Part 1 of 3
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Tonight we introduce a new serialization to our line up, a chronological tale of a time after the collapse of civilization - a journal falling under the name of Ruby Departed. In this first entry, our hero, Ruby, weighs some of the decisions she has made.
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp Episode 43. Tonight, Ruby departed. Box Canyon Blues, Part 1 of 3. [music] This evening's story is brought to you in part by FlashPulp on iTunes. You want to make your mother proud, don't you? Enter the words FlashPulp into the iTunes Store or find the link at Skinner.fm. [music] Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled. Here is the shadows I live with our number left. [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. Tonight we introduce a new serialization to our lineup, a chronological tale of a time after the collapse of civilization, a journal falling under the name of Ruby departed. In this first entry, our hero, Ruby, weighs some of the decisions she has made. [music] Ruby departed, Box Canyon Blues, Part 1 of 3. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration Biopoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [music] June 29th. It was a series of stupid mistakes. When I woke up this morning, I was on top of the blue and white Greek souvlaki place, and the crowd was pretty thin. While I was doing a loop around the roof of the plaza, I noticed why. There was a fire burning a few blocks south of me. I lowered myself onto the lip of one of those big blue garbage bins and started sort of southwest. The problem was, I knew there was a river to the east, and I didn't want to get him in. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Number 53 was at the bottom. A big guy with a light bit of scruff under his chin, and black jeans, two sizes too small. He probably had a shirt on when he turned, but it likely went missing in the fight for his right arm. A fight he lost. I'm almost ashamed to admit it's not like it was before. I keep the list, and I try to remember their faces, but both seem to be losing detail. Still, the first of the day is miserable. After spotting me, he started to moan though, and that's when the adrenaline kicks in, and the thinking stops. I went east at a decent power walk, and it required barely any fence hopping or home invasion to lose the little knots of parade I would pick up behind me. I managed to cover four blocks in about an hour, which, after the last few weeks, felt like I was flying. The area I was moving into looked like low-end residential, rows of well-used townhouses and apartment buildings, with some yellow-lond bungalows crammed between. My trouble started with 54, a small Asian woman in her late 30s. She wore a 1950s poodle skirt and a black top, with a pink scarf wrapped around her neck. She didn't seem to be rotted or chewed on, and the outfit would have been perfect if it hadn't been for the bloody dishcloth that was duct-taped around her right calf muscle. I laughed, stupid, and maybe a little callous, but you take what you can get during the zombie apocalypse, and I'm not writing this to lie to you. I laughed because the whole thing reminded me of happy days, and I'll probably never see happy days again. Not that I ever really watched it. The thing is, there was a smell in the air, like barbecue, and I think it had me a little light-headed, especially since most of the shufflers were busy checking it out. So I laughed, and she came at me, and I poked her through the eye with Bethany and cleaned her blade on a lady's skirt. The laugh was dumb, but stopping to clean up was dumber. I hadn't seen a dog since everything fell down, but I think I've just been lucky. I also think it was my laughter that brought them. The pack is huge. When I first spotted them, they were still a good half-block away, but even then it looked like a furry wave breaking onto the street. The lead dog is a meaty-faced boxer, all brown, like the color of sand. For a second, he stood there, his head tilted to the side, and I was looking at him as he was looking at me. He started to jog, not run. At his size, it looked like he was a trotting pony. I did not wait to see if I could see Sir Milan the bunch of them. I start booking it between buildings via a path to my left. Another mistake. I wonder what might have happened if I had pretended to shuffle along. As it was, the whole pack broke into a run, and the barking started. I found myself running down a double row of townhouses, still mostly looking behind me. That's when I realized I'd run myself into a box canyon. Not only was I being chased, the other half of the pack came around the far corner, blocking my path. I had to choose quickly, but I could see a place on the left side that seemed to be reinforced, and the entrance was flapping open. I ran inside. I slammed the door. I had forgotten how afraid of dogs I am. Really, it's my only phobia, funny that I can deal with dead people popping out of every closet back alley I pass, but the sight of an angry shitsu still makes me nervous. I spent a long time staring at the bordered windows. The barking continued, but they never tried to run the barricade. I kept turning slow circles, trying to make sure nothing was coming up behind me, but I wouldn't leave the door. Not as long as the howling was going on outside. It was getting dim when the last of them drifted off, and I could tell why. The shamblers had lost interest in their party. Zombies are a problem I'm better equipped to deal with. I took a look around the bottom floor, but it was barren beyond some blood and busted furniture. The back door opens onto a common hallway that runs the length of the row, or at least I think it does. It's so heavily boarded up, it would take me days to pry it apart to find out. It'll be the box canyon, or nothing. It must have been a big group effort holding up in here, and they seemed to have done a good job. The stairs were knocked out, and I had to drag over a dining room chair to get up onto the second floor. I even found a makeshift hook to pull the chair up after me. Pinned to the bathroom door with a blue thumbtack was a note. All it said was, "We're sorry." I wasn't sure if they'd meant it for whoever was bumping around in there, or for me. I could hear shuffling inside, and it sounded pretty moist. It took me a long time to open the door, and Bethany helped herself to 55, a grandmother who'd worn off most of her hands trying to dig her way to something down the bathtub's drainpipe. I had no idea what she could smell down there. It was hard to notice anything but the mess. I think she had a blue and white dress on. I closed the door when I was done. It's getting late, though, and I don't want to stumble around any further in the dark. It's quiet up here now, and hopefully the barriers will hold till morning. I've stuffed myself in a closet that smells like Aunt Vanessa. It makes me a little homesick, but New York, New York, here I come. And it's a nice change from the smell of rotting. Good night, Ben. [Music] 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]
