." "Make sure your mind's. I'll grab something for myself on the road." He didn't wait for a reply, and he intentionally forgot his goodbyes. "Just a quick trip," he said aloud, as he stepped back into the garage. The drive out of Juneau had always left him relaxed in the past, but as the pickup cruised north, his shoulders grew increasingly rigid. Looking to distract himself, he engaged the radio. "Hey," said an announcer he didn't recognize, "but who, to Logan's ear, seemed to have a Floridian accent." "We should just be happy that the drone strikes are so surgical. There aren't stormtroopers knocking on every door. There aren't tanks in the streets of Anchorage, so calm down." The twang in his radio tone stood out strongly after the 18-month long ban on civilian flights. "Perhaps," Clark replied to the empty cab, "if there were, the folks down south who still believe in justice might raise a stink. And citizens wouldn't be quietly murdered in their beds by flying robots." "They aren't killing us," said Florida. "They're killing the terrorists. The pipeline saboteurs and secessionists have brought this justice from on high upon themselves." Logan punched the power knob. "Ain't no way a teenager staring at a tiny scream from a thousand miles away, no shit about shit regarding saboteurs or secessionists. It ain't 20-25 anymore. They want to have some sane matters up here. They have to march some actual boots our way." The bobble-headed husky on his dash nodded in agreement. By the time he'd reached the tumbled hunting cabin, his neck was stiff and his wrists ached. Once the property had belonged to his father, the bank had taken the land not long before the cancer had taken him, and the shack had rotted to the ground in the shadows of the yellow cedars. He was concerned that the family connection might link him to his actions, but he knew from experience that the military were no detectives. They were missile lobbers, and no one would come looking if they somehow managed to stop him. He'd been to the area two years previous on a hunting expedition with a few friends from work. They hadn't managed to kill anything beyond cases of beer, but a stumbling tramp through the woods had reminded him of Platform Rock. The jumbled stone formation, named by Logan's father for its flat crown, provided a clear view over the treetops, and he'd spent an evening deep in thought after making a drunken ascent. Now he was discovering it was a long way to haul equipment, even with a hand cart. The clerk was a man who'd learned patience via a storied career in the muck of the mining industry. The ore-sniffing business had also introduced him to the newest advances in high-powered portable lasers. Night had fallen, and he was huffing by the time he had once again booted the laptop and plugged the telescope in. With the last check of the laser's battery slug, he tugged at the pull cord of the small gas engine, intended to power the computer, and hurried down the slope. The racket would certainly be noticeable for some distance, but he knew no one would come to investigate. The online fellow who'd put together the rig's simple software package had thought to apply delay before startup, but Logan found himself too worried that he'd somehow pooch the process to make for his truck until the show had begun. He could see little from down below, but the ratchet of the mount's directional motors was easy to hear, even over the chug of the generator. The laser clicked twice, and Clark was sure something was wrong. It clicked again, and there was a flash to the west, a drone being eaten by its own suddenly flaming fuel supply. The clatter of aiming, recommenced, and Logan, smiling, ran for his vehicle. By the time he reached home, it was starlight alone that glittered in the night sky. ♪♪♪ 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. ♪♪♪ ♪ Monday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled ♪ ♪♪♪