The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S12E21

Episode Date: May 5, 2019

  It's episode 21 of Season 12. On this week's show we have tales about horrifying crime and punishment. "The Man in the Cell Next Door" written by Olivia White (Story starts around 00:03:44) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Dion & Wrong’un – Jeff Clement, The Man – Graham Rowat, Jailer – Atticus Jackson "Girl on Fire" written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 00:31:38) Produced by: Jesse Cornett TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Ruby Miller – Jessica McEvoy, Biker man – Jesse Cornett, Biker woman – Erin Lillis , Officer Bright – Mike DelGaudio, Waitress – Erika Sanderson "Come to Daddy" written by Rachele Bowman (Story starts around 01:20:26) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Addison Peacock, Daddy – David Cummings, Kameron – Kyle Akers "Rocking A Ranch" written by C.K. Walker (Story starts around 01:46:04) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Elliot – David Cummings, Young Elliot – Elie Hirschman, Andy – Mick Wingert, Jake – Matthew Bradford, Danny – Kyle Akers, Elliot’s Father – Jesse Cornett, Andy’s Mother – Nikolle Doolin, Adam – Dan Zappulla, Brayden – Jeff Clement, School Principal – Nichole Goodnight, Police Officer – Atticus Jackson, Elliot’s Mother – Addison Peacock, Mystery Man – Peter Lewis, Cop – Armen Taylor Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about HorroconUK   Click here to learn more about Olivia White   Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor   Click here to learn more about Rachele Bowman   Click here to learn more about C.K. Walker   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "Come to Daddy" illustration courtesy of Naomi Ronke Audio program ©2018-2019 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Welcome to our sleepless sanctuary. You enter at your own risk and choose to be entertained with dark and disturbing horror stories. You have been warned for the dark hours when you dare not. Tales of horror to frighten and disturbed as the sleepless hours tick. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast Sanctuary. I'm David Cummings. Our service this week features tales about horrifying crime and punishment.

This episode is the start of what we're calling our road to the season finale. We have some great stories for you in the episodes leading up to episode 25. We certainly hope you enjoy them. And if there's ever a time to be a season pass member, it's now, because the stories we're doing in those versions of the episodes are extra special. And for all our fine folks and fans in the UK, I want to make mention of HorrorCon UK. It's the largest horror con in the UK,

and it's happening on May 11 and 12 at the Magna Center in Sheffield. Come see some of horror's greatest legends, and experience a great selection of exhibitors. Oh, and I suppose I should mention that the No Sleep podcast will be well represented by our UK team. Erica Sanderson, David Alt, and James Cleveland will be there to meet and greet fans, hand out lots of great swag and hugs, and they will even be performing some flash fiction tales

for everyone's creepy enjoyment. So check the show notes for all the details about HorrorCon UK, Corblamy. But you don't have to travel to hear some great horror stories now because it's time for our service to begin. Bow your heads and hear our words. In our first tale, we travel back in time to join a man at the lowest point in his life. Being locked up is no laughing matter.

Who knows what's happening to your nearest and dearest while you're incarcerated in a rat-infested dungeon, with no hope of escape. But in this tale shared with us by Olivia White, we discover that an optimistic voice isn't necessarily the boon it might seem. Performing this tale are Graham Rowett, Jeff Clement, and Atticus Jackson. So try not to let the darkness get to you.

Focus on your freedom, and maybe don't listen to, the man in the cell next door. There you go, Chuckles. Your new home. Better get used to it. You're gonna be here a long, long while. Isn't it grand, though? All the mod cons. Take a look around.

Wait, you can't. Suppose I'd better take that sack off your head. See? You got it all. Straw on the floor for a mattress, all in the corner to do your business, and look, you've even got a window. Think yourself lucky.

Other guys don't even have that. Just don't go throwing yourself out, yeah? It's a big, big drop on the other side. They don't call this cliffside chapel for nothing. It's got to be ten feet high. Well, there you go. No danger of you taking the coward's way out. Although, after what you'd done,

not like the world would miss his specimens such as you. What have I done? I don't even know why they took me. I don't know what I did. Why I'm here. I... Save it, buddy. I'm just the jailer, not the Earl.

I don't frankly care. Oh, and I'd advise you not to chat to the fella in the cell next door. He's a wrongan. Ha ha ha ha, Christ. Sure, you'll find out about his activities soon enough. Sleep tight, prisoner. Will you shut up? Play, play and play.

Bite off her horridan. Shut up. Fuck. Yeah. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Burn. Burn. It's thay.

Fucking stop it. Jesus wept. It's night. It's night, I think. Oh, don't listen to our friend Charles over there. He's a disturbed individual. Hard not to, and he won't stop screaming. That's what happens to people when they've been in a...

to people when they've been in this place too long, they go like that. I can't be in this place too long. I shouldn't be here at all. Ah, but we all think that, don't we? Yeah, but I really shouldn't. I've no idea what I've done. Or why they took me. Maybe I can help. How? Firstly, come over to the wall.

That's it. Away from old Charles over there. On my side. Christ, it's colder over here. So I... Look on the wall. Find the scratching that looks like a question mark. Then look to the right.

You see it? A tiny hole in the wall? Yes. Look through and tell me what you see. Ah. An eye. My eye. as much as you're going to be able to see through that tiny peephole, I'm afraid. But now we've been formally introduced.

I bet your mother always told her to look someone in the eye when you're talking to them, right? She did? She'd say that a lot, actually. There's something to be said about the importance of two friends having seen each other when they're helping each other out. You can help me? Well, damn, I could do with seeing a friendly face in this place. so to speak. Tell me what's wrong, son.

Maybe it'll help to talk about it. I mean, I don't... Got to be better than talking to old Charlie over there anyway? I guess so. So, uh... Tell me what happened for you to end up here. I don't know. That's what I'm saying.

I've no idea what I've done wrong. Or why they'd arrest me. I mean it was the Earl's guards And this is cliffside And it's still the Earl's prison To my knowledge, yes Whoever brought you here were likely officials And I

Just don't understand I've lived a decent life Contributed my share of work to the village Never stockpiled Never even got into a tavern brawl I'm just normal boring even

okay but tell me what happened for you to end up here like what happened when they came for you oh okay well it was late evening the chapel bells had rung for 11

shortly before so I I guess about 24 hours ago it's been dark out for a while if the high window in here isn't lying to me. That it has. So it was just me and Kandra. That's my wife.

Thursday night, so nothing special planned. Work in the fields in the morning. I'm a farmer's hand. Work for Brand Donovan, if you know. If you're from around here. He owns most of the farms in these parts, does he not? Yeah. He and the Earl, they went through, you know,

they came up together during the last decades of the blackout. I'm too young to have experienced it. They say it changed people, the older ones. But Donaghan, he never talks about it. He's a good boss. Fair. Tough, but fair. Okay, so it was a work night, and you would work in the morning.

I was going to repair the outer walls of the Rangstead Farm, where I usually work. General maintenance stuff, nothing notable. So, Kandra and I, we were just sitting by the fire, reading. What were you reading? Uh, does that matter? Who knows? I was reading the village news pamphlet. Kandra was reading a new book by Harving Lassel.

He's a local author. Young, my age. Which is? Oh, I'm 27. I don't know if LaSelle is exactly the same age, but... I meant your age, yes? Yeah, I'm 27. Candra's 25.

We met some years ago when... Let's focus on the present. Well, last night. So, you were both reading, quietly. Well, then there's this... on the door. Candra gets up to answer it. It's not unusual for a neighbor to come by,

even at that time of night. You know what things are like. I only started paying attention when I heard some kind of commotion. Candra was clearly worked up about something. So I started to get up and I was turning when three guardsmen burst in, kicked my chair away from me.

One of them cracked me in the head with a jack as I tried to shove them away. Then I was on the floor and they were kicking me and Candra was screaming and... It's okay. Take your time. Then that was it. They dragged me up and out and into the square. And everyone was watching as they clapped me in irons. When I think about it now, all I can see is scorn and judgment on my neighbor's faces.

But is that just how I'm remembering it? Instinctual guilt? Or maybe they really were mad at you about something. But the guards didn't even read you your rights. They might have done. It was a commotion. But I didn't hear it. And I certainly didn't hear what the charges were.

So they brought you right here? Pretty much. Scuffed me up along the way. I kept begging and pleading to know why they were doing this, but they didn't say a word. After the initial brawl, nobody spoke to me until I got to this place, and that jailer guy tossed me in here. Did Kendra follow? Huh?

When the guards took you, did Kendra follow you all? What? I don't know. I was... they beat me. I don't know. I guess so? But you didn't see her or hear her. You can't be sure?

Well, no, I guess not. Okay. What? What is it? Oh, it's nothing. I would have just thought a devastated wife of an innocent man would have followed. Would have done everything she could to stop them taking you to Cliffside. Because we all know the stories about what goes on at Cliffside, don't we?

I mean, I've heard things. This place, it used to be a chapel. Back in the old days, before the blackout. Even though it was said we worshipped at the altar of technology, we still had religion. And this place was a house of God. But after the blackout, people stopped worshipping. Buildings like this gradually became appropriated for whatever uses. And this one, built into the cliffs overlooking the ocean, became a prison.

When we were kids growing up, it was essentially the haunted house on the hill, looming over the village. A place where terrible things happen. How long have you been here? Long enough to know the stories about this place are true. Christ. This really isn't helping. Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. So, think hard.

Have you done anything bad lately? I... No. Nothing that would cause me to end up in here. That nothing. Sounds like something. Well, there was something. But it wasn't a crime.

It wasn't a criminal act. There's no way I'd be arrested for it. You never know. The laws are strange these days. Morals and values have changed a lot since the blackout. I don't really want to. Do you want to understand why you're here or not? Tell me, it can't hurt.

Okay, I... I... I... ...got together with Miali Braun. Just once. I'd been at the tavern, and we'd been drinking, and, well, she's the serving girl there.

She's Candra's best friend. I'm a terrible person. I know that. But it didn't mean anything. I swear, had we only kissed. A drunken kiss. And maybe a fumble. But we didn't.

Hey, you don't need to convince me. But at least we're getting somewhere. How? Adultery isn't a crime. We both swore we'd never speak of it. And Candra doesn't know anyway. Doesn't she? Can you be sure of that?

I mean, no. But... The thing is, Yes, Dion, a lot of people come and go in a place like this. And old-timers like me? Well, we hear things. Do you know something? Do you know more than you're saying?

I've been waiting for you to show up. Let's say that much. I don't understand. What do you mean? There was a guy in here a couple days ago, and a very high. sell you're in right now. And he got talking to the jailer,

that same charming fellow you met earlier. Seems they knew each other. Old friends. So this guy, name was Sarn Leveson. You know him? Don't think so. Well, Sarn knew you,

and your wife. Been quite cozy with her recently, according to him, after she found out about you and the barmaid. And Sarned, well, by all counts he's a less than reputable fellow. So he and your wife, he and Candra, they cooked up

something to get back at you. At first, they were just going to disfigure you. What was it, Candra told him your worst fear was? Oh, God. Going blind. That's it, blindness. So, Son was going to pluck out your eyeballs. Where he told the jailer, he was going to make you eat them, too. Just make you eat your own eyeballs right after. But that was risky. He and Candra might get caught if they cut you up and leave you to tell about it. So then they deliberated over killing you. Slowly and painfully, way Sarn told it,

really make you suffer. And that was Candra's wish. Sond prefers a blade between the ribs, but Kandra, wow, from how Sahn described her, she's a bloodthirsty one. Is that right, Leon? No. I mean, no. Is it?

Well, geez, some of the things Sarn said you wanted to do to you? Said your pop's got his leg sliced clean off by a farming plow. So maybe do that to you first? He did. Years ago. In another village. Then what was it? When you were a kid, you saw an old farmhand drowning some kittens that were born deformed.

I caught... I caught him at the lake shore. The cats were in a... Bag, mule in something terrible. I hid behind a bush and watched as he threw them in. It terrified me. Candra's the only one I've ever told about that. And she held on to it, too, seems like,

because her and Saarne, they talked about drowning you like that too. After cutting out your eyes and severing your leg, that is. Candra, this isn't. All because you had your jollies off with some other. woman. Bit much, isn't it? I don't understand. I don't understand why I'm here.

And this, Sarn, he told the jailer all of this. Yep, they go way back. Thick as thieves. That jail is more of a crook than half the men they bring in here. Laft his head off at Sarn's tail, he did. And Sarn, he was only in here for being drunk and disorderly. Can you believe that? Violent man like that.

He got out the next day, and I heard him as he went off, cackling to the jailer about how he was going to go meet up with Candra, get the plan into motion. But obviously they didn't. I mean, I'm alive. Yeah, but the plan changed, didn't it? They decided not to kill you after all. Too risky.

But they had to be rid of you, and they had to punish you. So I can only assume the next part is what they did. Because when I heard about it, Sarn was going to do it, and now you're in here, so... What? What did they do? What did my candor do? Well, they framed you, of course. Framed you for a terrible, terrible crime. What crime? Jesus! What crime?

Think about it. What do society value the most? these days after the blackout. What do we hold in such high regard? Children. Repopulation. Keeping the species going. I don't understand.

No, well, you wouldn't, would you? See, Candra was with child. A couple months, give a take a day. Didn't know, did you? What? No. I... Oh my God.

I'm going to be a father? Well, don't jump the gun just yet. You see, what she did. Well, what Sarn did. He kicked her in the belly. Kicked her and kicked her until that little life inside her, your spawn, well, it wasn't living anymore. He did what, Ticandra?

I'll kill him. I'll fucking kill him. No, no, listen. Candra told him to. She told him to, and then she went to the guards and said, you did it. You extinguished the life inside her. Then, later that night, they came for you.

They take a hard line with baby killers. Straight in here, no questions asked. You'll be left to rot here forever. This can't be happening. This is a nightmare. This is a fucking nightmare. And that's Sarn. You know what he kept saying?

He kept saying how it'll mean so much to Candra to know you're in here, rotting away, that you'll live your whole life in the dark, in this dank dungeon on the side of the cliff. He made the jailer promise to keep you as healthy as he could, for his successor to do the same, to make sure you live a long, long life in this cell forever, that nothing would make Candra happier.

And I thought to myself, you know what? That's unjust. If this guy shows up here, I've got to help him. I can't let him suffer for decades for something he didn't do. Even if he made a mistake, it's not right. So I'm going to help you. How? But...

Look into the peephole again. You see me. You see my eye. You're looking into my eye. This is an eye you can trust. You can see that, right? I can see that. Then you've got to trust me that this is the only way.

This is the only way to stop that deceiving, hateful bitch you call a wife from getting what she wants. Now back away from the hole, son. A blade? What for? I think you know what four. Don't make it easy for them. Don't give her what she wants. But you know the truth.

Can't you just tell them the truth? I'm just an old con. They won't believe a word. Zan and Canra, they've thought this through. There's no getting away from it. This is the only way. It's the only way. But don't do it quick.

You've got to let them know. You got to show them your anger, your hatred. You do hate her, don't you? You do hate your wife for what. she's done to you, to your unborn son? Do. I do. I hate her.

I hate her so fucking much. I hate her! I hate her! Ah! That's it! Carb your anger into your flesh. Mutilate yourself so she knows! I want to see you slice that handsome face.

That handsome face. Clean off! More! More! Gouch out an eye, like they never got to do! That's it? No. Ah! Don't stop.

Now! How about a few fingers? Leave a real mess, kid. Or a foot! Why not? I... I... I need...

I... Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! You're the boy! You're the boy! Absolute shambles. Fucking cowards won't even come down to do the dirty themselves. Listen, kid, this is a colossal fuck-up and I really don't know what to say. Other than I was just doing my job and it ain't my fault.

But listen, the immediates and the guards went to Totally the wrong house. Got entirely the wrong man. Thought you with some fuck called Patrick Doom lives on the other side of town. He's been poaching on the Earl's land and bragging about it in the tavern. So they wanted to give them a right, scare, because you know how much the girl hates people who steals from him? Holy fuck!

Holy art, fuck, son! What the Christ you've done to yourself? Oh, my fuck. Where'd you get a blade? What have you done? done that for. Oh shit, it's gonna be my head on the chopping block for this. I searched you.

I did search you, didn't I? Christ, and an innocent man to boot. Your wife's been downstairs creating Mary Hell all night. And since they gotten the wrong man, turns out they had. What are you done to yourself? Why? You've only been in here. night?

Man, man in the cell Exeter. He told me he... Oh, geez, old Charlie? I told you not to listen to him. He's a wrongan.

No. Not any other on the other. Son, there ain't no man in the other. There ain't no man in the cell on the other side. The man knew my name, knew me, gave me. He said, contra, arm. You know, son, you know, said your end.

Son, I ain't never met anyone called Sean in my life. There ain't no son, and there ain't no man next door. There ain't even the next door. We're in cliffside, remember? You wouldn't have seen because you had that damn sack on your head when I brought you in. But you're at the end of the corridor. Ain't no cell on the other side of that wall. Ain't nothing but a sheer 40-foot drop into the ocean.

Revenge is a dish best-served cold, they say. But what if instead revenge was served hot? In this tale from author Gemma Amour, we meet a woman whose desire for vengeance burns so bright that anyone who crosses her will feel the heat. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Jesse Cornette, Aaron Lillis, Mike Delgado, and Erica Sanderson. So feel free to admire her or worship her, but don't get too close, or you might get burned by The Girl on Fire. My car is old and shit. Old shit and yet so, so beautiful. It's a cherry-red, 1989 Pontiac Bonneville. It's the first car I've ever owned and will probably be the only car I'll ever want to own. I saved every paycheck from my first regular job to buy it. I got no help

from the bank of mom or dad. This car is a symbol of my independence. my freedom. I love it more than anything or anyone. The engine throbs as I put my foot down on the accelerator. I have my window open, as the car is too old for a functioning air conditioning. My red hair whips around my head as I push down with my foot. Red hair, red car.

The needle creeps to 75. 75, and I feel alive. I feel happy. There's country music on the radio. Around me, the dry, arid plains of Nevada stretch out into the distance. The asphalt highway slices through the middle of it all like an arrow, pointing to my future.

They call this the loneliest road in America. Well, I don't know about that, but it sure is one of the prettiest. In the distance, mountains loom. Overhead, a blue sky stretches out. out into infinity. A hot sun burns in the blue. I am free. I throw my arms up in the air, letting go of the wheel for a moment, unable to restrain myself any longer. I crow and yell out joyously. My voice is whipped away like a dry leaf on the breeze. I try and push the needle further around

the dial, and the engine starts to protest, unused to this kind of speed. I mean, I'm not going to win any race with this car, but this is faster than I've ever driven it before. And my baby isn't sure about it. It's more used to crawling around the city than my current pedal-to-the-metal style of driving. Come on, baby, you can do it. The car races faster along the asphalt. I throw my arms up into the air once more, fists clenched tight, punching out, victorious, queen of the fucking world. world. And then it happens. There is a bang and a jolt. My car has hit a pothole in the row.

A pothole I could not have seen because I am driving too fast. I am thrown sideways. My head waxed the window frame hard on my right hand side. I am not holding onto the wheel, and so I cannot control the sudden swerving of the car as both tires on my side. I am not holding on the wheel. right-hand sigh burst. I feel the rims of each wheel scrape along the ground, making a hideous noise. The car begins to veer wildly

off the road. Panicked, I grab hold of the steering wheel and yank it over to the left to try and correct my trajectory, but this only destabilizes me further. The car speeds towards the edge of the road. The road is raised higher than the land around it, only by a small measurement,

but enough to create a ledge between the asphalt and the scrubby green plants that poke up to the sand all around. The car hit the ledge, still doing about 70. I slam my feet on the brakes, but it's too late. The car squeals as if in agony and then shoots off the road and into the desert. There is a moment, a split second when I think everything is going to be okay, that the car will stop, dragged to a halt by the sand and the scrub. This does not happen.

Instead, my car, my baby, unable to cope with the degree to which the ground level has changed, tilts dangerously onto its side, flips, and then rolls down the slight incline away from the highway. My world is turned literally upside down, and then right way up, and then wrong way down again. I am strapped into my seat. I put my arms up, not in joy now, but in fear for protection, and I brace myself against the roof of the car. I am dimly aware that I am screaming. That blood is dripping down my face from where my head hit the window frame. The car rolls two, three times, and then comes to an uneasy rest, leaving me suspended upside down and half unconscious. Gradually, the dust settles around me.

The car creaks and moans in pain, as do I. I hang from my seatbelt. My head squashed uncomfortably against the roof, which is now the floor. A stillness falls. Blood begins to pound in my ears. I lack the energy to try and unstrap myself. I'm afraid I might hurt myself. if I try. I call out, knowing it is futile. This is the loneliest road in America, after all.

It's a waste of my time, my energy. I stop, feeling faint. I close my eyes and try to find the strength to undo my seatbelt. I can't. The full weight of my body is hanging downwards, pressing against the belt, locking the mechanism. It won't budge. I start to pant and panic, and then I faint, black out momentarily. Gradually, I am woken again. This time by a sound. Well, two sounds, actually.

The first is the unmistakably wet noise of something liquid trickling out of my car and into the sand. Fuel. The second is a hissing, juttering, fizzing sort of noise coming from underneath the hood of the Pontiac. I have a moment to wonder what this means. The upper intake's going to go. Faulty fuel pressure regulator? Pungured engine, wall?

What the hell am I talking about? I don't know shit about cars. I have no idea. Daddy would know. Wait, no, don't think about Daddy. Not now. Focus. Focus.

Then the car explodes. A wall of fire and heat blasts against my face, and a fireball envelops the car. I am screaming. I am burning. I am burning. First, my clothes. Then my hair. which disappears in a flash, curling crazily at first and then simply melting the way.

The stench of my own flesh roasting is unbearable. Everything around me is red, foreign, flat. The roaring of the fire is so intense, so loud, so terrible, and I am in the middle of it all. I am the fire. I am the eye of the fucking storm. I open my mouth to scream again, but this one is wordless, and the fire invades me, licking the back of my throat, filling me up from the inside out. It is too much. It is too much.

Pain. Burning. I close my ass. I die. carefully, disbelievingly, I open each eye. I am laying in a blackened heap

of ash and twisted metal and scorched earth. The charred skeleton of my car rises from the desert like a sad, ancient shipwreck rises from the seabed, an echo of a life that once was, a blackened footprint in time,

a memory of the old me. I see smoke, dark and noxious, curling up into the sky. Small residual fires burn in a few places on the scrubland around the car wreckage. They glow a muted orange, little distress signals that no one can see except for me. I focus on my body, trying to assess how injured I am. How is that possible? I am curled up like a new boy. tucked into the fetal position, arms and hands clasped to my chest, knees drawn up to my chin.

There is no pain. None of the pain I expected at any rate. No burning, no bleeding, no broken bones. I blearily look at the sky and see the outlines of birds circling my body, vultures or crows, I can't tell. My vision is still blurred, misty, my eyes raw from heat and smoke. I unfurl like a reluctant flower, slowly, cautiously, still reeling from the shock and the impact of the crash. A thought worms its way into the front of my mind. How am I still alive? How can anyone survive an explosion like that? I shiver with the cold, and it dawns on me that I am naked, that my clothes have burned clean away.

If I stay here, lying on the ground, I will freeze. Nights in the desert get cold real fast. I stand, the remains of my car, my life, scattered around my feet. I can still feel the heat from the blaze. I hold my arms out in front of me. inspecting my flesh in the rapidly fading light. No burns, no blisters, no scars. I run a hand over myself, up each arm, over my belly, my legs, and finally up over my head.

The hair on my head and my body has gone, leaving behind a fine, fuzzy stubble. Otherwise, I'm unlawed. untouched, completely unscathed, and unsure of what else to do. I start to walk unsteadily along the road, back the way I had driven only a few hours earlier. I see the pothole I hit while driving too fast, while waving my arms in the air like an idiot instead of holding the steering wheel. It's small, but the edges are jagged. I stare at it.

in the past now. What has happened has happened. What matters is what comes next. And close. God, I need some clothes. I throw a last longing look at my old car over my shoulder as I walk away and feel my heart breaking a little in my chest. I have no idea what is happening to me or how or why, but I know there is no going back from this. There is a little bit. There is a no going back to who I was before. I am a phoenix from the ashes, but what that means for my future, I have no idea. I face forward, walking slowly along the highway, headed towards I don't know what. I know enough about motors to recognize the sound of multiple Harley-Davidson twin cams roaring towards me. Bikers. Four of them riding side of them. Riding side of them.

by side, hogging the highway as bikers do. Moments later, I am illuminated by the glare of headlights, and a cavalcade of Harleys surround me, engines chewing up the night air. They slow and then stop, putting down the kickstands, removing helmets, leaning on their handlebars, assessing me. There are three men and one woman. They are heavily tattooed. and look like they belong to a gang.

They stare at my naked, shivering body. I put a hand up to protect my eyes from the glare of the headlights. The leader of the gang dismounts and walks over to me, heavy boots jingling slightly as he moves. He pulls a cigar from his jacket pocket and lights it with a zippo covered in skulls. Skull rings gleam on his fingers. There are roses choked with thorns tattooed on his face.

Entwined with the roses, a green snake, which winds down his neck and vanishes under his wifebeater. Oh, well, well. He lights the cigar and continues to peer at me, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. Well, what do we have here, then? I work my dry mouth. not sure how well my voice will work. I hope against vain hope that this isn't all about to go horribly wrong. Please.

Please, I was in an accident. My car. It came off the road. I need help. Close. Water. Anything. Please.

The biker laughs. And it isn't kind. My heart is. Thanks. Help. Well, I can see that. You need a lot of help, girl. The others laugh with him, and my neck prickles as a warning sign.

I think the expression is, out of the frying pan and into the fire. Except I've already been in the fire. And now I am here. I turn my attention to the only woman in the group. Trying to ignore how the men leer at my naked body, eyes lingering on my breasts and ass, hungry. I'm young, but I know that expression. I've seen it countless times before, and it doesn't bode well for me. I need clothes, and I need to get away from these people quickly.

I plead with the female biker who looks at me like I'm an alien. Please, I don't want any. trouble. I just want to cover myself up. Even just a blanket, a scarf, anything. Please. I shouldn't have to grovel like this, but I'm desperate. My body quivering. The words fall on her and slide off like rain down a window pain. She narrows her eyes and sneers at me. Too what look like a fucking charity service, bitch? I am taken aback by the malevolence in her voice. I'm in trouble.

Can't they see that? What does a girl have to fucking do to get some help in this world? Mom always told me never to rely on others. To only look out for yourself. Easier said than done. Now, Viola, no need to be like that. We can help out this little lady. We say, boys, shall we help her out?

I read the subtext in his voice. I know what is coming next. I turn and try to run, but the leader catches me around the waist easily, throwing me to the ground. Oh, don't be like that, Missy. See, the way I look at it, and we can help be. I'll just fine. The things in this life don't understand me. He starts fumbling with his flock,

unzipping it with a degree of ceremony that speaks to his opinion of his own virility. He holds me pinned to the ground easily with his other arm, and as he continues to fumble with himself, the other two men in his gang join us on the dirt, taking my arms and my legs, holding me firm. I struggle, buck, and squeal, but that only excites the more. They start crowing and defying and making disgusting, lustful grunts the more I try and escape.

The leader continues, his eyes hot with excitement. Nothing comes for free, like I said, so I can help you, sure. And all I can think is, no one. Not again Man's face moves closer to mine And he drags his thick wet tongue Down my cheek No

What the fuck is this shit And that's when I feel it It starts in my fingertips Which grow hot So hot my skin begins to hum To vibrate The heat travels up my arms Down my chest

and spreads to my legs. I have a moment to see something red-hot reflected in the vile man's eyes, which have widened in shock before I explode like a fucking volcano. For the second time that day, I am on fire with every orifice, fire roaring up into what is now the night sky

in great, twisting columns. A tornado of fire, a goddamn pyre born of rage, and pain and my own sense of insatiable anger at where I find myself, held down by three disgusting horny pigs who would rather rape a woman in trouble than help her. Through the sound of the fire, I can hear all three of them screaming in agony, and it only makes me burn brighter and burn until their faces melt, clean off their skulls, until their bones lie around me like blackened sticks. The scent of charcoal and cooked meat is thick in the air. I savor it. The flames die down, slowly, and I stand.

The desert is quiet, peaceful almost. I feel lighter, although suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. I have just killed three men. I clench my fists. They fucking deserved it, though. I look over to where the Harleys are parked. The female biker is still sitting astride her bike, immobilized with fear, her face white, her mouth open. I walk towards her with heavy, measured paces.

She fumbles for something, brings up a gun, shoots at me before I have time to react. Both bullets hit me square in the chest. I should die right now and bleed out on the sand. But I know I won't. Fucking Phoenix, nothing can kill me. I watch with a detached curiosity as the bullets work their way out of my chest and fall to the ground, glowing white-hot. I must be made of fire now. Does it fill my veins?

If you cut me, do I not burn? I start to chuckle, and then throw my head back and laugh aloud, hurling my mirth into the night like an offering. The biker chick stares with me, lowers the gut, and starts to cry. Shut up. Shut up and give me your clothes. She obeys me. I dress my body in borrowed leather. order the woman off of her bike and mount the Harley from the left side, as is etiquette when it comes to bikes.

My brother had a bike like this once, back when life was simpler. I know how to ride. I start the engine. I feel the Harley throb beneath me. I feel the weight of the bike, the weight of my own actions. I warm up to the bike, and it warms up to me. The now naked biker shivers and sobs in the dirt at my feet where she belongs. I hold a hand out and a small campfire-sized blaze brings up from the ground next to her. It will keep her warm until morning. Then the stupid, unfeeling cow is on her own. She throws a sickened look at her former gangmates.

There's not much left of them. to look at. She should consider herself lucky, really. I put up the kickstand. Rev the engine. Cannot resist the final word. Do I look like a fucking charity service, Violet? I relish each word,

and then I drive away into the night. Before all this madness, I had been headed for the mountains. Time to head the mountains again. Second times the charm. I drive until the Harley runs out of fuel. Then I ditch it and set it a light so no one can track me.

Then I steal another bike or car or whatever I can get a hold of and continue until that vehicle runs out of gas and repeat the cycle. I figure it isn't a good idea to refuel. I don't have any money and I'm paranoid about someone. spotting my stolen ride and calling it in. I do not want to be found. I never want to be found ever again. Besides, I also figure that the new flammable version of me and a gas station

are perhaps not such a great combination. I have a destination in mind. I have a plan, too. I am going to rebuild my life. You see, back when I was in my Pontiac, driving through the bright afternoon sun, I was happy about it for a reason. I was leaving my home behind and my family. I was escaping the prison that had held me captive for so many years. More importantly, I was leaving Daddy behind, and I planned on never seeing him ever again.

For the first time in my life, as I drove to him. too fast along that desert highway, I was truly free. I see no reason for the status quo to change now that I've died and risen from the ashes. It's symbolic, really. Out with the old and in with the new. My destination is north, as far away from my birth town as it's possible to get without leaving the states. I plan on getting a job in a bar, or wherever will take me. I plan. I plan. on setting up on my own. I plan on never having to rely on anyone else ever again. Days turn to night and night today and I am driving, driving until Nevada merges into Idaho, getting through car after car, after bike, after truck. I don't seem to need to eat anymore

or sleep. I do, however, get thirsty. The irony of this is not lost on me. I seem to always be fighting off dehydration, and I get terrible headaches if I don't drink at least a liter of water every hour. There's only so much water a person can travel with, so I end up stopping more than I'm comfortable with. Most roadside places I pass allow me a glass of tap water, which I drink quickly, head down, staring at the counter,

avoiding all eye contact. I issue a brisk thanks and leave as quietly as I arrive. I manage two weeks of this before the police catch up with me. Well, one policeman. Off Highway 26, there's a small town called Glen's Ferry. It's sparsely littered with cutesy wooden houses and an old livery barn. It's the kind of place where large old guys in Dungarees hang out on street corners all day, chewing the fat. There's a rail crossing right in the middle of it. Directly opposite the train

tracks is the uninviting Oregon Trail, Cafe and Bar. It's in this bar that Officer Bright finds me. I am sitting hunched over a table in a corner, my back to the room. I'm still in my borrowed leathers, which fit me surprisingly well. I like them. They feel like armor against the vaguely. of the world. Officer Bright sits down at my table, uninvited. I know his name is bright because it's stitched to his lapel badge. He finds me in the middle of making a really terrible decision to drink beer instead of water in an attempt to find a little satisfaction on such a hot day. Sometimes water just doesn't cut it like cold sud stew. There is a collection. of four empty bottles on the oiled red gingham tablecloth between us,

and I'm just about to finish my fifth. I am beginning to realize that beer has a bad effect on my new body. It makes me feel mean. My fingertips are already starting to buzz when Officer Bright takes off his sunglasses and tries to establish eye contact with me. Ruby? Ruby Miller? There's no point trying to deny it.

He takes a little bit. takes an old photograph out of his jacket pocket, slides it across the table to me. It's a school photo from a few years back. My thick red hair is the main feature of the picture, and I am hiding behind it as much as humanly possible. I was shy in school. I don't feel shy anymore. I beckon to the waitress, who shuffles over. Yeah?

Can I get you? I ask for more beer, ignoring the policeman, and she obliges, grumbling under her breath, looking between me and Officer Bright with curiosity. She pops the lid off a bottle and hands it to me. Shall I put it on your tap? She blows a bubble with the blob of gum she's been chewing since I got here. The bubble pops, and I grit my teeth. People suck.

Sure. I take the beer. Condensation beads the glass, which instantly sizzles as it hits the hot skin of my fingers. The policeman notices this and frowns. He then shakes his head slightly and obviously dismisses it as a trick of the light or a figment of his imagination. I slowly meet his gaze and let just a little tiny ember glow in each of my eyes. He blinks and then opens his mouth, resolute. Are you Ruby Miller? It's not a crime to leave home. I'm 19 years old, an adult.

I can leave without it being a police matter. True enough, I'm not interested in you running away, although your mother is beside herself with worry. No, I'm more interested in the burned out wreckage of one abandoned Pontiac, 1989 Bonneville, very distinctive and registered to you, and the three abandoned Harleys we found back on a highway in Nevada. There is silence as I listen and sip my beer. I'm also interested in the remains of the three men we found near the bikes.

Remains we had to ID with dental records, because they were no more than cinders and ash. Not to mention the naked woman we found near dead from exposure not a half mile away. She kept shouting about a girl on fire. Girl on fire! She screamed at us over and over again. She's in the hospital now. But we showed her your picture, and she recognized you,

despite the haircut. He gestures at my bald head. The hair that burned away has not regrown, but I'm okay with this. It's a lot easier to manage. I'm thinking about getting a tattoo across my scalp. of a phoenix, but I don't know how my new skin will respond to this. My fingers tingle again with heat, and my beer bottle crack suddenly.

The glass unable to cope with the rapid shift from cold to hot. The contents of the bottle dump themselves all over the table with a definitive splash. Neither myself nor Officer Bright moves. The beer spreads across the table and then starts dripping onto the linoleum floor, floor all around us. The gentle splashing reminds me of the noise my car made as it leaked fuel into the desert that fateful day when I burned for the first time. We stare at each other over the mess, a showdown at high noon. There is no point denying it. I have no wish to deny it. I had every right to do what I did. I fold my arms. They were going to be. They were going to

to rape me. I needed help, and they held me down and tried to violate me instead. All of them. Officer Bright's eyes flicker with sympathy and then harden with resolve. He slowly reaches to his belts and then produces a pair of handcuffs. Be that as it may, I have no choice. You're wanted on suspicion of three counts of homicide and one count of arson, not to mention your underage drinking. He says it as if it's a joke. As if any of this is remotely funny, it is meant to diffuse the tension between us. It doesn't. I glare at him, and he sighs.

It would help me out greatly if you'd oblige me by coming outside. No. He stands up and moves towards me, reaching out to take my arm. Ruby Miller, I'm arresting you on... I hold up my head. hand to stop him and my fingers catch fire. He snatches his own backwards in shock. I twist and turn my wrist and my fingers, playing with the flames lovingly. No, his eyes grow wide and his mouth drops open. I am dimly aware that the rest of the room has grown deathly silent. How are you doing that?

I don't know. It happened after I crashed my car. But that's not a bit. important. What's important is that things can get real hot, real quick. And I don't want to hurt you. You're just doing your job. But I will burn this whole fucking town down if I have to. Hopefully he can see from the expression on my face that I am deadly serious. I made a promise to myself, you see. A man once kept me prisoner for years in my own home. He called himself my daddy and thought that gave him free reign to do whatever he wanted to me if you catch my drift. So I resolved to never let another man lay a hand on me again unless I wish it so, and to never be beholden to another person or other people's rules for the rest of my life. So,

You see, I can't come with you. Those men tried to rape me. They got justice for that. I'm guilty, but I'm sure as fuck not going to jail for it. What would be the point? I'll just raise the whole place to the ground anyway. The confusion on Officer Bright's face is palpable, and I feel almost sorry for him.

I wish I hadn't drunk so much beer because the anger is raging inside of me and I just want to let rip to incinerate everyone in this shithole town. Just burn it all fucking down so that I can feel better. I'll tell you what's going to happen now. What's going to happen is that I'm going to leave, get in my stolen car, and drive away. And you are going to go back to whatever depot you're from and tell your supervisors that I gave you the slip. Then, you'll never hear from me ever again. What about the next time you decide to dispense justice?

He's brave. I'll give him that. And he has a point. But I have no response to this. He can't tell me what to do. Fuck him. Fuck them all. I'm going now. I begin backing away.

And that's when the waitress hits me from behind with something large and heavy and metal. The blow should knock me out, but it doesn't. I could have told her that, saved her the trouble. I turn a playful smile on my lips. She's holding a fire extinguisher out towards me like a talisman, as if I'm an evil spirit to be warded off. I can feel the fire sprang. spreading up my arms now.

Now, that wasn't very friendly, was it? Get out of my bar, you fucking freak! Her fat jowls wobble with emotion, and I wonder at all these women who seem to hate me so. Hate me for being just a little bit different. She pulls the pin and sprays foam at me, foam which hisses impotently, and then evaporates the second it hits my body.

body. I grow hotter still with fury, and a steady white glow begins to pulse around me. How dare she? Can't people just fucking let me be? Officer Bright is trying to mediate the situation. He does this by pulling his service revolver out and pointing it at me. Get on the floor, miss. Do I have to say it? No. Please, please. I can tell you're angry.

I don't want to shoot you. There are good people in this town. I'm leaving now. In the distance, I hear a train approaching, a freight train probably. It rattles towards Glenn's Ferry at a hell of a speed. Ruby Miller? Stop. I grow hotter still.

And the waitress drops the extinguisher, holding up her arms to protect her face. The approaching freight train sounds its horn. It has no intention of stopping in this shithole town. It's going to shoot straight on through, which is what I should have done. I make to push open the cafe's door. Officer Bright fires three rounds off in quick succession. They hit me square. in the back of the head. He's a crack shot. Time slows. The furnace inside me boils over.

I throw back my head and howl. It washes through the crappy, greasyy, go-nowhere bar in the crappy, dusty, go-now-where town like a tidal wave, destroying everything and everyone in its path. I don't stand around to watch the woodburn. The tiles. blackened, a linoleum blister, the light bulbs explode. I don't look back as the people burn and collapse to the floor in a heap of ash, small piles of teeth scattering about like macabre confetti. I wonder why teeth don't seem to burn like the rest of the body. I walk, and I leave hell in my wake for me. The train approaches, roaring along its track like a great, ravenous beast, eating up the miles, dragging containers and tanks behind it, maybe 30, 40 pieces of cargo.

The level crossing barriers come down, signaling the approach of the train. An idea hits me, and I act upon it, walking right up to the barrier, turning it to cinders with a mere touch. On the level crossing now. A blighted burning torch. A beacon of years of pain and abuse at the hands of my daddy. My precious daddy who said he would never hurt me. But he did. People lie and they deceive and they manipulate and they take.

Well, now it's my turn. There is movement and a rush of electricity along the tracks under my feet. I summon up the last of my grief and my anger, and I push it all into the flames, which tower ten feet or so above me. They register dimly the sound of brakes squealing against the train tracks. But the driver has seen me too late. As the train thunders towards me, I see a warning logo painted onto one of the tankards behind the engine. It's the symbol for a toxic substance. liquid chemical of some sort. And next to it, a simple stylized flame, meaning one thing.

Flammable materials smacks into me and the engine up front cleaves clean into a great squealing of metal and broken things trumpeting its death. The tankard follows. I embrace it. The resulting explosion, or series of explosions, as the tanks behind the first one go off. in succession, like a chain of dominoes. Well, it's the most glorious thing I have ever seen or heard. The very earth shakes. Huge waves of impact roll outwards from the epicenter of my once again naked body. Buildings fall.

Trees catch fire. Cars flip and tumble over and over down the street. People die by the hundred. They deserve it. Each and every one of them. I am the fucking apocalypse. My name is... I wander through the blackened scar I have left on the land.

I hit the outskirts of town and find one single street where the fire did not get everything for some reason. A small pocket of peace in the maelstrom. As I walk down it, I see why. I see Providence. I see the gods smiling down at me. At the end of the half-ruined street, three cars are parked on the sidewalk, still undamaged. The third of these cars is a rare car. You don't find many of them anymore. It's a cherry-red 1989 Pontiac Bonneville. Time to take. hit the row. As our service concludes, we send you away with our blessings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleep podcast.com to learn about our season past program.

Over 60 hours of content for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week in our sleepless sanctuary. This audio production is Copyright 2018, 2019, by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All blessed rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective author. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.