[TK: One area we didn’t cover is protection for the prisoners and guards. Dragging infected bodies away is definitely a situation where the prisoners are going to get covered in blood. We should have added a short scene where the guards pass out some medical gloves and masks. Then when they got back their hands and a circle around their mouths would be clean, and the rest of their uniforms and bodies would be drenched in blood. Could have been pretty funny.]
[RL: You think of that now?]
[TK: Yeah, my minds always working.]
Fourteen
“What we need,” Sam Watkins told the Warden, “is to take what resources we have and use them to plug the holes in the resources we don’t have.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sam cleared his throat. Two times in the same morning, Warden Bowers was becoming annoying. Sam considered it wasn’t entirely Bowers’ fault – Sam was pretty keyed up already.
[RL: It should be remembered that these two men rarely spend much time together. Under normal circumstances the Warden would leave when Sam arrived, and then Sam would already be long gone by the time Bowers got back. So both are used to being in complete control of the prison when they’re in it. That’s the reason for Sam’s insolence compared to every other guard’s cult-like following of orders. It’ll play a big part in the next few episodes.]
“It means,” Sam said, “we usually have two hundred guards and one hundred administrative personnel on at any given time. We now have that. Permanently.”
“Why permanently?” Mystique asked. She was sex on heels and Sam tried not to look at her. Warden Bowers did the opposite, sizing her up like a Texan choosing a prime cut.
“Because the relief shifts aren’t coming,” Bowers told her. Matter of fact. “We have reason to believe that if they’re not here by now, they’re not coming.”
“I don’t get it.”
Sam cut in: “Listen, it’s a… difficult thing to explain. Let’s just say we’re on our own.”
“Like, how?”
“In every way.”
He let that register, but didn’t give her a chance to respond. “We’ve still got three hundred, sir,” he told Warden Bowers, “we just don’t have them in shifts. We’ll need to properly manage what shifts we have. The prisoners are locked down, so we don’t need two hundred guards on them right now.”
“True,” Bowers said, nodded.
“We need to give our people a chance to sleep. So we take half and give them barracks. Leaves one hundred active guards. Twelve hour shifts. Fifty can guard the population, so long as they stay in their cells. We can shift fifty more to administrative, temporarily, to fill the gap. With fifty admin people off and fifty on. Twelve hour shifts.”
Bowers leaned back and stroked his belly, rolling his fingers over the spot on his shirt that held his button, then sighed. “Take twenty prisoners – the lowest risk – and have them assist admin for the time being…”
“But…”
“I’ve had enough of your shit today, Watkins,” Bowers snapped. “I know you’re doing your level best, but I’m tired and don’t have the patience for it.”
Sam bit down on his lower lip and waited.
“That leaves thirty guards assisting administrative on each shift. We’ll have to accept that. Pick sixty prisoners and have them work in eight hour shifts. Doing whatever needs done. That way we keep the extra twenty in the towers. Remember, we’re not just worried about escape: we’re worried about incursion. And maybe fifty can keep our people in, but we need all we can get to keep those… things, out.”
Fifteen
“You can’t escape it.”
“What did you say?” Chris asked the prisoner beside him.
“I didn’t say shit,” Mike Sanchez said. Chris didn’t understand why the man would be part of the work detail – if there was one guy he didn’t trust, it was Sanchez.
“So you fucking say,” Chris said, pushed up on him. “What was it?”
"This is the nastiest shit I've ever seen," Gibbs said, interrupting the conversation.
Tall Bill Mahone staggered back to the pile, wiping vomit from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now I know what the boys that found Auschwitz felt like."
Erin shook his head as he pulled an elderly woman's corpse from the pile and set it gingerly in the back of a truck. "Someone's Gramma," he said.
"Fucking look at all of them! How many, you think?"
“Doesn’t fucking matter how many,” Chris told them, “clean it up.”
"At least two hundred," Gibbs replied, ignoring Chris.
"At this tower alone. That's a thousand all told."
It looked like they had gone for meat, not just wandered up. They had massed where there were towers. Chris imagined they couldn't see anything past the inner wall, but Chris and the guards would be plain as day, up on their towers.
"Look at her fucking eyes man," Gibbs said.
Tall Bill, Sanchez and Ray Torez all approached, the later two hesitantly. Chris knew Torez as a shit head bank robber who couldn’t control his trigger finger. He decided to give the group a moment while he paced.
Torez swore and walked away.
Bill shrugged, said: "What do you expect? She's dead. People's eyes dilate when they die."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Sanchez asked. "'Die-late'? Because I bet they thought they died early."
"No," Bill corrected. "Di-A-late. You know, the pupils get bigger. It's one of the theories to explain why people always say they see a white light before they die."
"You talk to a lot of people've died?"
"No," Mahone said again, "I can actually read. Like words on paper..."
"So..."
"So when the pupils get bigger, it lets in more light. Like, have you ever seen a gray hair walking through the grocery store with sunglasses on? It's because her doctor dilated her eyes and the world's too bright. She needs sunglasses, even inside..."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Chris asked. He tucked his rifle back into his shoulder and stalked the few feet with the muzzle raised. "Get back to work."
"I was explaining to these ignorant schmucks how your pupils dilate," Bill explained. His eyes wide at the rifle point aiming at him.
Chris reached up, took his glasses off, and squinted at Tall Bill. "The hell did you just say to me?” he asked. “My what?"
"Jesus Christ," Bill fumed. He took a step towards Chris, but stopped when the barrel twitched. "I'm just going to show you."
Chris cocked his head, studying the man, and then nodded. His mind was racing. It would only take a second to pull the trigger. Less. He could end this fucker before even God knew what was happening.
Bill took another slow step, and asked "Can you see the black part of my eye?"
"Sure," Chris said, kept the rifle trained.
Bill covered his left eye with his hand for a few seconds, then pulled it away. "See how it was big and then got smaller when I took my hand away?" he asked.
"Do it again," Chris said and got a bit closer. Bill did it again, and this time Chris nodded. "Yeah," he said, "I got it. When you have your hand over it the black part gets bigger."
"It dilates. The black part gets bigger to let in more light."
"Well, I'll be damned," Chris said, put his glasses back on. "Learn something new every day. But – just wondering – what the fuck does any of that have to do with anything?"
"We just noticed the body's eyes were dilated, and I explained that it happens when you die. It's not some freaky zombie thing. Totally natural."
"All their eyes are dilated?" Chris asked.
"Yeah," Tall Bill told him, shrugged.
"And what would that mean for their vision?"
Bill shrugged again. "They wouldn't be able to see shit during the day,” he explained. “It'd be just one big florescent light in their face."
Chris was nodding now, saying "That's why they're nocturnal" on a loop.
<
br /> "You alright?" Gibbs asked him, his head cocked.
Chris stopped and looked from one to the other, like he had forgotten they were there. "Get back to work,” he said. “Enough chatting. I got a call to make. I want these bodies gone when I get back."
[RL: I think you came up with the eyes dilating part.]
[TK: I already took credit for it.]
[RL: Did you? I’ve been ignoring most of what you were saying. It’s a defense mechanism.]
Sixteen
“Got two coming out for work detail,” Martinez said.
Mercedes sat up in her bunk. “Work detail?” she asked.
“Work detail,” Martinez repeated.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Warden’s orders,” the short, female guard responded.
Mercedes glanced back at Jessie, who was rising from her bunk. “What’s that mean?”
“It means you got work detail.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Where?”
Martinez checked her sheet. “Kitchen duty,” she said. “Cooking, cleaning, that type of stuff.”
Mercedes let out a slow breath. “What was going on last night?” she asked. “When you told us to get away from the bars?”
“All I know,” the guard said, “is Warden’s the Man and he gave me a list. And I get to rack out in fifteen minutes. If he lets me sleep – because I know he won’t let me leave – he’s Jesus Christ almighty as far as I’m concerned.”
“You know what you sound like?”
“What’s that?” Martinez asked.
“A prisoner.”
[RL: I liked this because it showed how quickly the psychology of being powerless can set in. Within the first day, the guards are going to the Warden and saying, “Sir, can we go now?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t.”
And they just accept it. What else can they do? They can’t leave. The Warden said they couldn’t. And if the Warden says someone stays, they stay. Period.]
Seventeen
Warden Bowers shook his head and leaned against the desk that held the radio. “Say that one more time,” he said into the microphone.
Chris’ voice crackled over the speakers: “Their eyes are dilated. That’s why they only move out of the woods at night – they can’t see.”
Bowers rubbed his chin a moment, thinking. “You’ve made the world of science proud,” he said, “but what in God’s name does that have to do with anything?”
“Most nocturnal animals hunt at night because they see better at night. So they go out and search and hunt at night, because they don’t have the sun blinding them. Humans aren’t like that, but once they’re dead, their pupils blow up and they can’t see in daylight.”
“So…”
“So, we bring a big ass light with us, and if we get in a pinch, we blast them with it. Deer in the headlights.”
“Or they go straight for the light.”
“Which will make us more fucked, how?”
Bowers knew everyone was at the edge of exhaustion, so he had loosened his protocols on free speech. Just a bit.
“Good point,” Bowers said. Set the microphone down and turned to Sanders. “How tough would it be to rig a couple flood lights on to those trucks?”
“What?” Sanders asked. “I’m a mechanic now?”
“You’re whatever the fuck I tell you to be. It’s all electronics, isn’t it?”
Sanders sighed and picked up the phone. Hit the extension and waited. Then said, “Warden wants to know how long it’ll take to rig up flood lights on some trucks.” He listened. Took the phone from his ear and held it to his chest. “They say they already have search lights.”
“I didn’t say ‘search lights’ I said ‘flood lights.’”
“He didn’t say ‘search lights’ he said ‘flood lights.’” He listened again. Took it away and put it back on his chest. “They want to know what the difference is.”
“The fucking difference…” Bowers huffed a moment. “Oh, hell, give me the damn phone.” He snatched it from Sanders and held it three inches from his mouth. Shouted: “Get me the biggest fucking lights you have on those trucking and do it now, or I’ll lock you up with the animals for an hour and let them get their rocks off on something tighter than a blow hole.”
[RL: I always get a kick out of that exchange. Originally we had a scene following this where the lights are being attached to the trucks. We ended up scrapping it and jumping right to Chris coming back.]
[TK: Willing to bet that’s the first time the Warden’s threatened to have members of his staff gang raped for poor performance.]
[RL: I don’t know why. I would think it would be a great motivator.]
He tossed the phone at Sanders. Took back up the microphone and keyed it. “I doubt we’ll have lights on those trucks by the time you get back. I’ve had ten separate requests by head of households wanting to go check on their families. And the only reason I haven’t got more is I told them the next man that asks will be reprimanded. We need to get into that town. I can’t wait for lights.”
“Roger.”
Bowers sighed. “Progress report.”
Chris came back: “Cleared the first tower. Team two should be about the same. That leaves three. About forty minutes out. Maintenance says it’ll take another half hour at each tower to check integrity. Should we move on ahead of them or stick close?”
“Move on,” Bowers said, nodding. “I already told you: we don’t have time. The towers can protect the crew.”
“But Watkins…”
“…Works for me.”
There was a silence. Then Chris said, “Roger.”
“And Chris.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good job.” Bowers dropped the microphone and left the communications room.
[RL: Again: “But Watkins…” Normally this wouldn’t be a problem because either Bowers or Watkins would be in charge, not both. In the end Warden’s the man, but it adds a dimension to the chain of command, and therefore to Brennick, that we felt worked nicely.]
Eighteen
“You can’t all go,” Sam told the assembly. Around him, every man who wasn’t guarding cells was asking what was happening. Why they were still at Brennick. Where the next shift was. And could they check on their families.
“I’m taking eight. That’s it.”
“Eight?” someone shouted from the back. “Fucking eight? My kids need me!”
The mass grumbled their agreement. Sam glared at them, sweeping the faces of the front row.
“I’m taking eight,” he repeated. Short. Clipped. “Plus me, and Chris.”
“So you get to make sure your honey’s okay?” the man right and three over asked. His name was Clancy Thompson. He was a good man. Tall, lean, always clean shaven. But he was pissing Sam off.
“It’s not seniority,” Sam explained. “Warden specifically asked for Chris and I. Chris’ the most experienced in this case.” Sam swallowed a bit of bile at the admission. “And I’m second in command,” he continued. “Obviously the fucking Warden’s not going out there, so I have to. We need eight more men – Warden’s orders – and we’ll check on everyone’s families.”
They grumbled again. Sam continued, “Warden wants my most reliable officers. I say you’re all my top picks. There’s not a man – or woman – in this prison I wouldn’t ride into hell with. So I’m letting you all decide. I need men who can go out there and not be stupid. Ask yourselves: ‘Can I do the job despite the consequences?’
“And let me explain the consequences: The stories are true. There are… zombies. And they’re fucking… everywhere.”
Silence settled over the room like a mist. Sam gave it a moment, but no one protested.
“We lost guards yesterday, colleagues.” His voice was strong, but clearly somber. He wasn’t sure what part of him was speaking, but he thought it
appropriate. “Friends. And they’ve turned. Turned into… whatever those things out there are. We call them creepers, because we don’t know what else to call them. Now, some of you have seen them, others haven’t. But let me tell those who haven’t: they were once people, and there’s a damn good chance you’ll have to kill what’s left of people you knew, to survive.”
He rolled his gaze over the crowd.
“Who can do that?” he asked.
[RL: Despite all the noise we like to talk about waiting for the zombie apocalypse to arrive so we can all go murderously nuts, how many people actually could do that?]
[TK: I have current addresses for my list of wrong-doers. They better keep on praying against the arrival of zombies. Because if the creepers don’t get them, I will.]
[RL: Shit. So that’s why you wanted my mailing address.]
Nineteen
“What was that?” Jessie asked. She pulled a red lock of hair out her eyes with her left hand. “Back in the cell?”
Mercedes cleaned another dish, not looking at her friend and cellmate.
“What was what?” she asked.
“The ‘work detail’ thing?”
“What about it?”
“You seemed awful worried about us having ‘work detail,’ is all.”
Mercedes shrugged. “Never had it before,” she said. “Surprised.”
Jessie stopped rinsing and leaned against the cold, steel sink. “Yes, you have. Warden calls you out all the time for work detail. I always assumed it was no big deal. Then you look at me when we both get called, and get all nervous. What’s going on?”
“We’re washing dishes.”
“I know that, but there’s something you’re not telling me. In fact, you’re flat out lying to me.”
Mercedes didn’t say anything, instead she scrubbed the bottom of a pan that didn’t have a smudge.
“It’s fine,” Jessie said, and returned to rinsing. “You don’t trust me.”
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