Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  Tim shrugged again. "Dozen," he guessed.

  "About that," Sam agreed. "No problem with twenty of these fuck-heads tagging along, but thirty-two is pushing it."

  "If twenty would do it fast, thirty-two'll do it faster."

  Sam sighed at him, said, "Give me the damn list," and snatched it out of Tim's hand before he could offer it. He ran down it, read the names, then went back through and crossed out the twelve highest security threats. Handed it back.

  "The twelve I crossed off don't go,” he said. “Take them back to their cells. The other twenty, have Rovelo and Pope chain their ankles, but leave their hands free. Split them into two groups of ten and then chain them together. That way, if they try to run, the ones that make it'll be dragging their friend's dead weight."

  Tim nodded.

  They looked at each other for a moment. "Harper," Sam said. "Now."

  Nine

  Erin Gibbs just stared straight ahead as the guard, Harold Pope, chained his ankles together. "What are we working on, Pope?" he asked.

  Pope stood, his long, lean frame popping a bit as it unfurled, and said, "Don't tell me nothing. I've heard some rumors – crazy shit – but I haven't been out to see what's up."

  "What was all the commotion last night?" Tall Bill asked from behind Erin. “Pointing assault rifles at us and such?”

  Pope leaned a fraction to the right to look at Bill. "I was in Admin,” he said. “I don’t know."

  "You're being awful quiet today, Pope," Erin told him. "Something bothering you?"

  Pope shrugged. "I should be at home in bed right now,” he explained, “instead I'm cuffing you fucks. Should something be bothering me?"

  "Point," Erin said. "But I can't think of a single time Bowers has had prisoners pull work detail outside. In fact, I can't think of a single time Bowers has let us look past the gate."

  "And don't think this is going to be a fun field trip, either," Pope snarled. "We've got six men to each ten prisoners, and we're locked and loaded and itchy as hell."

  Erin squinted at him. Pope was a good enough guy. Erin couldn't figure out what had crawled up his ass. After a minute of staring each other down, Erin sighed and said, "Well, I guess Disneyland's out then."

  Pope nodded. "And Sea World too," he said.

  Ten

  There was a quiet knock at Warden Bowers' door and he said "Yup" without rising. The door opened and a young lady with deep auburn hair, long and slightly curled, brought herself and her legs into the office, shutting the door behind her.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, Warden..."

  "You're never a bother, Mystique," Bowers said. Got up and came around the desk, then settled on the corner, closer to her. He liked that. "What can I do for you?"

  "Well," she began, squirming a bit. Bowers intimidated Mystique. The fact that men didn't intimidate Mystique made Bower's intimidation seem all the more threatening. He liked that, too. "I understand you retained third shift..."

  Bowers raised a hand. "I had no choice," he said.

  "I understand, it's just that... well, we've been on going sixteen hours. Everyone's tired as hell. We haven't gotten any orders on breaks. Are we supposed to just go twenty-four seven? When's the relief shift coming? And if we're stuck here - I can't imagine why, but the rumors are crazy - where are we all going to sleep?"

  In all the chaos, Warden Bowers had never even considered it. Brennick boasted a guard and administration employment of three hundred - at any given time. But they were split between three shifts: midnight to eight AM, eight AM to four PM, and four PM to midnight. The Warden usually ran the prison from his office eight to four and then Sam Watkins took over from four to midnight. From midnight to eight it was quiet and the highest ranked guard became the Warden. It had never been a problem.

  It had been obvious the midnight shift wasn't coming in when the sun went down and a fucking wall of zombies came out of the forest. Bowers hadn't even thought about it when the eight AM shift didn't come in - he had stayed all night because Watkins had been late, and then when he did get in, all hell broke loose. But the others had gone home.

  And, obviously, they weren't coming back.

  Eleven

  Chris poured alcohol over his arm and said “God damn it” as it burned. The wound was festering, puss starting seep out. The dressings and alcohol weren’t slowing the swelling or the infection.

  “You alright in there?” someone asked from outside the stall.

  “Leave me the fuck alone,” Chris spat. “I don’t check on you when you’re taking a shit.”

  He heard a muffled “asshole” and then the men’s room door opened and shut, and he was alone again.

  The bite shouldn’t be reacting this way, he thought. It wasn’t deep – no veins or arteries had been hit. A simple sterilizing and bandage should have done the trick, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t even bleeding – it was oozing – the edges of the teeth marks red and inflamed.

  He put a fresh bandage on and pulled his sleeve down to hide it. Then went out of the stall and headed for the sink. He popped two more antibiotics – he had access to the medical ward’s stockpiles – and washed them down with tap water, then took stock of himself in the mirror.

  His eyes were bloodshot, black baggage hanging beneath them, but what could he expect after being up a day and a half? He just needed sleep, he told himself, but wouldn’t be getting any anytime soon.

  “You’re fucked,” someone said, and he looked around.

  Checked under the stall doors.

  He was alone. He shook it off, took one last look in the mirror, and left.

  Twelve

  “You alright?” Sam Watkins asked when Chris arrived at the loading dock. Sam had the twenty prisoners loaded into the beds of two trucks. The prisoners would ride in front of another truck filled with guards. If a group jumped, the guards would mow them down. Four trucks of prisoners and guards, plus two from maintenance: he hoped it would all be done in an hour tops – what Eric had promised – but doubted it. It was a big task.

  “I’m fine,” Chris said, and covered his mouth a moment. “How would you be, you looked like me?”

  “I have nightmares often,” Sam said. “You got this?”

  “No problem. We take them out, clean up the fence, and then you and me go check out town.”

  “Keep your fucking eyes on these bastards. One makes a run, you know the drill.”

  “I got it,” Chris assured him. “Don’t worry on my account.”

  Chris climbed in the lead truck, put a hand out the window and made a circular motion: Move Out.

  But Sam was worried. Not about what might happen while Chris was cleaning up the bodies, but what might happen when he got back.

  Thirteen

  Erin Gibbs sat in the back of the truck and tried not to breathe. If he took in too much air he would get sick, most likely. They were moving from the garage – room temperature – into the Hallway, the chain link and concrete alleyway that split the prison’s two yards. To the right was the female yard, desolate beyond the razor wire topped fence, to the left the male, also deserted. Six guard towers loomed over them: one at each point of the Hallway and two rising up from Brennick itself behind them, over the warden’s garden.

  It didn’t make a convict feel secure.

  But the idea of passing the opposite way he came in made him feel… something. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  They stopped at another gate, the guard opened it and the convoy passed through. Out of the Hallway, and into the parking area. Brennick would harass you once at the Main Gate, let you park if you got past, and then harass you a bit more each time you tried to get deeper. It was like the ten circles of hell like that: the further down you went, the worse it was.

  They passed through the front gate, the trucks all staying tight, and Erin couldn’t believe the bright white as the sun reflected off the snow. It hadn’t been a major fall – maybe ten inches – but it had done quick work wit
h the environment, covering everything in its thick blanket.

  The truck banked right and began to take them around the parameter of the prison. Erin finally allowed himself some slow, soothing breaths. The air was cold but crisp. He hadn’t tasted the scent of fresh snow in a bit under a year – the last time they had it, he had been in solitary. Again.

  The sky was bright blue, with dark clouds smudging the southern horizon.

  “We’ll get hit again,” Tall Bill told him, chained six inches away, the metal clinking on the bed with the close proximity. “One moves out, the next moves in.”

  Erin only nodded. Turned around on his haunches and saw what they were aiming at. It took him a moment. He thought it was a brush pile. He squinted at it, and as the truck pulled closer he realized what it was.

  “Holy fucking Jesus,” he said.

  No one was listening. They were all looking at the carnage.

  Fourteen

  “What we need,” Sam Watkins told the Warden, “is to take what resources we have and use them to plug the holes in the resources we don’t have.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Sam cleared his throat. Two times in the same morning, Warden Bowers was becoming annoying. Sam considered it wasn’t entirely Bowers’ fault – Sam was pretty keyed up already.

  “It means,” Sam said, “we usually have two hundred guards and one hundred administrative personnel on at any given time. We now have that. Permanently.”

  “Why permanently?” Mystique asked. She was sex on heels and Sam tried not to look at her. Warden Bowers did the opposite, sizing her up like a Texan choosing a prime cut.

  “Because the relief shifts aren’t coming,” Bowers told her. Matter of fact. “We have reason to believe that if they’re not here by now, they’re not coming.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Sam cut in: “Listen, it’s a… difficult thing to explain. Let’s just say we’re on our own.”

  “Like, how?”

  “In every way.”

  He let that register, but didn’t give her a chance to respond. “We’ve still got three hundred, sir,” he told Warden Bowers, “we just don’t have them in shifts. We’ll need to properly manage what shifts we have. The prisoners are locked down, so we don’t need two hundred guards on them right now.”

  “True,” Bowers said, nodded.

  “We need to give our people a chance to sleep. So we take half and give them barracks. Leaves one hundred active guards. Twelve hour shifts. Fifty can guard the population, so long as they stay in their cells. We can shift fifty more to administrative, temporarily, to fill the gap. With fifty admin people off and fifty on. Twelve hour shifts.”

  Bowers leaned back and stroked his belly, rolling his fingers over the spot on his shirt that held his button, then sighed. “Take twenty prisoners – the lowest risk – and have them assist admin for the time being…”

  “But…”

  “I’ve had enough of your shit today, Watkins,” Bowers snapped. “I know you’re doing your level best, but I’m tired and don’t have the patience for it.”

  Sam bit down on his lower lip and waited.

  “That leaves thirty guards assisting administrative on each shift. We’ll have to accept that. Pick sixty prisoners and have them work in eight hour shifts. Doing whatever needs done. That way we keep the extra twenty in the towers. Remember, we’re not just worried about escape: we’re worried about incursion. And maybe fifty can keep our people in, but we need all we can get to keep those… things, out.”

  Fifteen

  “You can’t escape it.”

  “What did you say?” Chris asked the prisoner beside him.

  “I didn’t say shit,” Mike Sanchez said. Chris didn’t understand why the man would be part of the work detail – if there was one guy he didn’t trust, it was Sanchez.

  “So you fucking say,” Chris said, pushed up on him. “What was it?”

  "This is the nastiest shit I've ever seen," Gibbs said, interrupting the conversation.

  Tall Bill Mahone staggered back to the pile, wiping vomit from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now I know what the boys that found Auschwitz felt like."

  Erin shook his head as he pulled an elderly woman's corpse from the pile and set it gingerly in the back of a truck. "Someone's Gramma," he said.

  "Fucking look at all of them! How many, you think?"

  “Doesn’t fucking matter how many,” Chris told them, “clean it up.”

  "At least two hundred," Gibbs replied, ignoring Chris.

  "At this tower alone. That's a thousand all told."

  It looked like they had gone for meat, not just wandered up. They had massed where there were towers. Chris imagined they couldn't see anything past the inner wall, but Chris and the guards would be plain as day, up on their towers.

  "Look at her fucking eyes man," Gibbs said.

  Tall Bill, Sanchez and Ray Torez all approached, the later two hesitantly. Chris knew Torez as a shit head bank robber who couldn’t control his trigger finger. He decided to give the group a moment while he paced.

  Torez swore and walked away.

  Bill shrugged, said: "What do you expect? She's dead. People's eyes dilate when they die."

  "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Sanchez asked. "'Die-late'? Because I bet they thought they died early."

  "No," Bill corrected. "Di-A-late. You know, the pupils get bigger. It's one of the theories to explain why people always say they see a white light before they die."

  "You talk to a lot of people've died?"

  "No," Mahone said again, "I can actually read. Like words on paper..."

  "So..."

  "So when the pupils get bigger, it lets in more light. Like, have you ever seen a gray hair walking through the grocery store with sunglasses on? It's because her doctor dilated her eyes and the world's too bright. She needs sunglasses, even inside..."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Chris asked. He tucked his rifle back into his shoulder and stalked the few feet with the muzzle raised. "Get back to work."

  "I was explaining to these ignorant schmucks how your pupils dilate," Bill explained. His eyes wide at the rifle point aiming at him.

  Chris reached up, took his glasses off, and squinted at Tall Bill. "The hell did you just say to me?” he asked. “My what?"

  "Jesus Christ," Bill fumed. He took a step towards Chris, but stopped when the barrel twitched. "I'm just going to show you."

  Chris cocked his head, studying the man, and then nodded. His mind was racing. It would only take a second to pull the trigger. Less. He could end this fucker before even God knew what was happening.

  Bill took another slow step, and asked "Can you see the black part of my eye?"

  "Sure," Chris said, kept the rifle trained.

  Bill covered his left eye with his hand for a few seconds, then pulled it away. "See how it was big and then got smaller when I took my hand away?" he asked.

  "Do it again," Chris said and got a bit closer. Bill did it again, and this time Chris nodded. "Yeah," he said, "I got it. When you have your hand over it the black part gets bigger."

  "It dilates. The black part gets bigger to let in more light."

  "Well, I'll be damned," Chris said, put his glasses back on. "Learn something new every day. But – just wondering – what the fuck does any of that have to do with anything?"

  "We just noticed the body's eyes were dilated, and I explained that it happens when you die. It's not some freaky zombie thing. Totally natural."

  "All their eyes are dilated?" Chris asked.

  "Yeah," Tall Bill told him, shrugged.

  "And what would that mean for their vision?"

  Bill shrugged again. "They wouldn't be able to see shit during the day,” he explained. “It'd be just one big florescent light in their face."

  Chris was nodding now, saying "That's why they're nocturnal" on a loop.

  "You alright?" Gibbs asked him, h
is head cocked.

  Chris stopped and looked from one to the other, like he had forgotten they were there. "Get back to work,” he said. “Enough chatting. I got a call to make. I want these bodies gone when I get back."

  Sixteen

  “Got two coming out for work detail,” Martinez said.

  Mercedes sat up in her bunk. “Work detail?” she asked.

  “Work detail,” Martinez repeated.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Warden’s orders,” the short, female guard responded.

  Mercedes glanced back at Jessie, who was rising from her bunk. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means you got work detail.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Where?”

  Martinez checked her sheet. “Kitchen duty,” she said. “Cooking, cleaning, that type of stuff.”

  Mercedes let out a slow breath. “What was going on last night?” she asked. “When you told us to get away from the bars?”

  “All I know,” the guard said, “is Warden’s the Man and he gave me a list. And I get to rack out in fifteen minutes. If he lets me sleep – because I know he won’t let me leave – he’s Jesus Christ almighty as far as I’m concerned.”

  “You know what you sound like?”

  “What’s that?” Martinez asked.

  “A prisoner.”

  Seventeen

  Warden Bowers shook his head and leaned against the desk that held the radio. “Say that one more time,” he said into the microphone.

  Chris’ voice crackled over the speakers: “Their eyes are dilated. That’s why they only move out of the woods at night – they can’t see.”

  Bowers rubbed his chin a moment, thinking. “You’ve made the world of science proud,” he said, “but what in God’s name does that have to do with anything?”