Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  Phil said, “I’ll go with you.” Swung the sniper rifle down and away and suddenly it was resting snugly on his back. One smooth motion. With another, he dropped the semi-automatic shotgun down off his back, under his shoulder, and brought it up to a firing position.

  Took a step forward, shotgun aimed at the house.

  “No, you won’t,” Sam told him and raised his rifle, pointing it at Phil.

  “What the fuck, man,” Phil said, and adjusted the shotgun to point at Sam.

  “Guys,” Bryce told them, holding his hands out palms down. “Let’s just take this down a notch. We all just want to get our families back safe and sound. Why is this becoming a pissing contest?”

  “Listen,” Sam said, “this is my house. She was my wife. I’ll go in and see if she made it.”

  “If you get bitten,” Phil told him, “I will end you.”

  “Fine,” Sam said, nodded. “That’s fair.”

  “No, it’s not,” Chris told them. “No one goes in alone. That’s the Warden’s orders. Not even you, Sam. Phil’s going with you.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Guys,” Bryce said again. “Just put the guns down.” He took a step forward.

  “Over my dead body,” Sam told him.

  “That can be arranged,” Phil said, “you keep pointing that thing at me.”

  “She was my wife,” Sam said again.

  Bryce took another step forward, palms down, non-threatening. “We’re all just keyed up,” he said. “It’s understandable, but we’re all friends.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” Phil asked.

  Sam stared at him. Bryce took a step forward. Sam adjusted the rifle to point at Bryce, now the closest to him.

  “‘She was my wife,’” Phil said. “Past tense. Like she’s already dead.”

  “Because she is,” Sam said, his trigger finger tight. “Everyone is.”

  “You don’t know that,” Bryce said, and took another step.

  “Yes, I do,” Sam said, and pulled the trigger.

  EPISODE 4:

  THE CRIMSON RIVER

  Before…

  All Sam Watkins could think about was how bad he wanted to kill someone.

  “Who is he?” he asked his wife.

  “It’s not like that,” Joyce Watkins told him. “We’ve just grown apart. It’ll be better this way for both of us.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? ‘It’s not you, it’s me’?”

  She squirmed a bit. Pulled a lock of her auburn hair out of her eyes. Said, “Something like that.”

  “Who is he?” Sam asked again.

  She fidgeted again. Then, not looking at him, said, “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean ‘it doesn’t matter’? It matters to me!” he shouted. Got up from the couch. “But that doesn’t matter at all, does it? I’ve never fucking mattered to you, have I? You’re the prom queen that fell for the lowly prison guard, right? And I’m just the dumb fuck that snagged you. But not anymore. Now I’ll be ex-dumb fuck. Right?”

  He took two steps toward her. Hands balled.

  “Please, Sam, it doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “Right. It’s supposed to be easy for you, right? I’m just supposed to say ‘Okay’ and let you run off with this new asshole. Is that it? I’m making this difficult for you, hurting your feelings. It should all go so easy for you.”

  “Sam…”

  “Always you. The house you want. By your parents. The car you want, in your color. The drapes. My job. I was going to quit my job. And now, now you spring this on me half an hour before I leave for work. What, I didn’t leave fast enough? No,” he laughed, “you did it so you could get rid of me. You’d spring it on me and then I’d have to leave.”

  “Sam…”

  “And when I got home the house would be cleaned out and the papers would be on the table, right? So easy for Miss Fucking Perfect.”

  He took two more steps, looming over her now. “Right?” he screamed.

  She shrunk back, said, “Sam, you’re scaring me.”

  He punched her.

  She screamed. Her head snapped to the side, droplets of blood falling onto the clean, gray couch. Joyce snatched at her purse. Fumbled with it. Started to take out her cell phone. He kicked it away and grabbed her by the hair.

  “You’re not scared yet,” he told her. Dragged her by her hair down the hall.

  Into the bedroom.

  Slammed the door. Tossed her on the floor. Started unhooking his belt.

  “But you will be.”

  One

  “She’s dead,” Sam said, “they all are.”

  “You don’t know that,” Bryce Stone told him, and took a step forward.

  “Yes, I do,” Sam said, and shot Bryce in the chest.

  Phillip Craig, his semi-automatic shotgun already pointed at Sam’s chest, fired and sent a burst of buckshot into his superior’s bullet proof vest. Sam got yanked back like he was on a cord and landed in the snow five feet back.

  Phil stormed past him and kicked in the front door, disappearing inside.

  Sam shook his head to clear it. His chest hurt like hell. But he was alive.

  He got to his hands and knees and started moving. Slowly rising as he got his breath back. Got to his feet and limped around the corner.

  He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he couldn’t go back. Could he make it alone? Fuck no. But he couldn’t risk going back to the prison with Phil and Chris. If he went back with them, he went back in chains.

  That wasn’t an option. Thirty seconds before, he had been one promotion away from Warden. He couldn’t go back a prisoner. Not after all this shit. Not after fighting off zombies all day, and most of the night. Not after eyeing those prisoners for years, moving up the ranks. Not after all the shit he had to do to get where he was before all hell broke loose.

  “Fuck it,” he said to no one. “I’m on my own.”

  Two

  Phil came through the door ready for anything. Scanned the living room and kitchen. Cleared them, and went down the hall.

  Kicked in the first door: bathroom. Second: office. Made it to the last and hesitated, unsure of what he would find. Kicked it open and recoiled. Looked in again, let it burn into his memory, and went back down the hall and outside.

  Sam wasn’t lying in the snow anymore.

  “Where the fuck is he?”

  Chris Reed pointed a shaking hand to the side of the house. “Creepers get her?” he asked.

  Creepers: otherwise dead humans now walking, hunting, and killing in a mass hysteria, with animal rage, nocturnal creatures. Thousands of them. The town was filled with them. The guards had every reason to believe the rest of the world was too.

  Phil shook his head and went to the corner, peeked around: empty. Started to turn it to follow. Not tall, not short, not fat, not thin, hair a dusty mix of brown and blond, there was nothing about Phil to draw attention – save for the fifty caliber sniper rifle on his back and his pleasure and skill at killing creepers.

  And anything else that pissed him off.

  Chris stopped him Phil with: “You’re going after him?”

  “You’re God damn right I’m going after him,” Phil said. “He just shot Bryce and murdered his wife.”

  “He killed her? When?”

  “Fuck if I know, man, but he made a mess.”

  Phil turned from Chris and took off alongside the house. Hit the corner, peeked around and caught a flash of uniform before Sam disappeared around the house behind his own, the yards connected.

  Phil crossed the yard – snow dancing around his boots – with his shotgun raised and ready, scanning left to right. Hit the corner, came around shotgun ready and put a burst into the side of the house just as Sam disappeared around it.

  Pissed now, he took off at a dead run. Made it to the next corner and threw himself against it. Leaned forward just long enough to see and then rocked back as a slew of automati
c rifle fire peppered the area his head had just occupied.

  “You’re fucking dead,” Phil called to Sam. “I just haven’t made you that way yet.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Sam called back. “We’ll see about that.”

  Phil eased around the corner, scatter gun ready, aiming at the spot where Sam would come out.

  “I’m waiting, asshole,” he said. Got no reply. Started forward.

  Three

  Sam hauled ass across the street. Made a left between a crop of houses, and cut between them. Breaking into another yard and crossed it. Ducked behind the house just as another blast of shotgun fire came from behind him.

  “Fucking asshole,” he said, and continued on.

  He didn’t know why Phil would be chasing him. Sam hadn’t done shit to Phil; it was Joyce he had had a problem with. But, he figured, the fucker must just liked to fight.

  Sam would give him one.

  He cut right around a house and tracked back. Kicked in a back door and stalked through the house.

  Came out the front.

  Checked the marks in the snow. Phil had moved past the corner and through the alley between the houses.

  Sam lay down in the snow and shifted up to the corner. Stuck his head out long enough to see Phil’s back, as the guard stood aiming his shotgun around the corner.

  Brought his rifle out, lined the barrel up on Phil’s back, and fired a burst.

  Four

  Phil felt something like a sledgehammer slam into his back and doubled forward. Rolled in the snow. Came around with his shotgun. Saw Sam moving in on him. Fired.

  Sam said, “Fuck,” and then was lifted off the ground and tossed into the bushes by the shotgun blast.

  Phil let his head rest back for a moment, catching his breath. Certain he needed to adjust his aim. The fucking vest was crimping his style. It was the training: center mass was drilled into you for so long, it was hard to break the habit. But no, he needed a head shot – just like a creeper.

  Or needed to adjust weapons.

  He set the shotgun down and – with considerable effort – got the Barrett fifty-caliber sniper rifle out from under him. Checked the bolt to be sure, found a thumb sized bullet inside, closed it.

  Got his hands under him and dragged himself around the corner of the house – out of the line of fire – to rest a moment. He had never been shot before. He wasn’t pleased with the experience.

  “You wanna fucking shoot me?” he asked Sam, even if the man couldn’t hear him. “I’ll tap you back, man, believe that.”

  Five

  Sam went ass over end and came down on the other side of the bushes, moaning. He didn’t know if he could breathe anymore. He was sure at least three ribs were broken. The vest wasn’t designed to stop two point-blank shotgun blasts.

  Shit, he thought, his fucking body wasn’t designed for that sort of punishment.

  He dragged himself up, wheezing, and took off at a lope. Headed down the driveway and made a right onto the street. His body starting to get the idea. He settled into a jog.

  Heard a shot and looked back to see Phil standing alongside the house, using it for cover, firing a God damned cannon at him.

  That got Sam to start running.

  Phil fired again, missed again. That got him running faster.

  Six

  Phil came around the corner with the rifle raised, tracking right, aiming low. He wanted to keep Sam alive for a bit. Have a chat. But the Barrett was heavy – never intended for firing from a standing position – and he was having trouble keeping it steady.

  Fired.

  The recoil rocked the scope’s view. He brought it back around and fired again. Again the scope danced. He got Sam back in view – still up and running – and let his breath out slow. He needed to take his time. He wouldn’t miss three in a row.

  There was a sound like a wounded animal behind Phil and he spun in time to catch what had once been an elderly man – his skin now gray and sunken – come out of the house next door at a flat run, careening toward the sound of the gunshots.

  Phil pulled the trigger and the rifle spat its heavy bullet into the creeper, its upper body exploding in a wash of blood and shattered bone. Phil spun back around but couldn’t find Sam anywhere.

  “Fucker,” he said, and started after him. Stopped when he reached the end of the driveway. All along the street: movement. Coming from houses. From the trees. From every shadowy crevice. Everywhere. Creepers.

  Seven

  Chris pulled Bryce out of the snow and brushed him off. “You alright?” he asked.

  “Hell no, I’m not alright,” Bryce wheezed. “I just got shot.”

  “Vest stopped it.”

  Bryce reached in behind the vest and took his hand back out. No blood. “Vest stopped it,” he agreed. “But it hurts like hell.”

  Brooks, a mountain of black muscle, came up beside Chris. “What just happened?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Chris told him, shook his blocky, blond head. “Everything just got even more fucked.”

  “Who’s in command?” Brooks asked him. Brooks had always been Sam’s most loyal follower, though Chris was Sam’s right hand. The whole thing was as confusing to the lot as anything. Even the dead waking up.

  Chris raised a shaking hand to his com unit, then stopped. A spasm ran down his spine and he doubled over. The bite on his arm burning. Brooks grabbed him and held him up. Chris trying to catch his breath.

  “I’m fine,” he said. Mustered all his strength and stood. “I’m in command.”

  “What are we going to do?” Bryce asked, and pointed at a creeper coming out of the house across the street. “The gunshots,” he explained.

  “Let’s move.”

  Chris got back in the truck. Cranked the engine and got it moving. The others did the same, their trucks following Chris’ – now with no passenger. He made the first right, the trucks sliding a bit in the snow, and gunned it down the street. Hit the first side street and turned right again, the sound of heavy gunshots rolling over the trucks as they pulled on to the new road.

  The convoy drove down the street, following the sound. Slower now, looking. Chris watched Phil run out to the end of a driveway, his massive rifle held to his shoulder. He stopped, looked around, and then spotted the trucks coming.

  Chris braked. Phil climbed in. They got moving again.

  “Fucking creepers, man,” Phil said, “everywhere.”

  “Not where we’re going,” Chris told him.

  Phil looked at him. “We’re going after Sam,” he said.

  “No, we’re not. He’ll draw them away. Give us time to check the rest of the houses.”

  “So he just gets away?”

  Chris looked at all the dead stumbling down the street. Making for the trucks but being left behind. They’d center on Sam once he was forced to shoot again. And he would be. Soon.

  “He won’t get away,” Chris said.

  Eight

  Sam’s lungs were burning and he hadn’t even gone two blocks. He trotted to a stop and leaned over, panting. Stood back up and there were four creepers in front of him.

  “Shit,” he said and got his rifle up and cut them down with a burst of automatic rifle fire. Took off running again. He still didn’t know where he was going, but he was fairly certain he needed to get there fast.

  A glance behind him revealed more zombies, coming out of houses. Materializing out of shadows. Moving faster now, blind in the sun but locked on to the sound of shots being fired.

  He made a wide right and damn near collided with a crowd of creepers. Had to shoot them, too, drawing more from the darkness. Turned around and hit the road he had been on. It ran straight for a mile until it T-boned the river that fed the dam that supplied power to the town and prison.

  Muscles pumping acid. Melting through his veins. He pressed on. His mind now a machine of pain and perseverance. Emptied his rifle into a group that got too close, and slung it behind his back by the st
rap. No time to reload.

  Risked a glance behind him: hundreds of them. A mass now, running after him. Keeping pace as he slowed. Getting closer as he tired. More joining the hoard at every intersecting street.

  He gave his legs all the juice he could muster as he rounded the corner out onto Riverside, the water coursing beside the street. Frothing in the bright sunlight. Snow covered banks glistening with the low hung sun. Ice meandering down stream at a lazy pace.

  He hit the walking bridge that crossed the river. Sidewalk-wide with enough room for two walking shoulder to shoulder. Legs, arms, and torsos clotting along the foundations. Creepers down there, in the shadows, chewing. Sam burned across the bridge to the other side. Stopped. Pulled his rifle down into his hands. Spit out the spent clip and snapped a new one in: his last. Turned around and let go full automatic into the bottleneck on the other side. Dropped enough to dam the flow on the bridge and took off.

  Running until he started coughing blood.

  Nine

  Warden Bowers sighed and flicked off the computer monitor.

  He didn’t have a choice, he reasoned. They were alone in a hostile world, and every minute they were getting closer to the breaking point. His men weren’t just close to it. They were at it. Twelve hour shifts. Spending two nights straight in the towers, chopping zombies to bits with their rifles.

  It didn’t matter if the creepers were human anymore or not, the psychological effect on his guards was brutal, and even his best men were starting to fall apart.

  He needed new men. Needed to be able to rotate them out. Give them time off. Some semblance of hope. But that was impossible. Sam and Chris and their team had been tear-assing around town for hours – spent the night there – and had only found three living people. Three people. Brennick needed nine hundred to operate as designed. And that was when they were only worried about keeping prisoners in. Not keeping creepers out.