Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  Jamal “Abu-Wazeeri” X – not his real name – shrugged. Small, shriveled, his once tan skin now pale from lack of exposure. He didn’t need a fucking guard to talk shit to him. He had heard it all. Never topping out above five six and reaching the plump weight of one forty only once, the little, blonde-haired California boy had been ridiculed by everyone from the Black Panthers to the cops and back again. By now, his heart was nothing but scar tissue.

  “Fuck man,” his cellmate said, and paced. His name was Paul Greenburg and he had been born long after Jamal had been incarcerated. “I fucking knew he’d pick you. You fucking joke.”

  “Fuck you,” Jamal spat at him. “I did more for the cause than…”

  Paul came up fast and punched him. Jamal shrugged. He’d gotten used to that, too.

  “Cutting off their fucking hands,” Paul continued, “did you even do that shit?”

  Jamal nodded. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “What? Your momma didn’t hug you enough?”

  Jamal shrugged again. “I thought it would be cool to be a revolutionary. No one ever told me you had to be black to be a Black Panther.”

  The light came on in their cell.

  “Fuck,” Paul seethed. “I make one God damned mistake. One. And I end up in this shit hole about to get fucked to death with this asshole.”

  “You got sent here after your fourth violent felony,” Jamal said.

  Paul looked at him. “Yeah,” he said.

  “I would think, then, you made at least four bad decisions.”

  The door to their cell began to open. Jamal stood. Paul started to back away from the door. His eyes locked on it. Not even noticing as Jamal moved in behind him.

  Jamal heard the animal cry of the zombies as they moved in on the source of light. He stepped up close to Paul, holding his breath. Not wanting to alert his cellmate. He could feel Paul’s body heat as he moved within a centimeter.

  They came. A rush of clawing, snapping, violent bodies. Jamal closed his eyes for a split second, then brought his hands up and pushed Paul as hard as he could.

  Fifteen

  Marshall pulled Maurice along behind him. “Now,” he told him, “I’m assuming you had to know some shit to get past all those creepers. Back there in town, you couldn’t have just had that fucking suit and torch, you had to go get it, right?”

  Maurice nodded.

  “So you’ve got some moves,” Marshall said, returning the nod. “And you had some balls walking out into that fucking crowd. So, I figure you and I have a real good shot of figuring this out and putting an end to it.”

  “And then what?”

  Marshall stopped, turned and glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Then what?” Maurice repeated. “Who the hell is in charge of this place, anyway? We’ve been here less than a few hours and already we’ve been strip searched, separated from our families, humiliated, and in some cases beat. And now there’s a mad man on the PA calling out….”

  “Exactly.” Marshall nodded. “We don’t know. But I can tell you this: We’re putting an end to it. Tonight.”

  The look in Marshall’s eyes told Maurice he was serious. Maurice nodded and Marshall started walking again.

  “Where are we going?” Maurice asked again.

  Marshall pointed to the coms unit he had turned back on. “D-Block,” he said.

  Sixteen

  Jamal didn’t wait to watch the zombies take Paul apart. He made a left out of the cell and ran. Passing cells in a blur. Prisoners shouting at him as he passed.

  He made the gate and slammed into it. Tried to open it: locked.

  “Fuck,” he said, pounded on the chain link. Turned and ran to the nearest cell.

  Four eyes looked back at him, hiding in the darkness.

  “Give me something,” he told them. “I can’t get out. Gate’s locked. Give me a shank. Something to pick the lock. Come on!”

  One of the prisoners came up to the bars. Jamal didn’t recognize him in the gloom. He said, “Get away, man. Stay the fuck back. Last thing I need is those fucking things after me.”

  Jamal reached out for him, but the guy jumped back. Then they were on him. Pulling. Tearing. Biting. Dragging him away. Jamal tried to hold on to the bars. His right hand came free under the pressure. The left held. He tightened his grip. Knuckles white. Then, with a sickening tear, the elbow separated and Jamal was gone. Lost in the sea of dead flesh.

  The arm held for a moment. Then a creeper came to the bars. Pried the fingers open. And took it away.

  Seventeen

  Phil reached the top level – above the fourth floor by a few feet – and typed his code into the lock. Stepped through and onto the cat walk. There was no one else in sight. Not at this height. He leaned over the railing and looked down fifty feet to the ground level. It was complete chaos.

  Creepers were running everywhere. Big ones, little ones, ones in orange and some in blue. Creepers made from prisoners and guards alike. It reminded him of a particular scene in a movie or game he had played, but couldn’t place it.

  Shrugged it off and let his view trail up. The second floor was engulfed as well. Not as many: maybe a half dozen. There weren’t many more on the ground level but they were much more active. The sound of the prisoners shouting sending them into a fury, running from cell to cell, searching for food.

  The prisoners on the second floor were wisely staying quiet.

  Phil started across. Still unsure how he would handle this. The catwalk ran in a giant horseshoe around the Block. Cells on either side of each floor; the cat walk could survey each one and fire down upon them at will. It was nearly impossible to reach. One lock to get into the guts between D-Block and C-Block. One lock for each floor. And then another. This one using an individual password for each guard. So that if someone got up high without the proper permission, it would trigger an alarm with the highest ranking on duty.

  Phil’s coms unit came to life: “Craig,” Bowers’ voice called him, “what the fuck are you doing on D-Block’s catwalk?”

  Phil looked down again. Music pumping out hot in the moments after Jamal “Abu-Wazeeri” X had bitten it, agitating the creepers. They ran across the ground floor, zig-zagging, following the shouting. Running along the railed walkways of the second level, pounding on cell doors. He watched them from way up there, and wondered why he didn’t have some sick-ass sniper rifle. He could almost see them pixilated through his X-Box’s scope.

  “Phillip Craig, I asked you a question.”

  Phil keyed his mic and said, “Have to get to the control room, sir. Chris is locked up in there tight. Got creepers in D-Block. More every minute. Every time Chris opens a door, we’ve got two more to deal with.”

  “And what the hell do you plan on doing about it?”

  Phil smiled. “I’m gonna stop it,” he said.

  Eighteen

  Warden Bowers brought his right hand down hard. “What the fuck is going on?” he roared.

  Brooks said, “Chris’ about as sane as a Christmas ham.”

  Bowers glared at him.

  Brooks shrugged. “You asked me. I told you. And what’s all this ‘my boy’ stuff?”

  “I ask the questions,” Bowers snarled. “Not you.”

  “Sir,” Brooks said, and stepped his massive body closer, “with all due respect: from what it looks like, we’ve got a man in this prison opening cells so creepers can snack on the inmates.”

  Bowers kept up his intense stare.

  “And you called that man ‘my boy’ a few minutes ago.”

  They both waited. Neither spoke. Neither moved. The Wardens’ computer made a noise and he sighed. Turned from Books and typed in a command. Stared at the screen a moment, then said, “Phillip Craig is on the catwalk above D-Block.”

  Brooks nodded.

  Bowers picked up his phone. Dialed. Talked to the man at the lock. Hung up. Walked up to Brooks and took the coms unit off his shoulder
and keyed it. Called Phil. Spoke to him. Then stuck it back to Brooks’ shoulder. Stepped back around his desk and sighed again.

  “God damn,” he said.

  Brooks nodded. “What now?” he asked.

  Bowers looked off and thought for a few moments, then looked at Brooks with eyes the man had never seen and said, “He’s my son.”

  “Phil?” Brooks asked, confused.

  “No, damn it, Chris.”

  Brooks nodded. “That makes sense,” he said slowly.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Brooks shrugged his massive shoulders. “Nothing, sir.”

  They went silent. Then Bowers leaned back in his chair, set his hand on his belly and asked, “What was I supposed to do?”

  Brooks shrugged again. “Not for me to say. You’re the man, Warden.”

  Bowers nodded and leaned forward, studying one of his most loyal guards. “Phil’s going to kill him, you know that,” he said.

  Brooks nodded.

  “So?” Bowers asked.

  “It’s your decision,” Brooks told him. “What’s more important: your son, or your prison?”

  Nineteen

  Marshall and Maurice stopped at a lock. Marshall waved. The gate didn’t move. Marshall walked up and rapped on the Plexiglas barrier, pointed at the gate. The guard inside, Russell Kent, shook his head.

  “Brooks has us completely locked down,” he said. “No one goes nowhere.”

  Marshall glared at him. “You know what’s going on?” he asked.

  “Hell if I know, but Chris seems to be having a blast.” Russell pointed up, apparently indicating the music screaming out of the PA system.

  “Open the lock,” Marshall said.

  “No,” Russell told him.

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on, let me check something.” He turned around and looked at a form. Hung it back on the wall. Turned back around. Clicked back on the microphone and said, “Still no.”

  Marshall punched the glass. It didn’t even bend. Two inch ballistics grade. It hurt like hell, too.

  “That was mature,” Russell said.

  “Fuck you. I’m trying to figure out what the hell is going on here, and you’re in my way. Do you know what happens to things in my way?”

  Russell shrugged.

  “They get taken out of my way. One way or the other. Now, which is it?”

  Russell shrugged again. Didn’t open the lock.

  “Fine,” Marshall said. Stomped away. Headed down the hall to the last lock they had passed through. Typed in his password and entered the office, Maurice in tow.

  “Who’s he?” the guard inside asked, pointed at Maurice.

  Marshall ignored him and picked up the phone. Dialed Warden Bowers’ office. It rang once and then Bowers answered and snapped, “What?”

  “Marshall, sir. I’m trying to get to A-Block, two locks away, and they just shut me down. Said no one can move in or out of anything.”

  “Right,” Bowers told him. “We don’t need this thing to spread.”

  “What thing?”

  “The damn creepers. We’ve confirmed D-Block is crawling with them.”

  Marshall digested that a moment, and then said, “Then we need to send a team in and secure that block. We can’t just leave them there.”

  “Negative. We need damage control, then I’ll consider sweeping it.”

  “Warden, sir, please. Let me do something. You can’t expect me to go back and rack out with creepers running around. Not like I could with this fucking music so loud.”

  Bowers was silent a moment, then said, “Alright. You can go in. I need you to find Phil.”

  “Phil? Why?”

  “He’s in D-Block.”

  “What the hell is he doing there?”

  “Trying to stop Chris.”

  “Okay.” Marshall nodded. “And you want me to help him.”

  “No,” Bowers told him. “I want you to stop him.”

  Twenty

  Tim Harper didn’t like it. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He was supposed to go to work, sit on his ass, and open the fucking front gate. He never wanted to be in D-Block. He never wanted the night shift. He was an early bird. Now, here he was, guarding the lock that led from the space between C and D-Blocks, to D-Block proper.

  And it was driving him nuts.

  Another creeper was at the lock. Hands reaching through. Two more were pounding on the Plexiglas, through the bars on the other side. Their hands bloody and smearing the thick glass. One of them he had seen die. Then watched get back up a minute later.

  And what could he do about it? Not a damn thing.

  The music cut out and the phone rang at almost the exact same moment. He picked up the phone just as Chris’ voice came back on the PA, and tried to ignore Chris and concentrate on the phone.

  “Harper speaking.”

  “Harper,” Bowers began. “How’s things look on your end?”

  Harper looked at the creepers running around, from cell to cell. Banging on his booth. Reaching through the bars. Shook his head and said, “Not great.”

  “Well, you just hang in there ol’ buddy. I’ve got a few people on the way to help you out.”

  “You’re relieving me?” Harper asked him, hopefully.

  “No. You’ll need to get them into D-Block.”

  “You want them to go in there?”

  “Just do what you’re told,” Bowers ordered, and hung up.

  Harper sighed. Hung up the phone. Looked out through the Plexiglas. On the second floor, another light had come on.

  Twenty-One

  Erin Gibbs didn’t even bother to listen anymore. Chris was rambling about some convict who had done something terrible. But Erin was doing his best to close his mind down. It wouldn’t do him any good to listen to each one. He needed to center. Be prepared for when he became a player.

  And he had no doubt it would come to that.

  Once Chris got bored with D-Block, he would move on. Erin didn’t know how the actual security system at Brennick worked, but he had to assume that if he wanted to, Chris could fling open every lock and let the fuckers go rabid throughout the prison.

  He had to assume it was possible, even if it wasn’t, just to be safe.

  “You still alive up there?” Tall Bill asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “I think Chris just smoked the Butcher.”

  Erin nodded in the darkness. Listening to the slowly dying screams. “Sounds that way,” he said. “He’s building up to something. Each time he comes on it’s shorter than the time before. He’s almost to his grand finale, if I had to guess.”

  “Shit,” Bill breathed. “What the fuck could that be?”

  “Don’t ask questions,” Erin told him, “that you don’t want to know the answers to.”

  Twenty-Two

  Phil looked over the edge of the railing, down at the floor, the creepers running wild. Then adjusted his view to center in on the control room. It was just ten feet below him, but the angle was bad.

  He could approach it two ways: he could hang off the catwalk and try to swing onto the walkway below, but that would be no good. The chain link blocked him. He’d skip off and wouldn’t land until he hit ground level.

  That left option number two: hang off the catwalk and try to catch the chain link surrounding the stairs leading up from the third floor to the fourth. From there he could climb his way up to the stairs running to the control room – which had no chain link because there was no way for the prisoners to access it – and climb over that. And then he’d be good.

  So long as Chris hadn’t locked the door.

  Phil thought about it, still leaning over the railing. Really, he decided, he had one option. And that was it.

  “Fuck it,” he said. “It’s time to fight the boss.”

  Twenty-Three

  Brooks came out of the lock and marched over to Marshall. Looked at Maurice, said “What’s he doing he
re?” and started walking towards the next lock before Marshall could answer.

  “I thought he could help,” Marshall said.

  Brooks grunted and waved to the guard inside. This time the gate started to open.

  “Quick question,” Marshall said. “Why are we stopping Phil, exactly?”

  “He’s going to kill Chris.”

  Marshall nodded. The music cut out and Chris came back over the PA:

  “And now, dear listeners, we get to the fun part. No more hints as to who’s next. We’re now entering the bonus round. That means it’s all about playing the odds. There are a hundred and sixty five cells in D-Block. Two men to each, save for the few empties. I’ve opened… a few. Let’s call it an even one fifty. For this next round, I’m opening five – maybe all on the same floor, maybe not – so you’ve got a one in thirty chance of being creeper food. Who feels like playing?”

  Brooks continued walking briskly. Got to a lock and waved. It opened.

  Chris’ maniacal laughter echoed through the prison. “There’s nothing like a captive audience,” he said. Then the music started going again.

  “So,” Marshall continued as they passed through the lock, only one remained before A-Block. “Just, real quick: why are we trying to stop Phil, again?”

  Twenty-Four

  At the word “creeper” Mercedes flinched noticeably. Jessie looked at her and said, “What?”

  Mercedes didn’t answer.

  “What’s that supposed to mean, ‘creeper food’?”

  Mercedes was quiet. Jessie waited, looking at her.

  Mercedes didn’t know what to do. Could she tell her? Should she? She hadn’t fully believed it, even when she had seen the evidence. But now…