Part 3 of 3
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In this final instalment of our current story arc, Ruby plots an escape from her suburban standoff.
The Skinner Co. Network
045 - Ruby Departed: Box Canyon Blues, Part 3 of 3
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp episode 45. Tonight, Ruby departed. Box Canyon Blues, part three of three. [Music] This evening's story is brought to you in part by Matunes.com. She knows what Billy Joe McAllister was throwing off the Tallahatchie Bridge. That's Matunes.com. [Music] Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled out. [Music] FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. In this final installment of our current story arc, Ruby plots escape from her suburban standoff. Ruby departed. Box Canyon Blues, part three of three. Written by J.R.D. Skinner. Art and narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica Met. [Music] July 1st, I barely slept last night. The smell after I'd opened the coolers was horrible, and it was pulling all the local traffic right up against the front door, which made me paranoid. When dawn finally broke, I lowered myself back onto the ground floor and went poking around in the kitchen. Under the sink, I found a pair of yellow rubber gloves. It was hard to psych myself into going back upstairs. It was the increased banging on the door that convinced me. That and the growl of my stomach, even over the stench. I pulled myself up, leaving the dining room chair in place, and went into the parents room. With a little work, I formed a face mask out of pillowcases, which didn't really help with the smell. Then I filled the empty plastic water bottles I've been carrying around. I drank what I could, threw up, drank some more. Dragging the clean bedding into the room I'd weirdly begun to think of as my own, I tied together three crisp white sheets. I nodded my newly made rope around two of the boards I'd scavenged from the waterbed, and then set them by the window. I went back in and shredded open a bunch of the flat plastic packages. I started off doing a pretty orderly job, but rotting bacon smells like a dead homeless guy who's been forgotten for a week on a city bus. And by the time I'd made it to the sixth container, I was basically just stabbing blindly and using the comforter as a splatter shield. Finally, I pulled out some of the bacon and went back into my room. Punching out the flimsy window screen, I tossed the packet past the gathering below. All interest in the front door was immediately lost. Watching them head for that pile of pig flesh was like watching winos race for the world's last box of Franzia white Merlot. Pathetic, but intense. I followed up the experiment a second time, but before letting the meat fly, I whistled for a few of the dogs. Those four-legged beasts were the real problem. The thing that had been on my mind the most. Letting yourself get trapped in a tight space without supplies is definitely high on the zombie worst-case scenario list, but it was the speed of the muts that really concerned me. Otherwise, I might have just tried making a straight run out the front door. Anyhow, I tossed the package and I could see the dog's interest, even as the thing was arcing to the ground. Three former house pets had come around at my call. A prim white bichon friseur, a graying German shepherd, and a patchy mutt of questionable lineage. The second test immediately had a cluster of hands grabbing for it, but the ship would have none of it. It came tearing down the path like a battering ram, blasted its way between two sets of shoulders, and popped out of the other side of the group, all before the dead folk could snag a handful of fur. The victor immediately guzzled his prize, his two companions, nosing in for scraps. It was less than a minute before the three began patrolling up and down the long row of townhouses, moving only as quickly as necessary to avoid the still-distracted stumblers. I had everyone's attention. I initiated the final experiment. Even in the short time I was away from my perch, things had begun picking up. Suddenly there were a half-dozen new dogs milling between the few slow hands paying them attention. I lifted my clump of slime meat and drizzled it over the crowd directly beneath my window. Test number three reminded me of one of those shows Discovery used to play, where they lower a cow into the piranha-infested Amazon, and it comes out nothing but bones. Bacon bits were everywhere. In their hair, in their shoes, I saw clumps of it sliding down their necks and getting stuck on their shirts. Those knots splattered immediately started grasping at the ones who were, and the graspers were then knocked flat by the canine muscle that slammed into them from the rear. It was like watching a pack of jackal's attack. I saw a large man wearing a pair of greasy knee jeans put his thumb through a collie's eye, and then the little beast was covered in mouths. I think that was the only dog that went down though. The riot had brought on a new wave of four legs. The sandy-colored boxer I'd seen the other day round at the corner, and it was like watching an ancient Roman army take the field. Behind him rolled a phalanx of dog meat. I was running through the house by then. The smell forgotten under the adrenaline. I brought five of the coolers to the lip of the destroyed stairs, and tipped it all onto the lower floor. Meat juice sprayed the white living room walls as I did it, and the plastic packages went skidding over the faux wood. I headed back into the parents' room, selecting the smelliest of the remaining coolers to sit at the top of the stairs. I cracked the lid and left it open. I dragged the last three boxes into the hanem on tanner room. I upended one through the window. There wasn't time to watch, but the howling and growling that chased me into the hallway told me everything I needed to know. I jumped the distance to the bottom of the steps and ran to the door, yanking it wide before I could hesitate. None of the dogs bothered to notice, but a shuffler immediately turned on me. I nearly lost my footing on a pile of goo, but I kept my balance and bounced off the chair and onto the second floor. Grabbing the makeshift hook, I pulled the chair up after me. My invitation was well received. It was as if a whirlpool had opened. The crowd drained into the house. Man and dog alike attracted to the smell of the rotting buffet. For good measure, I emptied the last two coolers out Hannah's window, then bolted to my own. I don't remember stopping to prepare myself for going out. I had my backpack on, Bethany in one hand, and the cloth rope in the other. I didn't so much climb. It was more of a controlled fall, but my ankles were unbroken on landing and every mouth in the area seemed occupied. I ran, and as I cleared the end of the box canyon, I actually giggled. My escape is a bit of a blur from there. I went full out for maybe a block, then threw myself over a chain link fence. I was attracting a crowd, but it felt like my legs could have carried me forever. I spotted a plaza and there was a delivery truck pulled snug up along the side. Without breaking stride, I launched myself at the front bumper over the hood, up the roof, and onto the building. I was alone under the open sky. At about the same time that I finally caught my breath, it began to rain. I couldn't have been happier. FlashPulp is presented by http colon slash slash skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of FlashPulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. (upbeat music)