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Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult arts, encounters a town of shambling monstrosities.
The Skinner Co. Network
098 - Up From The Depths: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1
[Music] Welcome to Flashpaul, episode 98. Tonight, we present "Up from the Depths," a black-haul tale, part one of one. [Music] This week's episodes are brought to you by the art of Mike Mongello. Have you always wanted a scantily-clad Star Wars character hanging around your office? Now, you can have multiple. Find those, as well as many other prints to purchase, at http/www.supermonge.com. [Music] One day it flew me, my eyes are stumbled. Here is the shadows I live with are numbled. [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, Thomas Blackhall, Master Frontiersman and student of the occult arts, encounters a town of shamling monstrosities. "Up from the Depths," a black-haul tale, part one of one. Written by Jared E. Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, and audio produced by Jessica May. [Music] This summer, previous to his final migration westward, Thomas perceived word that his assistance was required at a mining operation in the sparsely populated northern stretch of Lower Canada. The man who sought him out had heard of his reputation as it slipped from ale-heavy mouth to whiskey sought an ear, and his distrust of the nature of Blackhall's business was obvious as he made his request. He had dealt with the otherworldly before, was the man's abrupt opening. It wasn't his habit to answer the question openly, but the sling which held the interrogator's right arm had piqued Thomas's interest. On occasion. I've been to the church, and they have no interest in what I have to say. As the man spoke, his animated gestures sent gushes of barley brew to the inn's floor. It's hell they opened in that mine to the north, and I expect someone better close it before it tears the world's thunder. "It's my understanding that it takes something more than a shovel to reach the devil's playground," replied Thomas. "But first, might I inquire as to your name?" "I apologize. My name is Teesdale, but the Englishmen is what they called me these last ten months. Not so much based on my port of departure, but because I was the only Anglo on a site full of Frankos." "What leads you to believe a group of earth-diggers has opened the mall of the Netherrealm." Until recently I was camp-cooked at a small iron operation to the north. Two dozen men and a whip-cracker of a foreman. We were working a fresh shaft when I was sent southwards to gather the groceries. But upon my return I found the sight and chaos. The tents and shanties had been knocked about as if hit by a storm, and the boys. The group which held his mug of lager began to tremble. The fellas were on hand, but they were not the men I knew when I left. "What difference did you notice?" asked Blackhall. When I first arrived I saw a few of them wandering about, as if in a trance. It was only once I had gotten closer that I noticed their stuttering walks and contorted faces. Their limbs were muck-covered, and as they approached a groaning gibberish emanated from their mouths. Teesdale smacked his dry mouth, then quickly wet it from his cup. He continued. I'd no sooner stepped into his sight than I was rushed by old Tim Steiner, a man I've passed many hours with over cards. It was he who chased me from the parcel, and I was during that flight in which I stumbled. A bad break, and still I made the travel and record time, even though I only thought to lighten my load of the provisions upon the second day. His damaged arms seemed to have little slowed his off-hands drinking. Thomas raised an eyebrow. "You doubt me, sir," the former kitchen master asked. "I do not make my assumptions in haste. There was no recognition in the eyes of Steiner, nor in any of the others which I noted as they gathered at old Tim's gibberish coals. If you'd but seen his ragged march, or distorted countenance, you'd have no room for skepticism. He spit on the floor. Damien possessed. The bloody lot of them." So it was, after eight days' rugged journey, the black hall found himself high in a birch, observing a cluster of men as they rummaged about the remnants of the camp's structures. As he watched, a filth-encrusted man, of some girth, tottered towards the shattered lumber of a former shed, shoving aside the smaller man who'd been hunkered there listlessly stirring the rubble. Across a branch adjoining his perch, Thomas had carefully laid out the tools necessary to sustain fire, if his baker rifle became the only option. He had yet to caulk his weapon. At the crossing of dirt paths that would have constituted the site's major intersection, a pair of legs lay unmoving, partially obscured behind a cold pile of cinders. As he shifted his weight for a better vantage point, the tree-limbed beneath his left boot grown and gave way. Although quick footwork saved him from any peril, the snapping did not go unheeded by the shambling men below. The nearest, possibly old Tim himself, speared black hall with a finger, then began to stagger in his direction. His enthusiastic tones roused all surrounding, and shortly Thomas's roost was encircled by a cluster of men, some with still bloody wounds, but all ensconced and grim, and yet the frontiers' men did not put his rifle to bear upon them, nor unsheafed the silver-bladed saber, which was his usual retort to circumstances of the supernatural. He understood now why Teasdale had felt such fear at their nearing, their manner seemed not like that of sane men, instead it was as if their higher faculties had suffered grievously. It was then that he realized many in the group were, in low and mangled French, requesting assistance. Slinging his rifle, black hall descended, within moments he was distributing what rations remained in his pack. By late afternoon Thomas had began to form a plan to rescue those of the men that he might. He could little guess what had happened in Teasdale's absence, but he felt certain it was unlikely to be related to the preacher-natural. In his review of the ruins he found the still smoldering fire whose plume had helped him locate his destination, and yet now he was uncertain as to which, if any of the mine survivors might have had the wits to light such a thing. They seemed docile enough once fed, but their speech was limited to even simpler phrases than black hall's French would allow, and they held no answers as to what had transpired. What he had also found was a lack of food. What little might have been left after Teasdale's departure was long consumed. Although the bones of wild games scattered about did leave him to wonder. Well before he was forced to implement his desperate plan, answers arrived at the freshly stoked fireside, in the form of a limping francophone by the name of Joseph. He approached with a double handful of partridge, and as the entirety of the camp had gathered in a circle about the fire, he quickly cleaned and set the foul to spit. Later, as they all licked the bird-fat from their fingers, the newcomer finally ceased the delighted prattle he'd maintained as he worked, and delved into a deeper explanation. I was Teasdale's assistant, and out getting berries up the hill when it happened, trying to stretch supplies you understand. There was a sound from the throat of the shaft, like a belch, and a smell as if a musty hell, and then I collapsed. I do not know how much time might have passed while I slept, but it was dark when I rose. Everyone else had been closer than I, and most of them were still scattered about the ground. When my head was clear enough, I went down to find whoever I could. The storyteller paused in his tail, the idiot faces of his compatriots, eager for him to continue the story they could little understand. After they all woke up, I realized how they were. Who knows how long they were breathing the released vapor. It crippled their minds. I knew it was up to me to get themselves, so I went hunting, to find enough meat to carry us. Although the first day I came back, I managed to keep them together. On the second, one of them went searching in their buildings, with a flaming branch to act as a torch. He burnt down part of the bunks, and when I saw how black the smoke was, I came. I managed to get most of them, all except Pascal, away from the dynamite hut before it was too late. Thomas passed across his canteen, freshly filled at the nearby river, and Joseph drank heartily before continuing. I was trying to reach him when it exploded. That's how my leg was crippled, a condition which has made it impossible for us to make our escape. At least they blast without the flames. The conversation waned for a time before black hull ended the hush. Tomorrow, I will do the hunting, after I have a look over your trauma. Within the fire, a knot popped, throwing sparks against the night sky. 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]