Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  Phil paused and took another deep breath. “But on the way,” he continued his fast talk, “I was going past Sam’s office, and I was pissed because he killed his wife and got away – fucker – and so I went in, no real good reason because he’s more than likely dead, but when I went in I found something that you really,” deep breath, “really, really, really, really, really, really, really,” deep breath, “really need to see.”

  Bowers blinked a few times. Phil waited.

  “Well,” Bowers said slowly, “that actually makes sense. Sort of.”

  “I’m saying, man, you need to see this.”

  “Fine.” Bowers nodded. “Lead the way.”

  Thirty-Four

  Mercedes lay in bed, thinking.

  “I swear to God,” Jessie told her from beneath, “I will kill him.”

  Mercedes didn’t say anything.

  “At least you’re not defending him this time,” Jessie told her. “That fucking limp dick piece of shit is going to get his day.”

  Mercedes thought he had already had a pretty bad one. She thought about the guard, Phil, who had saved her. What was his deal? Why had he jumped in like that? And vicious. Brutal. If Mystique hadn’t stepped in, Chris would be dead right now. And why had Chris just ran away? And what the fuck was wrong with him? The world was getting so complicated.

  Prisoner. Not prisoner, representative. Guards. Not guards, co-workers. Was that it? Had her station changed and now she had that “security detail” the Warden had talked about? She doubted it. Phil was a maniac. She didn’t think it had anything to do with her personally.

  And then there was Erin. Soon to also be the Warden’s representative. A man she loathed but couldn’t stop thinking about. A man she felt safe with. A man who knew how to survive.

  “I’m not kidding,” Jessie told her. “I’m going to shank that fuckhead if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mercedes told her. “Phil took care of it.”

  “Who’s Phil? Your new boy toy?”

  “No,” Mercedes said, and smiled, even if Jessie couldn’t see it. “He’s just a guy with a shred of decency.”

  There was a rolling sound as the lights at Brennick went out.

  “Fucking prison,” Jessie told her. “Suddenly it’s full of nice guys.”

  Mercedes thought of Erin and Phil and Tall Bill and smiled even more. Rubbed the tiny – almost imperceptible – lump in her belly. There, laying in the darkness, the cold walls so thick and the shadow so complete, for the first time in as long as she could remember, Mercedes was not afraid.

  Not even a little.

  Thirty-Five

  The cell closed with the sound of metal scraping metal, and Chris nodded. He was ready. The lights were out now, the world so much clearer. He thought back to when they first learned the creepers were blind during the day. That prisoner – Chris couldn’t remember his name – said that the pupils dilate when the person died. Maybe that was it, Chris thought, maybe he was already dead and didn’t know it yet.

  “All set?” Ryan asked him.

  “Perfect,” Chris said.

  “Alright then. I’ve got to do one last pass and then we’ll be set for another uneventful night.” Ryan thought a moment. “In here,” he said. “Outside, I’m sure there’s plenty of fireworks.”

  “Don’t count the night out yet,” Chris mumbled.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Nothing. You go about your business. I have a million things to do. You know how it is.”

  Ryan stared at him. He didn’t know, Chris realized.

  “Well,” he said, “running the whole show now.”

  Ryan nodded. “Big responsibility,” he said.

  “Got that right.” Chris coughed. “Check the cells.”

  Ryan nodded again. Set off, his nightstick swinging and slapping against his leg.

  “And Ryan,” Chris called. The guard turned. “Good job.”

  Thirty-Six

  Ryan Parker walked slowly, enjoying the quiet. On either side of him were cells, the inmates talking in low, hushed tones. He hadn’t walked the floor like this for days, and he missed it. There was something peaceful about it. Everyone knew who the Man was, and it was Ryan, if only for the moment.

  For the past few days, he had just wandered the catwalks. Which was fine, but it wasn’t the same. Up there, he felt like he was watching a scene play out below him. Because he was. But down here, he was part of the story. Part of the lives of every inmate in D-Block.

  He stopped to tell a prisoner to quit jerking off. The guy didn’t stop. He should still be asleep, Ryan thought. The fucking sedatives Chris had given him.

  “Jared,” Ryan called. “Jared, quit fucking that little bitch of yours or spanking it or whatever you’re doing.”

  The smacking sound continued. Ryan sighed.

  “Jared,” he said, “if you don’t stop it right fucking now, I’ll have to come in there and kick the shit out of you. Is that what you want? Because I really don’t feel like starting my night with a fight.”

  Ryan waited. Jared was still keeping rhythm. Grunting now. Ryan shook his head. Waved to the control room. “Fifty-two B,” he said. The door began to open.

  “I swear to God, Jared,” Ryan scolded him. “A dick sucking isn’t worth the ass whooping you’re about to get.”

  He stepped in as the door slowly rolled right, and flinched. Jared wasn’t jerking off. He wasn’t fucking his gay lover. He was eating him. Samantha’s throat open in a gash. Blood still pouring out onto the bunk. His eyes dead and glazed. Jared lapping it up, grunting, pressing his face in for more.

  “My fucking God,” Ryan breathed.

  Jared started and looked at him. Black eyes. He snarled.

  Ryan almost made it to the bars before the creeper tore his spine out.

  Thirty-Seven

  Erin lay there. He didn’t have anything more to say. He didn’t want to think any more. He was done. Whatever would be would be. He thought there was a Spanish phrase for that.

  “Que Sera, Sera,” Tall Bill told him.

  “What, are you a fucking mind reader now?”

  “No. But you’re that quiet that long, I figured you were thinking. Then I figured ‘what’s he thinking about?’ Then I remembered your little spiel about how the girls didn’t need to know and you didn’t need to think about your family. And I figured you were thinking about your plans, and about how you can’t do anything about it now. Right?”

  “Fuck you,” Erin told him.

  “I already told you: I pay attention.”

  “At this point, I feel like you’re stalking me.”

  “I live with you.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “You’re right though,” Bill told him. “There’s nothing you can do until tomorrow.”

  Erin only half heard him. He thought there was something odd coming down from one of the blocks. Them all connected only by steel gates, the noise could travel through most of the male wing before dying out. Sound waves bouncing off the concrete walls. The prisoners used it often to communicate between blocks.

  “What was that?” Erin asked.

  “What was what?”

  “It sounded like someone screamed.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Chris smiled when he heard Ryan Parker scream. Everything was coming together so nicely. The voice had been right. Everything was going to be perfect.

  He stepped into the control room.

  Fred Hunter had been sitting in his chair, watching the TV screens. He jumped when he heard the scream, and when the film of Ryan being torn to shreds crossed the screen. He made it a step and then stopped. Staring at Chris. Not understanding.

  “What’s happening?” he asked. “There’s… He’s…”

  “Go help Parker,” Chris told him. “I’ll keep an eye on control.”

  Fred nodded and moved forward. Chris waited until he was just next to him and swung around with his nightstick a
nd hit him at the base of his neck. Fred grunted and went down. Chris stepped over him. Fred’s body now between his legs. Brought the club down five times, hard. Until blood sprayed out with every strike.

  When it was done, he sighed. Stepped back and looked around the control room.

  “Everything’s just like you promised,” he said. Walked over to the PA system and keyed it.

  Thirty-Nine

  “What the fuck is all this supposed to be?” Warden Bowers asked Phil. Phil didn’t know what to tell him.

  “I’m saying, man, you needed to see this,” he said.

  Around them, covering every wall, were insane ramblings scrawled out in Chris’ childlike handwriting. Prophetic omens and biblical preaching’s, all shamelessly rewritten to include Chris as a deity. Phil went up to one and touched it. Pulled his finger back and smelled.

  “Magic marker,” he said.

  “You think Sam did this?” Bowers asked.

  “Unless he’s got a serious crush on our boy, Chris, no.”

  Bowers looked at him. “What are you saying? It’s his office.”

  “Sam’s gone, man,” Phil told him. “Who’s the last one in here?”

  “Chris.”

  Phil nodded. “Right,” he said.

  “What are you saying?” Bowers asked again.

  “I’m saying we need to go get him. Now. Before he fucking kills someone.”

  “Chris?”

  “Yes. Chris. The guy’s lost his mind. He’s fit for a fucking cell, man.”

  Bowers took two steps and punched Phil in the jaw. Phil went down. Sucked in a bit of blood as it flowed out of his gums, and spit it onto the carpet.

  “Watch what you say,” Bowers growled, looming over him, “that’s my son you’re talking about.”

  The PA system exploded with feedback. Both men covered their ears. Then it subsided and a low voice came across. Slow and slurring:

  “Mic check,” it said, “one two, one two. Can you hear me now?

  “Hello all of you ladies and gentlemen out in radio land. My name is Christopher Reed, and I’ll be your host for this evening’s entertainment.”

  EPISODE 6:

  WITH A VENGEANCE

  PART TWO

  One

  Someone screamed. A blood freezing scream that echoed off the concrete walls and danced along the floor as it made its way through Brennick.

  Mike Sanchez sat up in his bunk. The scream had come from three cells over.

  “Hey, Patterson,” he called. “You finally break that bitch in half?”

  The PA system came to life with a whine of feedback. Mike covered his ears and waited. Then the sound faded and a voice took its place. Low, slurred, he recognized it despite the synthesized tone:

  Chris. Warden Bowers’ puppy.

  “Mic check,” he said, “one two, one two. Can you hear me now?

  “Hello, all of you ladies and gentlemen out in radio land. My name is Christopher Reed, and I’ll be your host for this evening’s entertainment.”

  “What the fuck?” Mike wondered.

  His cell mate, Alec Young, said, “Got me.”

  “For those of you who are wondering, our program will be somewhat of a beginning and somewhat of an end. You see, a lot is changing here at Brennick Maximum Security, and I wanted to celebrate that by bringing you some original content, and giving some people a bit of closure. How does that sound, by way of applause?”

  There was a pause, D-Block completely silent. Then the PA system came back to life.

  “I thought so,” Chris’ voice came over. “So, who’s our first, lucky winner? Let’s see here. Well! It’s the one and only Michael Rafael Sanchez! Congratulations!”

  Sanchez sat in his bunk, not sure what he was supposed to do.

  “And this is coming from Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby Malone. Do you remember them, Mr. Sanchez?”

  Mike probed his memory. Was that their names? Yeah, he thought it was.

  “Yeah,” he said, “that’s the old folks I killed.”

  “He can’t hear you,” Alec told him.

  There was the sound of metal scraping metal and then their cell door started open. The lights came on in the cell. But not out on the floor. The door rolled to the side. Mike leaned forward, peering out of the bars to the right of the door. “Is this a joke?” he asked.

  Mike heard a low, predatory growl and then Jared Patterson was inside his cell. But there was something wrong with him. He was covered in blood. His skin pale under the halogens.

  And he was attacking Alec.

  “What the fuck?” Mike said and pressed himself back against the wall.

  Alec made a high pitched noise that started as a scream and ended in a gurgle. Mike pressed himself further back, all the way in the corner. Samantha – Jared’s bitch – came through the door next, vaulted onto Mike’s bunk and went after him. Teeth exposed in a long gash across half Sam’s face. He skittered across the bunk towards Mike.

  Mike kicked it back. The creature came at him again. He kicked it again, this time harder. The zombie flew back a few feet and almost off the bunk, but it got a hold of Mike’s leg and stopped the momentum with it. Righted itself and then rocketed forward. Clamped its mouth down on the fleshy inside of Mike’s leg.

  He screamed. The teeth ripping through his orange uniform and into his skin. Blood poured out in a steady flow. With a ripping sound, its jaws came away, gnashing blood and flesh while its greedy fingers clawed past the torn fabric and plunged into the exposed soft tissue. The bitch’s long fingernails sinking into Mike’s leg, rupturing the artery. Blood tore across the wall of the cell.

  Mike took a breath to scream again, but before he could release it, another one of the creatures – this one in a guard’s uniform – came over the cross-dressed zombie and sank its teeth into his throat, shaking its head like a dog, tearing flesh and veins.

  With morbid fascination, Mike watched his blood rise up like a geyser and fan out in a red mist.

  And then, everything went white.

  Two

  “And now,” Chris said into the microphone, “a brief word from our sponsors.”

  He plugged his iPod into the system and pressed play. Heavy metal began pouring out of the speakers, flooding Brennick with rage. Chris could feel it. White hot. Like a drug, coursing through his veins. He could feel Jared down there. Samantha. Ryan Parker. Their hatred.

  And he could feel something else. Even stronger: Fear.

  The fear of the prisoners. The whole place stank of it. He inhaled through his nose, savoring it. Then, he sighed and leaned forward. Turned off the music and activated the microphone. Said, “Without the sponsors, none of this would be possible.”

  He paused, thinking. Then continued, “And let’s not forget the taxpayers of our great state. Those are the people that have kept us in business all these years. Without them, there’d be nobody for you all to rape and murder and then we wouldn’t all be here together, enjoying this wonderful show. And where would the fun be in that?”

  He cleared his throat, coughed, and then recovered. “And one of those taxpayers,” he said, “was Curtis Smith. Nineteen years young, he was shot to death by a gang member because he wore the wrong color hat. Very compassionate. And that leads us to our next big winner…”

  Chris reached over to press a button but stopped. He thought he heard something. He crossed out of the control room and stuck his head over the railing.

  “What was that?” he called down.

  “I said ‘fuck you!’” someone yelled back.

  “You mean you don’t want your prize?” Chris asked.

  “Let me out of here and I’ll show you a fucking prize. I’ll snap you in two, you little prick!”

  Chris laughed. “Deal,” he said. Went back into the control room and opened the next cell.

  Three

  Rick Taylor hadn’t meant to kill the kid. That wasn’t true, he meant to kill him, but it hadn’t been his idea. It was his initi
ation. He did what he was told.

  The lights came on in his cell, and then the door started to slide right. Rick huddled in the back by the toilet, a toothbrush shank in his right hand. His cellmate, Will Johnson, to his left. A pencil the only object he could find to defend himself.

  “If I get bit,” he said to Rick, “just fucking kill me.”

  “Same,” Rick said, nodded.

  Waited.

  He could hear them coming. Fast. They rounded the corner, the big one that had once been Jared Patterson in the lead. Rick waited for him. The bastard was a mountain. And they were moving so fast. Rick thought time would slow down, but it didn’t, it went into fast forward.

  The zombies flooded in – five of them now – filling the room. Rick lashed out with his shank. Expected them to jump away from it.

  They didn’t.

  He caught the lead on in the neck with the shank but it kept coming. Its mouth open wide. Came down on Rick’s shoulder and clamped down like a vice. Its weight dragging them both to the ground. Rick heard Will grunt and looked to see two zombies – both inmates – pulling his insides out. A third – this one a guard – had Will’s head in its hands and was trying to gnaw through his skull.

  Rick wanted to scream, but he had his own problems.

  He tried to get his shank out of the thing’s neck and try for the brains. He remembered something he had seen somewhere – but couldn’t remember where – that zombies went for the brains. It was all about the brains. To his right, what sounded like a cantaloupe being split drew his attention that way once more. Will’s head had been opened up. The uniformed creeper gorging itself on the gray pudding inside.