Part 3 of 3
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Tonight, Ruby wrestles with her conscience - and the undead.
The Skinner Co. Network
126 - Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 3 of 3
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp episode 126. Tonight, we present Ruby Departed Local Hero, Part 3 of 3. [music] This week's episodes are brought to you by the Walker Journals. Ever been to a funeral where you're greeted at the door by the guest of honor's clobbering mouth? Find all the tips you'll need to survive the zombie apocalypse at http colon slash slash youtube.com slash user slash walker zombie survivor. Sunday has blew me in my hours, I stumbled out, give it the shadows I lived with our number left. FlashPulp's 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, Ruby wrestles with her conscience and the undead. Ruby departed Local Hero, Part 3 of 3. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art, narration by Popinax, and audio produced by Jessica May. [music] July 29th, when the screaming started, I could hear it from a good half mile away, and I came running. I knew I wasn't the only thing it would attract. If they died, I'd be responsible. I shouldn't have ignored them when they passed. My first plan was to set one of the cars on fire. I thought I would probably make a neat explosion and pull away some of the zombies that were no doubt already dropping their scrabble game or tolling off in the pool or whatever it is they do and they aren't trying to eat us. The idea was abandoned pretty quickly, however. I was concerned that I might start a chain reaction of flaming gas tanks rolling up and down the highway. Honking a horn would have worked, but only if the screaming had stopped. I briefly considered finding a car-alarmed trip, but by the time I could have found a vehicle equipped with one, as well as a functioning battery, the parkers would have been nothing but tiny bits of flesh tumbling out of some dead guys exposed ribcage. I closed the distance before I had a decent solution. Using the roof of a hatchback as an observation platform, I surveyed the scene. The family had imitated our mutual acquaintance, Jerry the Goon, and were camping on top of a big white transport trailer. Not a bad idea, really, at least until Granny had died. The old woman's crawling corpse had them pinned at the far end of the rig, and the only reason she hadn't already begun to gnaw on her kin was that she was hauling the heavy weight of her tipped over chair behind her, her useless legs having apparently caught in the metal footrests when she'd started the chase. The height, which was supposed to keep them safe, was presenting them in a platter. If they'd jubbed down, it would have definitely meant some shattered bones. I thought the screaming was coming from Olivia, the daughter, but it was actually gushing from the pre-teen son. My attention was on the cluster of survivors, although I couldn't help but notice the crowd they were drawing. I felt like I was trapped in the non-musical part of the video for Thriller. The undead were stumbling across farmers' fields, out of the woods on the left-hand side of the lane and from further down the road. I could even see one of the buckled-up rotters pounding in a minivan's window. Poor idiotic parkers. They had no right to still be alive. They couldn't even bring themselves to give grams the boot, but they didn't deserve to die either. It was like watching a sitcom family being assaulted by rabid cannibals. Logic told me to run, but then, Logic had been telling me to abandon my rescue attempt and head south for a while. And, at that point, I was firmly of the mind that Logic could go screw itself. I shook Bethany like a racist cliche from a 1930s jungle film and smashed the windows out of the ugly Honda I was standing on. Listen, I've been raiding BMWs and Cadillac's for days, and I haven't heard a peep when I've popped open their doors. I should have guessed that the only person who would think to lock up during the apocalypse was an aftermarket junkie who had stapled a spoiler the size of a 747 wing to the rear of their car. The alarm was like a dinner bell. Even the loose knot of shufflers who'd made it to the side of the transport were now turning away from their catter-walling lunge and starting towards me. Number 72 was a big lady in a suit jacket and fantastic leather boots. I caught her between the eyes with just the tip of Bethany, and as she went over backwards, I hopped down from the car using her belly to cushion my fall. I regretted the decision immediately as something that looked unpleasantly like chewed stewing beef came flying at her mouth and onto my legs. Number 73 was an old guy wearing only a bow tie. His scrawny little legs and rickety elder man arms were a sad sight, and I had like to claim it was a mercy killing, but in truth, I was mostly just angry and disgusted at the state of my pants. I'm not sure if the parkers were staring at me in fear or awe, but the screaming had stopped. Except for a couple of limping meat puppets that I pushed out of the way using Bethany's blunt end, I had a pretty clear run to the far side of the family's perch, where a brief search turned up exactly what I needed. As I swung the ancient pick-ups door open, I mentally thanked Dad for teaching me the basics of driving a stick and popped it into neutral. The stalled traffic is way too dense to drive through, but by hugging the shoulder I was able to get the truck rolling and adrenaline did the rest. It wasn't much of a landing platform, but it was better than the pavement, and as they only had about ten feet between their toes and grands gums, the parker clan was eager to lower themselves down. Supposedly it was a heart attack that got her, but am I responsible for the old woman's death? Once everybody was on the ground, there wasn't much time for a meet and greet, we just ran. When we did finally stop, it was dark, so we climbed up onto another trailer. They were all very thankful and spent quite a bit of time outlining how grateful they felt for my timely appearance. After the excitement of hellos and introductions were out of the way, though, a few moments of reflection set in, and soon, no one felt much like talking. I left these people to die, and how they think I'm a hero. Flashpulp is presented by http colon slash slash Skinner dot FM. The audio and text formats of Flashpulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. [Music] [Music] [BLANK_AUDIO]