Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  But he hadn’t made it far. And time was ticking away.

  He needed distance, God damn it. Or he was going to end up vaporized like the fucking things he was trying to kill. He dug the teeth into an old man he recognized as his seventh grade English teacher. Decided the bastard needed extra killing for flunking him when everyone knew Shakespeare was a fag, and held the blade there until there was nothing left and the saw was binding on the bone.

  Pressed forward again.

  The wall was becoming too dense for even the chainsaw to get through. It chewed and chewed and always there was more flesh to bite into.

  A creeper tried for his neck, was stopped by the suit, and he kicked it back and brought it to the ground. Spun around and took it apart at the neck with the saw’s grinding metal molars. Turned back toward the house – unable to see through the mass.

  He pressed on. Chainsaw pushing forward ahead of him. The teeth sending more flesh onto the helmet visor.

  “Damn,” he said as red splattered against the Plexiglas shield, “this is a nice fucking replica.”

  Let the saw work on a shoulder until the body dropped and stepped over it. Still holding the saw out, letting the creepers decide who was next.

  He took a step forward. The saw reaching out for a head, and then heard a ba-BOOOOM! and was weightless again. This time, he crashed only into darkness.

  Thirty-Four

  Chris watched the crowd with an eye he had never really known before. Now, they weren’t just creepers. Now, he could understand each story. He could hear their rage. Understand it. The voices weren’t abstract constructions of his psyche, they were out there. Walking. Hunting.

  He saw a red mist growing from the center of the crowd. The sound of the chainsaw growing. He watched as it approached.

  “Fucking Phil,” Bryce said, awestruck. “He’s almost here.”

  Chris only partially heard him. He was mesmerized by the bright red and dark browns flying up and then misting down. How far gone were the browns? he wondered. How fresh were the reds?

  He started to see the crowd breaking up. Moving. Around something. The sea of cold flesh gyrating, pulsing as something moved through. Like the wake on a ship. He squinted at the movement.

  “He’s almost back,” Bryce said. “He’s going to…”

  There was a slight pop, and then a brutal roar and a gust of wind that sent them all reeling. Chris ended up tucked into the corner of the porch from the blast. Shook his head. Pushed himself up and watched the mushroom cloud climb into the sky.

  In the air were the pieces to a thousand creepers, hanging there, floating for a moment on the wind. Then they came rushing down to the ground. Landing everywhere. Sick slaps and dark rain falling all over. Pouring down the gutters. Chunks of bones being spit out onto the lawn. Bruising the snow a deep maroon as they did their job, funneling the fluid and sending it to the ground.

  Chris stood and walked down the steps. The blood had mostly all landed now. The last droplets a mist in the air. The rain flowing downhill. Running to the sewer drains and around where they were already clogged with creeper pieces. Rolling down and around his boots like a crimson river.

  “Come on,” he told the others, “we’re going home.”

  EPISODE 5:

  WHISPERS IN THE DARK

  One

  Chris Reed had never seen such a pissed off group of zombies in his life.

  Only moments after an explosion leveled the majority of the streets’ occupants, they were back up. Chris had his guards back in their trucks, cranking the engines and getting ready to flee back to the sanctuary of Brennick, the maximum security prison where the guards worked. The trucks pulled up long in front of the house. Behind the house, the last line of survivors were streaming out, cutting through yards and heading for the two buses Chris had commandeered.

  All that was fine, and when the first “creeper” started to stir, Chris hadn’t really cared. He didn’t have any desire to kill them all. He just wanted to get back to the prison.

  But it wasn’t long before he realized something was wrong. Very wrong.

  He could hear them, in his mind, and they were screaming. He could feel their rage. Coursing through him. Like ether, intoxicating him. Filling every pour. Pure, unfettered rage. And not the kind he had felt before. White hot, now. And focused.

  Focused on the trucks.

  Two

  Bryce Stone keyed his microphone and said, “Ready when you are, boss,” into it. Waited for Chris to respond.

  Nothing.

  “Chris, we’re all loaded up and ready to head home,” Bryce tried again. “Go on your orders.”

  Nothing but white noise came from the speakers.

  Bryce keyed it again, said, “Come on, Big Guy. Just say the word.”

  A voice came through the static – not Chris’ though, another man’s. A guard named Brooks who was driving one of the trucks that followed Chris’ said, “Jesus Christ, Chris, if you don’t put that fucking thing in drive, I’m leaving without you.”

  Bryce said, “Brooks, what the fuck is going on?”

  “We’re moving,” Brooks reported.

  “Good. Are you providing escort?”

  There was a silence on the other end, then Brooks said, “Negative. Get moving now. Make your own way. You hear me? Stay the fuck away from us.”

  Sweat broke out on the back of Bryce’s neck. He keyed up the mic. Asked: “Why’s that?”

  Brooks didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. A second after he asked the question, the guard’s trucks exploded through the intersection up ahead. Screamed across it. Disappeared at the other end. Bryce blinked twice, unsure of what had just happened. Then a flood of creepers emerged, surging through the intersection, following the trucks. Bryce flinched, dropped the microphone, dragged it back up by the cord and keyed it again:

  “Marshall,” he said into it, calling the driver of the second bus.

  “Roger,” Marshall acknowledged. “What in the hell is going on?”

  “We’re moving. Looks like they’re heading west. That means we’re heading east. We’ll leave town out the back way, circle around and head to the prison.”

  “Without escort?”

  “Do you want them escorting you?”

  Marshall didn’t answer. Bryce took that as a No. Put it in drive and pulled a U-turn over someone’s lawn. Took out the mailbox. Shrugged, and got the long vehicle back on the road. Pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

  “Alright everyone,” he called to the huddled group of survivors in the seats behind him. “Cross your fingers and say your prayers. Next stop, Brennick.”

  Three

  “Do you have any fucking concept of what you’re doing?” Steve Morris asked Chris as the truck sped through town.

  Steve sitting passenger. In his uniform. He had been on his way home when the outbreak hit. Had saved over seventy people. Most would consider him a hero. Chris didn’t even remember the guy was in the truck.

  He cut the wheel right, tires squealing as they rounded the corner. It was the last turn they’d need to make until they hit the highway. They were almost home. Chris wasn’t thinking about that, either. It was an abstract thing. He was driving on autopilot. All he could do was try to block out the sounds of the enraged creepers as they chased the trucks. He could feel them, like a cold spot in his mind.

  They were getting farther away. The further behind they grew, the quieter his mind. He liked that. Pressed the pedal down to the floor board. The engine screaming as the speedometer maxed out.

  “You’re gonna fucking kill us,” Steve shouted.

  Chris ignored him. The voices low now. A dull roar. That rage, only a hint of it still lingering. The animal hatred. Hunger. He was so hungry. But less now. If he could just go a little bit faster.

  Steve squinted at the windshield, turned and said, “Toby?” and pointed as the truck blurred past two figures on the sidewalk.

  Suddenly, there was a rush of cool air
and then Steve was gone. Chris looked over at the empty space as the door slammed shut from the wind. Looked in the rear view mirror and saw Steve rolling to a stop as the trucks behind swerved to avoid him.

  “What the fuck?” Chris asked and slammed on the brakes. Cut the wheel. Flipping a bitch with the truck in the middle of the street. Gunned it for a few seconds until he was close and then slammed the truck in park and hopped out.

  Steve was up now. But barely. Dragging his right leg. Bloody and bruised from the roll. He was approaching the two children. Chris kept his distance. Not wanting to be too far from the trucks and possible escape. The creepers running towards them. Their voices growing into a fury in Chris’s mind.

  Steve gurgled, “Toby,” and staggered towards his son. There was another figure. How many kids did Steve have? Chris wondered. Steve said, “Toby,” again. Louder now. Dragging his leg. Getting closer. Reaching out now.

  “Toby! Get back!” a woman screamed. Three shots cracked hot and angry, rolling across the street and continuing on. Steve’s head exploded and he crumpled to the ground. A woman, running desperately, emerged from the darkness along the street, her hair flying in all directions. She bent down and scooped up the two children. Ran towards the truck, a kid under each arm.

  She made it to the truck, Chris watching in bewilderment. Stuck the kids in the front seat and climbed in after them. Chris couldn’t think, his mind so close to the creepers, every thought was drowned out by their rage.

  “Come on!” the woman shrieked.

  Chris obeyed. Ran back to the truck, hopped into the driver’s seat. Dropped it into gear and took off. Passed the other trucks – the drivers stopped and watching – and kept on. Checked in the rear view mirror and saw them get moving.

  Chris was just glad to be putting some distance between him and the creepers.

  “Are you alright?” he mumbled to the woman.

  “We’re okay,” she said between gasping breathes. Looked at Chris, studying him. “You’re from the prison?”

  Chris nodded.

  “Oh, thank God. You work with my husband, Steve. Where is he? Is he alright?”

  Four

  “I’m fine,” Mercedes told her cell mate, Jessie, as she stirred the massive pot of soup.

  Jessie sighed. “You shouldn’t even be drinking. You know that, right?”

  “Come off it. I had one shot.”

  “Doesn’t matter how much,” Jessie scolded. “No alcohol, smokes or drugs.”

  “What are you, my doctor now? Besides, we’re in fucking prison, where would I find drugs?”

  Jessie gave her an incredulous look.

  “True that,” Mercedes said, and went back to stirring. “But it doesn’t matter anyway, because we all know they won’t let me keep it.”

  “What does that matter? You want the best for it, right? So, let’s say the young couple in the Beemer want a little baby or whatever, you think they want one with fetal alcohol syndrome?”

  “The young couple in the Beemer won’t want my baby anyway.”

  “Young couples with Beemers want babies, they don’t care where they come from,” Jessie told her. "I did a portrait once for this guy. Nice, young guy. Worked for his dad, big in construction. Pretty little wife. She was… about my age, but this was years ago. I was in high school then. Anyway, he wanted this portrait of his dad to give him for Father’s Day. Paid me ten bucks an hour to paint this guy’s old man looking like someone important…”

  “Is this going somewhere?”

  “The point,” Jessie snapped, “was that she couldn’t have kids. Something happened when she was young. Sick or some shit. Anyway, this young guy just loved the shit out of her anyway. So they were going to adopt.”

  “And? He just told you all this while you painted? Like at the barber’s?”

  “If you interrupt the story again,” Jessie told Mercedes, “I’ll stab you.”

  Mercedes laughed. “Go on,” she said.

  “Where was I? Oh, yeah. So, anyway, they spent like three years and a small fortune. I heard it was like eighty thousand dollars to get their kid. It was crazy. Then I heard – this was after I was in here, my mom sent me a letter – that the biological mother came and sued to get the kid back. A great big fucking mess. The best thing a young couple in a Beemer can hope for is a kid whose momma has life.”

  “How flattering,” Mercedes said. Sighed. “Fine, you can have the damn bottle.”

  “Thanks,” Jessie chirped. Skipped over to Mercedes and snatched up the bottle of scotch from under the counter. Skipped back over to her work station and deposited it inside the cart, well hidden. “I know just what to do with it.”

  Five

  Warden Bowers leaned over the desk and keyed the coms unit. “Watkins, report,” he said into it.

  Waited.

  “Watkins, damn you, report. You should have been back hours ago.”

  Silence. Then Chris’ voice came over the speakers: “About two minutes out, Warden. Four trucks. Have you got any buses coming in?”

  “Buses?” Bowers asked. “No, we haven’t had any buses coming in. Why? Is there a tour group in the area? Field trip I need to know about?”

  “No…”

  “Like a ‘scared straight’ kinda thing?” Bowers interrupted him.

  “No, damn it, we sent two buses back with survivors, but we lost track of them.”

  “You lost track of two buses? Did you check the last place you left them?”

  “Not really an option, sir.”

  “Jesus Christ, Chris, what the hell is going on? And where the fuck is Watkins? I’ve been calling him all morning.”

  Silence.

  “Chris?”

  “Watkins isn’t with us anymore.”

  Warden sighed. “How many more we lose?” he asked.

  “Couple. Hard to tell right now. We’ll have to do a head count when we get in.”

  “Anyone bit?”

  “Negative.”

  “Alright,” Bowers said, nodding. “First thing I want is to talk to you and the other boys that were out there. I want a clear picture of what we’re dealing with. Understood?”

  “Copy.”

  “And Chris.”

  “Sir.”

  “Good job. You’re almost home. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bowers dropped the microphone and left the coms room. Heading for his office. He would need to open the gate. And probably close it up fast.

  Six

  Bryce steered the bus along the highway as it snaked around the town. Staying in the center lane and keeping it at the speed limit. He didn’t know why. There were no other cars on the road.

  He looked down at the town as it rolled by. He kept his right hand on the wheel, his left hanging down. Glanced back at the road, then back at the town. It was past noon now. The sun shining down gray with the winter. It made everything seem faded. Cold. Lifeless.

  Bryce shuddered and turned away. Unsure of why the sight made him so uneasy.

  Then, in a breaking wave of emotion, the totality of what he had experienced in the past two days hit him. The fear. The shame. The blood. The smell of gunpowder. The flashing bursts of muzzles. The fear. The carnage. The smoking bodies. The hope. The pain. The loss. The fear.

  The fear. The terror.

  He ran his left hand through his hair and then used it to wipe at his eyes.

  When it had been happening he hadn’t much considered it. He had done what had to be done. He had clung to the thing that was important: survival.

  But now, driving the bus as it circled the town to make its way to Brennick, all the images came slashing back at his mind, the faces, the names, the brutal realities: Will. Sam. Phil. Women. Children. Jesus, he thought, they were shooting fucking nuns. The sheriff! Everyone was dead. Everyone.

  He felt a tremor and thought he was losing control. Thought he might be breaking down right there. His right arm was rocking up and down. He to
ok it away and replaced it with the left. Now that one was doing it. Was he losing his mind altogether? Was any of this real?

  He looked in the rearview mirror and realized the whole bus was vibrating in a slow, rhythmic fashion. Was this all part of his psychosis?

  No. He had felt something like this before. He applied the brakes and took the bus down to a lesser speed. The vibration turned to a thumping. He stopped the bus. Cranked open the busted out folding door. Hopped down the steps and looked at the passenger side front tire.

  It was shredded.

  Seven

  “You look like shit,” Pope told Chris when they met at the interior gate.

  “You look like someone’s ass,” Chris told him. Then sighed, and said, “I meant that as a compliment.”

  Pope glared at him. “Warden wants to see you,” he said. “In fact, Warden wants to see all of you. And I don’t blame him. You were supposed to be back hours ago. And you went and lost two buses full of survivors. And your own damned CO. And…”

  Chris held up a palm and shook his head. He didn’t have any energy to waste with Pope.

  “I got it,” Chris told him. “Tell the Warden we’re going to get cleaned up first. We spent the last day and a night running from cannibal fucking nightwalkers and slaughtering thousands of them to stay alive. Saw a man get shot by his own wife. Found out one of our best was a wife beater and a murderer. Got run around all over hell trying to get some of Warden’s special shit. And then saw a friend of mine blow himself up. And to top it off I haven’t had a cigarette in hours.”

  Chris cocked his head to one side, eyeing Pope. “How was your day?” he asked.

  Pope cleared his throat. “I’ll let the Warden know you requested a half hour to get your men in proper shape.”