Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  “You fucking do that, cocksucker,” Chris said, and pushed past him.

  A woman came out of Chris’ truck and said, “What does he mean: ‘Saw a man get shot by his own wife’?”

  Eight

  Marshall said, “Shit” when he got a look at the tire. Peaking at five foot eleven, he didn’t look like much with his jacket on. Bryce knew that in a short sleeve uniform the guy was a monster. Brennick had held a boxing tournament between the guards one year. Marshall had gone head to head with Brooks – all six foot five and three hundred pounds of him – for three rounds before the warden stopped the fight.

  Brooks had lost.

  Marshall had his bus parked behind Bryce’s, the engine still running.

  “Well,” Bryce said, “what do we do now?”

  “Call triple-A.”

  “Very funny,” Bryce told him. “But seriously.”

  Marshall’s green eyes locked on the tire, then flicked back at his bus, then back at the tire. He rubbed his tanned face. “We can’t fit them all in my bus,” he said.

  “No shit. That’s why we brought two.”

  “And we’re, what, twenty miles out?”

  “About that,” Bryce agreed.

  “So, the question is: do we try to drive it like that, or fix it here?”

  “We fix it here, we have to get all the survivors out to stand around and wait.”

  “True,” Marshall said, nodded. “But if the rim goes a mile from the prison, we’re surrounded by the woods. Then we have to walk thirty people along the highway with creepers flanking us all around.”

  “Fuck,” Bryce said, and kicked the frozen gravel along the road.

  Marshall nodded. “The term I would have used,” he said, “is ‘fuck-ed.’”

  Bryce stared at the tire, thinking. After a moment, he broke his glare, stomped up the steps and turned to the thirty-odd survivors huddling together in the seats.

  “We’ve got a flat,” he told them. “I’ll need to jack up the bus to fix it. That means you all have to get out. Line up along the concrete barrier and stay in the light. Do not fucking move or speak when you’re out there. If there’s any men who can help, we’re not asking: you will help us fix the tire. Once it’s done, we’ll be back on the road.”

  He looked from one set of frightened eyes to the next. “Move it!” he told them.

  Nine

  “So,” Tall Bill Mahone said to Erin Gibbs, “what’s his play?”

  “Who’s?” Erin asked, lying in his bunk, fingers laced behind his head, gray skin, orange jump suit tied at the waist, white undershirt. “The Warden’s?”

  “Yeah.” Bill nodded. “So he wants to let us out of lock-down because he can’t watch us and keep those fucking zombies out at the same time.”

  “Correct.”

  “But how does letting us out help him? I would think it would make it harder.”

  “The idea is that the Shot Callers will keep their soldiers in line. If someone does something stupid, everyone goes back into lock down and whoever did the stupid thing gets put out.”

  “Put out?” Bill asked.

  “Like outside.” Erin shrugged on his bunk. “To get eaten.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, that’s brutal.”

  Erin nodded. “Sounds like the Warden, right?”

  “But how does that help him?”

  “He needs workers to maintain the prison so that his guards can concentrate on shooting. I would imagine he probably needs more shooters, but can’t just come out and say that. So this is basically a trial balloon. See if we can all play nice. If we make it okay through this, maybe he starts giving the better behaved boys guns.”

  “Like setting up his own little kingdom.”

  Erin sighed. “I’m not defending the man,” he said, “but he’s just trying to survive this. He’s planning for long term, worst case scenario. If a week from the now the National Guard rolls in and knocks on the gate, I figure he’ll be happier than shit. But that doesn’t mean he can’t plan for them never coming around. Anyone who’s been outside can see the reason for him to be skeptical.”

  “’Warden Bowers’ press secretary said in a statement.’”

  “Hey, fuck you, Bill,” Erin snapped, and sat up. “What would you have done? Said, ‘To hell with you, I like being locked in my cell twenty-four hours a day with another man’?”

  Bill thought about it. “Good point,” he said.

  “Besides. Think about what he’s offering: the ability to move freely around the prison. That could be useful, don’t you think?”

  Bill didn’t think this time, he just nodded.

  “Very useful,” Erin said.

  Ten

  Chris let the water roll over him, washing away the clotted blood and dirt and gun powder. It washed over the oozing, gangrenous mass that had once been just a small bite mark. The flesh now dead, rotten, black lines tracking out from it, running up Chris’ veins like a tribal tattoo. They had passed his elbow now, reaching up along his bicep towards his shoulder.

  He turned the water off and sighed. His mind quiet now. No voices. No rage. No hunger.

  “Chris,” Brooks called from the locker room. “Pope says Warden wants us there in five. You alright?”

  “Fine,” Chris called back. “Go on ahead of me. I’ll meet you boys at the Warden’s office.”

  “Roger,” Brooks said.

  Chris heard the locker room door open and close. He peeked around the shower curtain. The locker room was empty. Came out and took a towel and dried off. Then, he went to the sink and applied a new bandage to his arm – it wouldn’t do any good for the wound, but would sop up the puss and help conceal it under his shirt.

  He pulled on fresh boxers and uniform pants. Socks and his work boots, taking extra time to tie the laces. Pulled on a clean undershirt. Put on deodorant. Then his uniform shirt. Buttoning it up and tucking it in.

  Finally, he crossed back to the sink and looked in the mirror. His skin was pasty pale. Eyes sunken, bruised and bloodshot. Two day’s stubble making him look shabby even in his pressed clothes.

  “You look like shit,” he said to the mirror.

  “Fuck you,” his reflection spat back at him. “I was born this way. What’s your excuse?”

  Eleven

  Mercedes set the last tray on the cart and sighed. She loved getting out of her cell, but it had been a long time since she had done an eight hour shift at anything that could have been considered a real job. It was wearing her out. It was also making her feel… maybe not appreciated or free, but less of a prisoner.

  Fuck it, she decided, she’d take it.

  “You ready?” she asked Jessie.

  Jessie nodded.

  The double doors swept in and brought a guard with them, then settled back in their usual place at rest, the guard now standing in the kitchen.

  “Warden wants to see you,” he said.

  Mercedes looked at Jessie, who looked back at Mercedes.

  “Me?” Mercedes asked.

  “Yeah.” The guard nodded. “Warden wants to see you,” he said again.

  Jessie stared into Mercedes’ eyes. Fear etched into the soft lines of her face.

  “I’ll see you in a bit,” Mercedes told her, and punched her in the shoulder. “No worries.”

  Jessie nodded and looked at the floor, pushing the cart towards the double door. The guard watched her as she passed around him and went through. Then said, “What’s the matter with your friend?”

  “Nothing,” Mercedes told him. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The guard shook his head. “I don’t understand why everyone gets nervous when the Warden wants to see them,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  Twelve

  “Why does everything have to be such a pain in the ass?” Bryce asked no one in particular.

  Marshall answered him anyway. “At this point,” he said, “I’m leaning towards operator error.”

  “
Very funny.” Bryce kicked the tire. “Or, maybe it’s that I’m trying to put a fucking bus tire on by myself.”

  Marshall shrugged. “I’m awfully tired. Besides, that’s how you learn.”

  Bryce stood and glared at him. “Because changing bus tires is some life experience I need to master?”

  “Maybe,” Marshall said, nodding. “Maybe you need to build some upper body strength. This is God’s way of saying ‘stop being a pussy.’”

  “Screw you,” Bryce said and went back to work trying to line up the bolts.

  From behind him, a survivor came up. Young guy, maybe mid-twenties. Marshall didn’t recognize him. He said, “Can I help with that?”

  “Sure,” Bryce said, and gave him room.

  The kid came in and squinted at the tire. Pulled it back and rolled it off to one side. Reached up and grabbed the bolts and tried to turn them. They didn’t move. He rolled the tire back over and looked at it again. Got down and turned his head sideways, looking through the holes, rolled it left and right.

  “It’s not up high enough,” he said.

  “How’s that?” Bryce asked him. “We took the other tire off this high.”

  “Other tire was flat. This one’s not.”

  “Right,” Marshall said, nodding.

  “You knew that the whole time?”

  Marshall nodded again.

  “And when were you going to share that with me?”

  Marshall shrugged. “It’s nice to be outside without creepers chasing my ass. I figured if I started seeing some, we could have the tire back on and be on the road in five minutes. So, I was just enjoying the sunshine.”

  The kid reached down and took the jack handle. Bryce took a step back, out of his way, but closer to the bus.

  “That’s bullshit,” he said.

  The kid hit the jack. There was a tearing sound as the jack slipped and the bus lurched forward and down. Knocked Bryce to the ground. Landed on his knees. He screamed as the bones were crushed.

  “Shit,” Marshall said, jumping back.

  The kid looked around, frantic. “What did I do?” he asked.

  Bryce screamed again.

  “It was an accident,” the kid told him.

  Marshall came up to Bryce. Bryce let out a half scream as Marshall took his head and snapped it.

  “What the fuck?” The kid recoiled.

  Marshall stood, said, “Get that fucking tire on. You have two minutes.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then,” Marshall told him, “you’re driving.”

  Thirteen

  Chris walked into the conference room without knocking and sat down at the foot of the long table, across from Bowers.

  Around the table sat the three guards that had made it back to the prison in the trucks. Brooks Pilar, a mountain of black muscle who had been Sam’s favorite. Then next to him, Sean McCourt, who claimed to be related to Frank McCourt, whom Chris had never heard of but Sean assured him was extremely famous. And then Harold Jenkins, short, round, and who had somehow made it through the entire trip to town without firing a single shot. Plus Pope, Chris, and Warden Bowers.

  Bowers took a deep breath, looking around the table, and said, “Well, what kind of a cluster fuck is this?”

  Sean said, “Sir?”

  “I sent ten of you out there, and this is what I get back?”

  “Sir,” Chris began, “let me start at the beginning.”

  Bowers nodded.

  Chris took a deep breath. “Watkins’ orders were to secure the sheriff’s office first.”

  Bowers held a hand up, stopping him. “Where is Watkins?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, sir. He ran away.”

  “Define ‘ran away.’”

  Chris threw up his hands. “Like he ran away.”

  “What you mean is: you left him.”

  “Yeah, we left him. He murdered his wife. And shot Bryce.”

  “Where’s Bryce?”

  “Driving one of the buses.”

  “That haven’t gotten back?”

  “Yeah. So he admitted to killing his wife…”

  “He said he knew she was dead,” Sean clarified. “And then shot Bryce.”

  “And then he shot Phil in the back,” Chris said, nodding.

  “But that was after Phil shot him in the chest,” Sean told Bowers.

  “Where the hell is Phil?” Bowers asked, flustered.

  “Phil blew himself up,” Chris told him.

  “Why?”

  “Probably because he was out of cats,” Sean said, dead pan.

  “What in the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “You had to be there,” Sean said, and waved him off. “I’ll let Bryce tell you.”

  “Bryce isn’t fucking here!” Bowers boomed.

  Everyone fell silent.

  Bowers looked from one to the other. Finally, he said, “So what you’re telling me is: I sent out ten men. Two get killed in the sheriff’s office, where you find two guys…”

  “We found three,” Chris explained, “but Phil shot one of them.”

  Bowers held up his hand again. “Where are the two guys you found in the sheriff’s office?”

  “On one of the buses.”

  Bowers nodded. “Then, when you go to check on survivors, Sam tells you he killed his wife and then shoots Bryce?”

  “No,” Chris said, shaking his head. “We tried to check on his wife and he wouldn’t let us. He said it was pointless because no one was still alive in town. And then Maurice said that he had survived, maybe Sam’s wife had…”

  “Who the hell is Maurice?”

  “The guy that rode back with Brooks,” Chris explained. “He had a fucking flame thrower and a bite suit on, and he saved us when we were trapped in the sheriff’s office.”

  “Ah,” Bowers said, nodding, “the headlights.”

  “Yeah.” Chris nodded quickly. “Then Sam said he knew she was dead, and Bryce said he didn’t and Sam said he did.”

  He stopped. Bowers raised his eyebrows at him. “And then Sam shot him,” Chris finished.

  Bowers rubbed his face. Let his hands drop palms down on the table, and said, “So, then you find all of these survivors…”

  “Yeah. We went to clear the houses like you said. And Phil went in with two silenced pistols…”

  “That you took from the gun store.”

  “After I crashed the truck into it,” Chris said, nodding. “Yeah.”

  “You crashed the truck into the gun store?”

  “Watkins said ‘hit the gun store’ so I did.”

  Bowers sighed. “So Phil goes in,” he supplied, moving his right hand in a circle to get Chris going again.

  “And gets shot by Steve.”

  “Steve?”

  “Morris. The guy from the day shift.”

  Warden Bowers said, “Ah” and leaned back.

  “So Steve shoots Phil. And then when they realize the mix up, he shows Phil all these people he saved. And so we decided to get buses and bring them back.”

  “Where’s Steve?” Bowers asked.

  Chris shifted in his seat. “His wife shot him,” he said. Threw out his hands and added: “Totally by accident. She doesn’t even know she did it yet. She thought he was a creeper.”

  “Why would she think that?”

  “Because he was all bloody from the explosion and jumping out of the truck,” Chris explained.

  Bowers rubbed his face again. “Holy shit,” he said. “What explosion?”

  “When Phil blew himself up,” Sean cut in. “He made a bomb with a stray cat. And he and Bryce were arguing about it, and then when it went up, they were like best friends after that. But it drew like a million creepers…”

  “Is that an exact number?”

  Sean shrugged. “I’d call it a guestimate.”

  “There was a fuck load of them,” Chris said. “Ask Brooks.”

/>   Bowers looked at Brooks, who nodded.

  “So,” Sean continued, “Phil took the bite suit from Maurice and put it on, and then dragged a toy wagon filled with dynamite out into the middle of them, and blew it up.”

  “And himself?” Bowers asked.

  “He tried to make it back,” Chris explained. “But he didn’t. I think he was using a chainsaw to try and cut through them. No dice.”

  Bowers leaned back again. Stroked his belly a moment, thinking. Chris watched him, suddenly realizing how incredibly stupid the whole story sounded. But it was exactly how it had happened. He wondered if it was any more asinine than telling someone for the first time there were zombies everywhere trying to eat them.

  He figured they were about even.

  Finally, Warden Bowers shook his head. “That,” he said, “is the most ridiculous, most convoluted fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Brooks, what do I need to know?”

  Brooks shrugged his massive shoulders. Nodded to Chris. “I don’t know what the hell happened with Watkins,” he said, “but Chris took control and got us out of there. Long story short: I’ve had the craziest fucking two days of my life.”

  Bowers nodded.

  “And,” Brooks continued, “if the past two days are any real good guide, it’s only gonna get fucking crazier.”

  Fourteen

  “A Nubian Princess, perhaps?” Tall Bill asked Erin.

  “You know that’s slightly racially insensitive?” Erin replied.

  “What is?”

  “The whole ‘Nubian Princess’ thing. Why don’t you just call her a princess? The fact that she’s black shouldn’t matter.”

  Tall Bill sagged. “You’re not pulling that shit, are you?”

  “What shit?”

  “The terms change every three fucking weeks. First they want you to call them colored, then that’s wrong. Even if they name their most powerful organization the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, if a white guy calls them that, he’s racist.”