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Tonight, Harm Carter takes a moment to seek sanctuary while considering his difficult situation, and attempting to avoid assassination at the hands of any passing stranger.
The Skinner Co. Network
115 - The Murder Plague: Caretaking, Part 1 of 3
I want some answers, where is Ruby, where is she, did Joe Monk send you, is that goddamn smith following me again, kill me, kill me now? Who really needs to read anymore, Flashpulp, available on iTunes or download a dose today at Skinner.FM. Welcome to Flashpulp episode 115. Tonight, we present The Murder Plague, Caretaking, Part 1 of 3. This episode is brought to you by Dancing Ella's Words. As Oscar Wilde famously said, "A little sincerity is a dangerous thing and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal." Find her work at http/dancinglela.blogspot.com. Monday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled, give it the shadows I live with are stumbled. 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 takes a moment to seek sanctuary while considering his difficult situation and attempting to avoid assassination at the hands of any passing stranger. We'd also like to take a moment to thank Highland and Wood for their excellent audio intro. You can find their podcasts, bother some things, at bothersomethings.com. The Murder Plague, Caretaking, Part 1 of 3. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopopax, and Audio produced by Jessica May. [Music] [Music] It's hard to explain how I felt once I was back on the road. It was as if I was part of a great ballet, or really, as if I was at a costume ball, with all of the dancers masked and each moving to their own rhythm. Was the man across from me at the stoplight an infected lunatic, plodding to bury his wife in a back-out flower bed, or was he simply a harried fellow out to pick up a quart of milk? Was the lady deep in conversation at the corner really discussing the cost of a sausage with the vendor, or was she attempting to determine if her dinner had been poisoned by a plague-ridden paranoia? I'd never been much of a religious man, doubly not so once Kate died, but after a few blocks of aimless driving, I realized shock had my hands shaking at the wheel, and at that moment the rolling bell of a heavenly summons came peeling from the house of prayer to my left. Mmm, I wasn't raised Catholic, but in that instant I was willing to grasp at any higher power that might have me. Pulling into the parking lot that front of the gray-faced building, I found all the spaces empty. And yet the broad wooden doors were pinned open. Honestly, I don't know what I expected inside. I do recall feeling some relief that I hadn't encountered a crowd of parishioners, as they would have likely turned into a riotous brawl before the communion was delivered. What I did find, instead, was silence and vacant pews. As was tendency in my schoolboy days, I took a seat on the rearmost bench. Something I was stalling, I suppose. I knew I needed to get to Rebecca's babysitters, but I wasn't keen on what I might discover there. It was the inevitable that had me tripped up. What if I did find her alive, but as sick as the rest? The problem was a drain my mind couldn't quite finish circling on its own, and I would have likely spent a few hours in further consideration if it wasn't for the priest's interruption. He was a short man, and I hadn't noticed him standing behind a lectern. Or possibly he had moved to the position while my brain was off-wandering. His hair was wild, but his face, it seemed as if his face had been moulded by a lifetime of smiling, as if he could do little else, even in those deadly times, after having formed such a long-standing habit. "You look troubled," he said, his practice voice easily carrying down the long red carpet of the centre-ile. "Well, to be fair, these are troubling times," I replied. "What is weighing on you?" he asked. "It struck me as a bit of a personal question for such a great distance, but, on the other hand, I can only imagine what kind of confessions he must have been hearing at that point, and didn't blame him for wanting to maintain the separation." "Oh, just tough decisions to be made, I suppose?" he nodded, apparently, taking more from my words than I'd meant for him to. "Yes, it is a time full of tough decisions," he answered. "Even as he said it, he continued to maintain that empty imitation of a smirk. And it was then that I realized his hands had been out of sight, below the pulpit for the length of our brief discussion. Back in my fighting days I knew a fellow who'd been a stand-up comedian before his chronically broke status had forced him to enlist. I only found him funny when we armed a fire, and the more determination the other side demonstrated, the faster he would spit out gags." "Yes, he was killed when he strayed into a bullet, while imitating a goat. There was something about the clergyman's expression reminded me of that joker, a mix of intense panic layered under a survival instinct of good humour. I cleared my throat. Actually, you've helped me make my choice. Hm. Many thanks, Padre. I stood. I have?" He was surprised at the news, but for a moment, at least, I think his smile became genuine. "Oh, yes sir, and I'm off to do something about it." I started edging past the bulletin boards and abandoned collection baskets, wondering if his improved mood would last for the duration of my exit. His arms remained fixed, and his hands remained hidden. A final bit of advice, then, to carry with you as you go, he interrupted, his grin collapsing. Sometimes the only choice is the lesser of two evils. Frankly, it was that sort of simplistic advice that had put me off churches in the first place. I waved in agreement, then hustled through the vestibule and down the short flight of cement steps, pleased to see the street-empty of pedestrians. I was in the middle of a hearty round of self-congratulations regarding my narrow escape as I reached my car door, and that's when I heard a single gunshot, echo from the still-gaping entranceway. 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. Questions, comments, or observations can be emailed in text or audio format to Skinner at Skinner dot FM, or you can call in to our voicemail line at 206-338-2792, but please be aware that your message will likely be included in the next episode of our companion show, Flashcast. Big thanks go to Highland and Wood for the introduction at the top. You can find their fantastic bothersome things podcast at bothersomethings.com. Thanks for listening, and if you enjoyed the show, tell your friends.