Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  “We can hold up in here until the storm passes,” Brooks said, ignoring the comment about the Warden. “Until tomorrow morning if we need to.”

  “Yeah, we’re safe in here, but what happens…”

  Sam stopped when he heard Will scream.

  EPISODE 3:

  THE BURNING MAN

  One

  Will Stockton knew that one day he would die. He’d just never thought it would be then, at that moment, right there.

  He made a right and crossed through the threshold. His rifle slung loose by his side. Stopped for a moment and flicked on the light – the power grid was still up. It would be for some time, he knew. The dam maintained a steady flow. Until the rotors seized, the power would be fine.

  Will was a big fan of “Life After People” on the history channel.

  Light flooded the small space, the white painted walls reflecting it back. He squinted for a moment, until his eyes adjusted.

  Will looked around, examining the empty room. Saw a door on the far side. Crossed to it. Tried the knob. It was locked from his side.

  He shrugged.

  Unlocked the bolt and turned the handle.

  Two

  Everyone heard Will Stockton scream, but Phillip Craig was faster than the rest. Phil – with his plain hair, face, and build – had been moving in the same direction as Will, but ahead of him. Looking for ammunition. When the siren called.

  He jumped, spun, and went out of the gun room – which was empty. Took five steps down the hall and turned left. Inside the room he entered, five creepers were tearing Will Stockton apart.

  He fired his rifle.

  Holding the trigger down.

  Full automatic.

  Blood spattered and bone splintered as he raked the creepers and their prey. Stockton slumped to the floor and fell over. The creepers shot backwards from the onslaught. Phil gave them one more long spray and then let the trigger return to ready.

  Quiet settled in like a weight.

  “Holy fuck,” Sam Watkins said as he ran in. “I thought we got them all.”

  Phil sighed. Let his rifle drop in its strap on his side. Snatched out his pistol and walked over to Will. He pointed it at the fallen man’s head.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sam asked him.

  “Making sure he doesn’t turn,” Phil explained.

  “Turn?”

  “Fucking turn, man. Into one of them.” Phil showcased the zombies with his hand.

  “He’s dead, he’s not gonna turn. Shooting him now would be: A. a waste of ammunition, and B. mutilating his fucking corpse. Put that thing away.”

  Phil squinted at Sam. “Haven’t you seen ‘the Walking Dead’?” he asked. “It’s in the brain, man.”

  Sam rolled his eyes, crossed the room and took the gun out of Phil’s hand.

  “What happened?” Chris Reed asked from the door, ran a hand through his short blonde hair.

  Sam ignored him and looked at Phil. “That was a television show,” he said. “This is real life.”

  “Right,” Phil said, nodded. “Because in real life, dead people eat live people. Tear them apart. And all of that. Right? Hold on, let me call the local talk radio station, we’ll figure out what the President has to say.”

  He took out his phone, looked at it, and said, “Damn. No bars. Guess we’ll have to assume there’s fucking zombies and that the best guess is we go by the only information we got: movies, TV, an’ books.”

  “We know they’re nocturnal,” Chris cut in. “Because their eyes are dilated, they can’t see during the day.”

  “Zombies are always nocturnal in the movies,” Phil said, nodded again. Went to put his phone back in his pocket, stopped, looked at it, and said, “I don’t even know why I still have this fucking thing,” and chucked it.

  Sam shook his head. “What in the hell does any of this mean?” he asked.

  “It means that just because they’re movies doesn’t mean they’re fiction. There’ve been zombies for hundreds of years – probably thousands – and it’s always when someone kills part of the brain. They would poison someone with something that slowed their heart, and because of that, the victim would suffer oxygen deprivation to the brain. They’d become retards, basically, and then they could be controlled.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Sam asked.

  “I’m saying, the people that wrote these zombie stories didn’t make it all up out of their asses. I trust them to tell me what’s what.”

  “Well,” Sam spat, “I couldn’t give half a shit if you trust them. I’m in charge. You’ll trust me.”

  Phil sensed something move behind him. A shift in density. He started, turned, and found Will Stockton standing a few inches away.

  Three

  "See, and that's why I'm a big fan of the old gods."

  "Old gods?" Erin Gibbs asked. Leaned back in his bunk and laced his fingers behind his head.

  "You know, like Zeus and shit," Tall Bill Mahone explained. His back to the bars as usual.

  "Gotcha."

  "See, all of the religions say we were made by somebody else, right? In their image."

  "I believe so." Erin looked at the concrete ceiling as he listened. His orange jumpsuit pulled down to his waist. Gray skin against his white undershirt. “But…”

  "But, if God's so damn great, how come we're all fucked up?"

  "Speak for yourself, I'm awesome."

  "What I mean is: God's perfect. Infallible. Never makes mistakes, right?"

  "Sure," Erin said, shrugged in his bunk.

  "Then why aren't we? Either He screwed up somewhere – which isn't possible – or He didn't make us in His image. You can't have it both ways. People are mean, spiteful, destructive little creatures. If we were made in God's image, I would think He was a douche bag."

  "True. But He kind of was, if you think about it. He was a vengeful God."

  "But He's not anymore. Once He got older, had a kid, He mellowed out. Which means He changed His mind about all the fire and brimstone stuff. Which means He was wrong about it in the beginning, and that He's not perfect and infallible."

  "How did we get on this subject?"

  "Rise of the Titans. I was saying that I like the old gods better."

  "That's right."

  "See, the old gods weren't perfect. In fact, they were just like people, only more powerful. They had envy, lust, anger, love, passion, all that stuff. Fathers had to keep their eyes on their daughters because you never knew when you were gonna catch her playing peek-a-boo with some demi-god's shaft. They were like all-powerful step-parents: you were allowed to hate them – they didn't mind that – but you did respect them. That's the kind of gods human beings can relate with. They make the most sense.

  “But, a God that claims to be perfect and then makes us in His image, and we have all these traits, and He's like 'Don't blame me, it was my number two that fucked you guys up', is just not a logical person to listen to on matters of character."

  "Wait a minute, are you saying you're a pagan?"

  "No, I'm saying I'm realistic. In the end, God is not infallible. He made us just the way He is. And it's right in the bible that He acts exactly like we do. The angels, too. They act just like people. Think about the battle in heaven and the fallen angels afterwards. So God's Big Man on campus, and then Satin turns against Him. Tries to take power. But he loses. So what does God do? He exiles him. He doesn't kill him. Why?"

  "Are you asking me?"

  "Guess."

  "Because He still loves him, maybe? I don't know. Because the script told him to."

  "No, He doesn't love him. In Revelations it says Jesus will kill him. So it's not love. It's because every tyrant needs a scapegoat."

  "Okay, so all this going on. What's that? Are you saying this is God? Or the devil?"

  "If I had to guess, I'd say it was the Big Guy," Bill told him, deadly serious.

  "Really? You think God would do this to
us?"

  "I'll put it to you this way: if He didn't want it to happen, wouldn't we have heard from Him by now?"

  Four

  Sam watched it happen. Too dumb struck by the sight of one of his guards actually turning into a creeper, and right in front of him. He had used the words “turn” and “zombies,” told the other guards it would happen, but when it came down to executing one of them, he was lost for that split second it would normally take to get you killed.

  And if Phil hadn’t been there, they probably all would have been.

  Phil said, “Shit,” as the creeper lunged, but got his hands up in time. The creeper that had once been Will Stockton gnashed out, trying for the throat. Phil held it there, its face an inch from the aorta.

  He kicked at it, trying to push it back. Went for the knee. The joint went backwards and the creeper’s weight dropped it down. Right onto Phil’s chest. Jaw clamped closed by the motion. He used the momentum to give it a good shove before it could recover. Went for his pistol – but it was still in Sam’s hand.

  He tried for the rifle. Snatched it and started to bring it up. But the creeper was coming back at him. He only got it to gut level before the thing closed the space and was on him.

  The sound of automatic rifle fire chattered through the room, bouncing off the thick walls. Blood exploded across everything. Coating the walls in a mist of red. Phil stopped firing, got a knee up between himself and the creeper and kicked it back against the wall. Took a step forward and emptied his clip into its head.

  When the creeper dropped, there was nothing left above the jaw line.

  Phil wiped the blood on his face with a palm, and said, “Like that.”

  Five

  “What are you doing?” Jessie asked Mercedes.

  “What does it look like?” Mercedes asked, and wiped the sweat from her dark face. Her long, curly hair frizzing in the moisture.

  “It looks like you’re pouring bleach into someone’s food.”

  “And?”

  “You’re not poisoning that guy,” Jessie told her. Pulled a lock of her red hair out of her eyes, tucked it behind her ear. It fell back onto her face almost immediately.

  Mercedes glared at her. “I’m not?” she asked. “Who fucking says?”

  “I’m saying.”

  “You’re sticking up for him?”

  Jessie shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “He was a cop, he took me in. You’re going to sit there and tell me I don’t have a beef?”

  Jessie shrugged again. “It was his job,” she told Mercedes. “Now he’s a convict. Same as you and me.”

  Mercedes squinted, sizing her up. “You think he’s cute,” she said.

  Jessie sighed now, throwing up her hands. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sadie, you don’t? I mean, I’m in prison, I’m not dead.”

  Mercedes hadn’t really considered it. She didn’t now, either. “What are you going to do? Ask him to hang the thing out the bars so you can jump on it?”

  “That might be fun.” Jessie laughed.

  “And for how long? Until a guard catches you? That’s real romantic.”

  “I’m not looking for romance.”

  “You’re looking for a cheap fuck,” Mercedes spat.

  “Well maybe if I had ‘work duty’ as often as you, I wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

  They both recoiled. Jessie put a hand to her mouth. Mercedes just worked her jaw a moment, and then turned back to her task: pouring a small amount of bleach into the soup from a massive jug. Too much, and he’d taste it out right and stop eating. She’d just have to keep at it. The consistent dosing would get him eventually. She had plenty of time.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Mercedes stopped pouring, closed the lid and put the jug back under the sink, where it was meant for sanitizing the towels.

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  Mercedes took the tray and brought it over to the other counter. Took a butter knife out and scratched an X on it. Then went and put it on the cart with the other trays.

  “Come on,” she said to Jessie. “Before it gets cold.”

  Six

  Maurice Avelanda wasn’t sure of the right play, but he knew he needed to make one soon. Whatever it was.

  If the prison guards were in town, that was like having the police back. But in a different way. In his experience the prison guards were the kind that became bastards once they clocked out. Maybe they were just always bastards. But still, they were here, they were armed, and those two things meant the prison was free of the plague. And that state or federal government existed.

  If he had any chance in hell, his best chance was the prison guards at Brennick.

  But how was he going to get their attention?

  Half the zombies in the city had already converged on the sheriff’s office – the logical place the guards would go if they had good intentions. They had come in to see what was happening, now they were locked up tight, trying to survive their first trip back in.

  The more he thought about it, the more he needed to go back with them. He needed them to protect him. He needed those thick walls between him and the hoard.

  But how?

  It wasn’t safe to go outside. That much had always been obvious, only more so now that a heavily armed group had locked themselves up in a building to escape the creatures. He couldn’t just walk up to them. And he didn’t have any weapons. Even if he did, it wouldn’t be enough. He would need a fucking tank to get through those things and to the door. And then they’d have to get back out.

  He closed the blinds, replaced the tin foil and blanket, and sat down to weigh his options.

  Seven

  Sam Watkins finally regained his composure and handed Phillip Craig back his side arm.

  Phil nodded to him.

  “Where’d they come from?” Sam asked.

  Phil shrugged. “If I had to guess,” he said, “the first of them would’ve come out of the morgue.”

  Sam nodded. “Downstairs,” he said.

  “Right. So they start coming up from the basement and hit that door, probably bite a few local cops, so they come up with locking them down there. The local boys die, turn, and we got a sheriff’s station full of walkers.”

  “Creepers.”

  “Whatever.”

  Chris said, “The holding cells are down there, too.” He looked at Sam for confirmation, who nodded. “They keep the holding cells down there,” Chris said again, “with all the prisoners for Brennick that come in in the middle of the night. Plus locals that get pinched.”

  “That wouldn’t be what did it,” Phil told him. “They’d be in cells.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Chris explained, rubbed his arm. “If they’re in the cells, maybe they’re still alive.”

  Eight

  Maurice Avelanda had made his decision: he had to move. He could do it now – had to – while the creatures were being drawn to the sheriff’s office and the sound of gunfire. He had no idea how long they would be converged on the office.

  Now was the time.

  He thumbed the handle of the baseball bat as he slowly turned the deadbolt. When it came free, he did the same with the lock on the handle. Then, as quietly as he could, he pulled the chain off, carefully setting it against the door so it wouldn’t make a sound.

  He sighed.

  Slipped his grip down on the bat. One handed. His right. Rolled his shoulders to loosen them. Took the knob in his left hand. Turned it so slowly he wasn’t sure if it was really moving until he felt the catch come free.

  Then, silently pulled it open.

  The hall was empty save for debris. Blood smeared the walls, dried brown from exposure. Papers and glass and children’s toys littered the floor everywhere.

  He let his breath out in a whoosh and crept forward.

  He took a step into the hall. Then another, the bat held back, ready to strike. Stopped to listen, like a hunter. Total, absolute silence. Another step. Faster now.
Smoother. The place was deserted.

  “You’re fine,” he said aloud, startled by the sound. He hadn’t heard anyone speak for two days.

  Creeping, each step heel to toe, glass crunching beneath his thick boots, he stalked forward. He made the first corner, peeked around it: empty. Turned it, took two steps and stopped.

  His hair was on end, and he knew why: there were zombies in every apartment he had passed.

  Nine

  “Stay tight,” Chris told Phil.

  Phil looked at him sideways. “Man,” he said, “I got this. It’s what I do.”

  Chris nodded to him. His arm was burning but he couldn’t risk reapplying the bandage – if Phil got a look at it, that would be the end. He pulled his rifle up shakily. He was having hand tremors, but the voices had stopped. For now.

  “I know they’re pretty, but are we gonna look at the stairs, or go down them?” Phil asked.

  Chris ignored him and started down. The sheriff’s office was three stories, but only one tall. Large, about ten thousand square feet on each floor. The top level was for administration and booking, the middle floor was holding cells, the basement held the morgue and storage. They would need to clear twenty thousand more square feet to actually feel safe in the office.

  Sam had decided only two men would go down. He said it was because he needed all the hands he could get to fortify the upper level. Everyone knew it was because he planned on locking the door after them. Phil volunteered because he was obviously psychotic. Sam picked Chris because Sam picked Chris for everything.

  They broke into a slow lope as they made their way down the stairs. The bright lights illuminating all the signs of violence: blood spattered and pooled dry on the steps, the walls, the railings – everywhere. Chris stepped over a severed leg. Phil kicked it over the side. It landed two flights down with a crack.