Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  The girl fidgeted a moment. “Yeah,” she said, “I mean, no. I don’t know what’s going on, but they’re having us help out. Fuck it, gets us out of our cell.”

  “Who’s us?”

  “Who are you talking to?” another female prisoner came up with the tray-filled cart. Erin recognized her. “Oh, shit,” she said. Apparently she recognized him.

  “Hello, Miss Mercedes.”

  “Fuck you, pig,” she sneered. “How’s it feel to be in the cage now, and not on the other side?”

  “I didn’t put you in a cage, Mercedes, your actions did.”

  “Very philosophical. Take his food back.”

  Erin pulled the tray away and set it on the bed behind him.

  “Don’t be childish,” he said. “I was a cop, you killed someone. If it hadn’t been me that dragged you in, it would have been someone else. And they wouldn’t have been as nice about it.”

  “I don’t remember you apologizing or rubbing my hand.”

  “I told you to watch your head.”

  “Hey,” a guard yelled out, running up to the girls. “I told you to keep moving and do your job. Move it along.”

  “For dinner,” Mercedes whispered, “I’m putting bleach in your mash potatoes.”

  Erin nodded. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” he said.

  Twenty-Six

  The parked trucks made an arch around the front of the Sheriff’s office. Sam’s truck in the lead. Will hopped out of the back and brought his rifle up steady, sweeping it around the open streets. His eyes sharp, almost not blinking. Sam got out and patted him on the shoulder.

  “You’re point,” he told Will. Then turned to Chris, who was trotting up, said: “I’ll take three in and see what the situation is. You take over out here and keep me posted. I want shooters ready and aiming down each of the five points. Will stays with the trucks. Don’t do anything without consulting me first.”

  “Except shoot,” Chris said, nodding.

  “Fine, shoot, but make sure they’re dead first.” Sam thought a moment, unsure of how that sounded. It sounded ridiculous. “And after,” he added.

  “Copy,” Chris said, turned and started instructing the men. He stopped, turned back and said, “Who’s going in?”

  “Clancy, Phil and Brooks. The others in shooting positions.”

  Chris repeated it to the others and they dispersed.

  Brooks Pilar, one of the largest men Sam had ever known, nearly seven feet and three hundred pounds of towering black bulk, came up beside him.

  “Watts,” he said, his voice like cannon fire.

  “Brooks,” Sam returned. “I want you in front of me.”

  “Always.”

  They assembled: Brooks in the lead, Phil behind him, then Sam and finally Clancy. They checked their rifles, looking balefully at the building they would enter.

  Though most of the prisoners came from the city, the town was originally peopled exclusively by those working at the prison, or there to support those working at the prison. As such, the Sheriff’s office was built first as a routing station for prisoners and guards. Over time, the city grew up around it. About fifty thousand souls. For that reason, Town Hall was positioned across the street. Five streets ran off from the lot that made up the office and surrounding park like a giant impact crack. The main street was the largest and ran to the highway. The others ran until the pavement stopped.

  They would have to clear it before they could do anything else.

  Sam took a deep breath, and touched Brooks’ shoulder. “Let’s move,” he said.

  Twenty-Seven

  Chris got to the far side of the lot and stopped. Checked his rifle and said, “Check in.”

  “One ready,” came over the coms.

  “Two set.”

  “Three good.”

  “Four ready.”

  “Good, remain in position and keep me informed.”

  “Roger.”

  “Copy.”

  “Got it.”

  “Copy.”

  The day was crisp and the wind was picking up. He could see the clouds off in the distance, getting bigger, darker, more ominous. He lit a smoke and leaned against a tree trunk. Watching. Waiting. He didn’t see any signs of life. No dogs or cats cutting across the street. No birds. Shit, no bugs. Nothing.

  “Creepy,” he said.

  Twenty-Eight

  Brooks paused at the door. Sam behind him two back. Sam looked ahead and saw Brooks standing there, his hand forward, touching the door, waiting. Sam couldn’t see his face, but he imagined Brooks was trying to see into the dark station.

  They had made it all the way to the door, and nothing had happened. No one shouted out and asked why they were armed. No creeper lunged out to take out their throats. No shaken trooper had burst out to thank them for rescuing him.

  Nothing.

  “Go,” Sam said and Brooks was through the door.

  Then Phil.

  Then Sam.

  With the shock of darkness, it took a split second for Sam’s eyes to adjust, but before they had, the entryway became a blur of flashing lights as Brooks opened fire on a creeper as it leapt at him. The force of the blast threw the thing back but two more were quick to take its place. Phil broke formation and came up beside Brooks. Sam did the same on the other side. Clancy followed suit. All firing.

  Sam put a three round burst into a former cop’s face, shattering it in a wash of red. The body crumpled to the ground.

  Brooks swept across the mass and three went down. One started to get back up – Brooks hit it again. It went back down. Stayed down.

  “Pull back,” Sam ordered, “tactical retreat.”

  Clancy turned to him, said, “What the hell is th…” and screamed as a creeper clamped down on his shoulder. It wasn’t a good bite – blood started dripping, not gushing. But it held him in place as two more got hold of him and opened his jaw line. His face exploded in a rush of blood, roaring across the open space and then dropping in streams and droplets on the frenzied creatures pulling, pushing, fighting each other to get to the source.

  “Get,” Sam roared. “The Fuck. Back.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Chris took a drag off his cigarette and kept his eyes glued to the long, desolate road. He was getting bored now. It had only been a minute or two since he got to the tree, and already he felt antsy. He hadn’t even finished a smoke. What was he all worked up about?

  He rubbed his arm and tossed the smoke.

  Nerves. He couldn’t quiet his nerves, he decided. All this shit going on.

  Something moved.

  Down the street. He squinted, bringing his rifle up. He was sure something had…

  Gunfire broke the silence in a muffled chatter from inside the Sheriff’s office. Chris started. Looked at the building, then back down the street. There it was again.

  A dog.

  He relaxed a bit. Looked back at the office, the rifle fire near constant. Then turned to his post and jumped back six inches.

  “Holy fuck,” he breathed. “Creepers.”

  Dozens of them. Materializing out of nowhere. Headed his way. Led by the dog. But the dog was all fucked up. Like he had rabies. There was a long gash on his side, like something had opened him up. Then he saw more creepers coming out of houses and storefronts. Not fast: stumbling, lurching, wandering – towards Chris. The Sheriff’s office. The gunfire.

  “Watkins! Are we secure inside?”

  Shots rattled over his coms unit. “Got three coming out,” Watkins said. “Lost one, hostiles following.”

  “Fuck!”

  “All units, fall back. Defensive perimeter around the trucks.”

  Everyone gave a “Roger” and Chris started backing his way to the truck. Keeping them in front of him. But… there were more. Coming from every street. Converging on the office. On their position. Hundreds of them.

  He left the ones heading down his block and broke into a run. Crossed the lot and got to the t
rucks. Turned around. Saw the mass mixing with ones from the other streets. Coming his way. The dog in the lead.

  He shot the fucker.

  Thirty

  Sam went full auto – murderous – through the threshold as Brooks reloaded. Chipping off ragged chunks of half-turned flesh as the bullets tore through the crowd of creepers. Then dropped his magazine and reloaded while Brooks laid down fire.

  They had made it out, but one man less, and still had a ways to go before they made the trucks.

  What had once been the Sheriff pushed forward, and Sam shot it in the mouth. The bullet came out just below the ear. It stumbled, and then kept coming. Sam shot it again between the eyes, leaving a Rorschach blotch on the creeper behind.

  “Go for the head. Head shots,” he said. “Wall them in.”

  The three separated and stood shoulder to shoulder, pouring down fire. All at different angles. The heights varied. The shooters as well. They spent clips at different points, each compensating when one ran dry. Blood began to run in clotting bunches along the pavement, pooling around their feet. Rolling off the walkway and onto the frozen, snow covered grass. Body parts stacked up. Head wounds. Body wounds. More head wounds. Men. Women. Children. Cops. Civilians. Falling under the onslaught.

  Until they stopped coming.

  Out of the office.

  Thirty-One

  “They’re coming to getcha.”

  “What?” Chris asked.

  Harold Jenkins said, “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  They were coming from everywhere now. Drawn – presumably – by the sound of Watkins’ team leaving the Sheriff’s office. Chris glanced behind him and saw three men cutting down at least twenty creepers. They weren’t being shy about it, either: just executing them with all the firepower they had.

  And then the world went eerily quiet. No gunshots. No nothing. Just small, scraping noises as the creepers crept closer.

  “Well,” someone said beside him and Chris jumped. Sam Watkins was there, drenched in sweat, reloading. “I don’t think the Sheriff’s going to win the next election.”

  “No?”

  “Don’t think he’ll be running. Hell, not sure there’ll be another election. But either way, I just shot him in the face. Twice.”

  Chris shook his head. “Probably did the world a favor,” he said.

  “Fuck the world. I did myself one. Bastard was trying to… you know.”

  “I do.” Chris said, nodded. Looked out over the sea of bodies coming towards them. “I don’t know what the fuck we do now.”

  “Now,” Sam said, his eyes wild, “we run like hell.”

  Thirty-Two

  “You really think she’ll poison your food?” Bill asked.

  “Mercedes?” Erin Gibbs said, sitting up.

  “Is that the name of the Nubian Goddess that brought me the love of my life?”

  Erin sighed. “I guess,” he said.

  “Then Mercedes it is. You think she’d do it?”

  Erin shrugged. “Nah. It’s not her style. She’d want to watch me die.”

  “Were you two married or something? Because that’s usually how those things go.”

  Erin thought back to the crime scene: It had been a bad one. She had stabbed the pimp in the throat to start off. Throat shots were messy, because the arteries are under so much pressure. The blood sprays out with force and can cover twenty feet or more. In this fucker’s case he didn’t have twenty feet or more – they were in a car – so literally everything had been covered.

  Including Mercedes.

  And she hadn’t stopped with the neck. She had… taken something, and thrown it out the window. Except the car was parked, so it had been recovered at the scene. Not that Erin thought she cared: the pimp had already been dead, she was just working off her aggression. And she had. By the time Erin and the other police arrived, she was sitting on the curb, rocking herself, the knife held limply on her lap.

  “She’s a firecracker,” Erin said, “that’s for sure.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them what we saw outside?”

  Erin shifted back on his bunk, and leaned against the cold, concrete wall. “Because,” he said, “what good would it have done? It’s the same thing with me sitting here thinking about Blake and Nina: why bother? If they’re dead, they’re already dead. If not, good for them. All those people out there, they’re dead. But having those girls know about it doesn’t bring them back.”

  “But you said you wanted to go after your family.”

  “Wanting to go after them is one thing. Sitting here stewing about it is another.”

  “Gotcha. So you’re planning? Because, here’s the thing: I’m not leaving without my lady there, and you aren’t leaving without me.”

  “You’ve known me a day and a half.”

  “That’s long enough to know if anyone has a chance of surviving out there, it’s with you at the lead.”

  Thirty-Three

  There was a thud as Sam ran over an eleven year old girl. Then a sort of grinding noise under the truck as he sped on. And then the truck released the girl and she tumbled along the pavement as the truck sped away.

  Sam turned on the wipers and hit the action to spray solvent on the windshield. The wipers smeared red across it until after ten tries they freed the last of the girl’s blood and Sam turned them off.

  He turned right and then cut left. The trail of creepers moving faster now, as the clouds rolled in and their vision cleared.

  “God Damn it,” Chris shouted out the window, and mowed down a family as they came out their front door. “It’s everyone, the whole fucking town!”

  “Noticed that,” Sam said and cut the wheel again, sending Will nearly sprawling.

  “Well what the fuck do we do? We still have to check everyone.”

  “We did, we’re going back.”

  “Warden said ‘Check every house.’”

  “We did,” Sam repeated. “You just said it was the whole town.”

  “I’m telling you right now, Brooks will fucking kill you if you don’t check on his wife and baby. And the Warden wants me to physically check his house. He sent me for that reason. So I could go in and get some of his stuff.”

  “Fucking Bowers,” Sam said, shaking his head. Cut left again, onto a new street.

  “So what the fuck do we do?”

  “Working on it.”

  Chris fired off another volley as they passed the elementary school. Six children’s heads splattered and they sprawled out in the playground.

  Sam turned left again, trying to get back to the Sheriff’s office. If they could get inside, there should be weapons there. And it was empty, already cleared. And defensible, he hoped.

  “Why are you driving around in circles?” Chris asked. “We need a fucking plan.”

  “I have a plan, just shut up and get ready to roll out.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The sheriff’s office,” Sam told him, and cut the wheel again.

  “Oh shit,” Chris said, shook his head and leaned out the window, firing.

  Thirty-Four

  Maurice Avelanda heard the gunshots, loud and angry, and had been for the past fifteen minutes. They had started close, then gone further away, and now were coming back around.

  He didn’t understand.

  He knew the local police were all dead. And if the National Guard had come in, they would be moving in a single direction: clearing the town. Not driving all over hell shooting things. Which meant it was someone else.

  Gangs?

  Police from the City? State?

  He didn’t know. For all he knew they could be worse than the damn zombies.

  Now he heard something else. Engines. He couldn’t tell how many. But they were floored. And they were roaring his way. He crept up to the window he had blacked out with blankets over tin foil – he thought the foil might distract them from his body heat. He didn’t know if they could see or read his heat sign
ature, but wasn’t taking any fucking chances.

  Slowly, he peeled back the cover of the blanket. Then – even slower – a one inch corner of the foil. Under him, four trucks screamed by. So fast they were practically a blur. But he could still see what it said on the side:

  BRENNICK MAXIMUM SECURITY.

  Thirty-Five

  Sam brought the lead truck up to the Sheriff’s office as fast as he could without running into the damn thing. Ran it right up over the curb and onto the grass. Drove over the walkway. Slid to a stop in the snow and was out, followed by Chris and Will.

  The trucks following did the same. Their drivers, as well.

  They ran the last few feet and made it to the door. Pushed in and disappeared inside.

  The station was empty. Sam locked the doors behind them.

  “Chris,” he said, “left. Will, right. Brooks, center. The rest fan out. I want those windows secure.” Sam stopped as the hoard struck the glass doors. The creepers pressed against the glass, pushing, clawing, trying to get through. “Barricade that door,” he shouted. “See if we can get a gate on it. I want it secure. No different than the fence at home – enough weight and it’ll go down.”

  “Got it,” someone called and disappeared into the gloom.

  “Phil, see what they have for munitions. We need ammo. Now.”

  “Sir.” Phil left, too.

  Sam went to the window and looked past the three creepers trying to gnaw through the double pane glass. The sky was turning inky. And he didn’t see an end in sight. It would be damn near full dark soon, and stay that way for a while.

  “I better call the Warden,” he muttered.

  “Why’s that?” Brooks asked.

  “Because we need help,” Sam told him. “And because I don’t feel like dying so he can get his shit.”