Part 1 of 1
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Tonight, Ruby shelters from the zombie apocalypse amongst the memories of a woman named Melody.
The Skinner Co. Network
076 - Ruby Departed: Melody, Part 1 of 1
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp Episode 76. Tonight, we present Ruby Departed, Melody, Part 1 of 1. This week's episodes are brought to you by the FlashPulp page on Facebook. Think of it as your 6-foot, 3-1/2-inch imaginary rabbit friend without the accompanying alcoholism. To join, search in Facebook for FlashPulp, find the link at skinner.fm, or direct your browser to http colon slash slash bit.ly slash cbk yv2. [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, Ruby shelters from the zombie apocalypse amongst the memories of a woman named Melody. Ruby Departed, Melody, Part 1 of 1. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, and Audio Produced by Jessica Ume. July 18th, Dawn. I left the grocery store heading south and making good time with the smell of the fire still attracting the crowd. So much so that I've only had to kill one of the shufflers since I left. 60. Am I going to have a celebration when I get to 100? How many dead people are worth a single live one? Anyhow, 60 was an old woman wearing a light blue jacket. She had a dog leash on her arm, but there was no dog at the end of it, and she was wearing white sneakers. My first thought was actually "Maul Walker." I was mid-run and I swung my blade wide. Your neck was pretty small, and Bethany passed right through with little resistance. In theory, she's still ahead lying around somewhere trying to tung the ground to chase me down, but I can't see her surviving for long without the majority of her body. Anyhow, every house is like exploring a different planet. A few weeks ago, before the general and his friends had pinned me down, I passed a place, I didn't actually enter, that, through the glass, looked pure white. The couch was white, the overstuffed armchairs that flanked the fireplace on the opposite wall of the den were white, the carpet was white. I was busy fence-hopping, so I didn't bother poking my head in, but I probably could have learned quite a bit about the people who lived there just by traveling through their rooms. Today, I went into a place with a big SOS sign on the front. After Jim and everything that I'm trying to leave behind, I was looking for conversation, I guess. It's a swank neighborhood. I actually saw a pack of feral chihuahas earlier, somehow holding their own out in the mess. The door was closed, but not locked, which actually struck me as a pretty effective sorting system for visitors. The bottom floor was barren, I don't mean that it had been looted to the nails, it was just simple, a lot of space, and very little furniture. The most prominent feature was a plain wooden kitchen table, with a couple of scratches on the top, not enough that you'd call it trash, but enough that Mum would have set out some sort of table dressing to cover it. The rest of the floor was the kitchen, stocked with white plastic appliances, and a puffy ragged couch, facing a prim but unimpressive TV. I found some mail beside the microwave. It was all addressed to Mrs. Melody Hannequinen. At first, I thought it might be a grow-up or some kind of high-grade crack house. I just couldn't figure out such piss-poor furnishings in such a high-cost area. Maybe some student with uber-rich parents? I don't know where the universities are in this town. I double-checked that the door was closed and started shouting "hello's." The stairs were hacked out, as per government suggestion in these "trying times," so reaching the second floor required some determination and furniture rearrangement. I started at a dead run, and using the couch as a ramp, was able to pull myself up. The upper area had four closed doors. I was starting to re-guess my student hypothesis. There wasn't any mess on the ground level from having the stairs demolished, and I couldn't spot any sawdust in the second floor's beige plush carpet either. Door number one was slightly smaller than the rest, so I assumed it was a closet, which is actually why I opened it first. Sometimes, it's nice to start with an easy win. Nothing but rough towels efficiently stored, if not entirely neatly. Door number two turned out to be the bathroom. Whoever was living here had thought to fill the tub with water, as well as their sink. I took a sniff, then drank a few double handfuls. No reason to waste the bottle of water I've pulled along with me, and if no one was answering me then I had a pretty good excuse for dipping into their supplies if they were to suddenly show. I went back into the hall and grabbed one of the towels from the closet. By then I was pretty sure that there wasn't anyone left in the house, or, if there was, it was only because they were too dead to know how to operate a door handle, and I've generally given up on sentimental politeness. I dried my hands and dropped the towel on the floor. Door number three was bedroom. More of the Spartan living had seen downstairs. The queen-sized bed was made, although my grandmother, a nurse of the old school, would have tudded at the loose corners and shabby lines. There were some photos, all large signed pictures of musicians. I recognized Tom York from Radiohead and John Lennon, the rest I don't know. What I was surprised about was how tastefully the whole thing was arranged once I looked at it. It seemed like someone had invested quite a bit of time in their placement. By then any fun and exploration was basically out. There was only one door left, and it was too large to be a closet. I stopped for a moment to listen, but there didn't seem to be anything bumping around inside. Until then I'd be able to get around largely by the light bouncing from the windows downstairs, or from the frosted glass of the bathroom. This room was dark, and the windows blinds were drawn. Worse was the smell, sealed in rot. My eyes adjusted a little, and I could make out a woman. Her hair was salt and pepper, drawn back into a ponytail, and she was still wearing a large set of headphones on her ears. She'd been there a while, and had bloated some, and yet she seemed simply but professionally dressed. Three of the walls were lined with vinyl records, cassette tapes, and CDs. She even had a collection of large spool canisters, like they used to use for film projectors, but a lot smaller. The final wall was electronics from roof to ceiling, every and any device that could turn electricity into a high quality musical note. While the recordings, in their various formats, still look immaculate, some of the recording equipment was ripped down, my guess is it happened in a moment of frustration. I worked up the stomach fortitude to crack the window, and pulled up the blind. It was then that I could tell she had a bottle of pills and a bottle of red wine beside her, and in her hand, attached to the big black headphones, was an iPod. Its batteries likely dead, almost as long as she was. I left the room, yanking the heavy soundproof door shut. After a few moments, I went back to the head of the stairs, and, with a little tugging, managed to push the couch safely away from the second floor. I went back into the clean, spartan bedroom, where I am now, and fell asleep staring at Tom York. 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. Thank you. 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