Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

“Jesus fucking Christ! It’s not that I don’t trust you. Would you just stop being a nagging bitch for two seconds and leave it alone?”

  “Sure,” Jessie said, nodded. Turned to Mercedes again. Said: “Just what kind of ‘work’ was he having you do?”

  [RL: This is a recurring theme and the answer – though seemingly obvious – plays significantly in later seasons.]

  Twenty

  Sam watched the two trucks pull in, prisoners loaded in back. Chris pulled the lead truck in, switched off the ignition, got out, and lit a smoke, leaning against the door. The prisoners hopped down as best they could, rifles trained on them, and began their shuffle. One of them said “Watts” and Sam turned to him. He recognized him but was having trouble placing the name.

  “Gibbs,” Sam said, nodding, “how you doing?”

  “Not great,” Gibbs told him. “You see what it’s like out there?”

  “I was out there all night.”

  “You look tired.”

  “Thanks, I am.” Sam looked at the guard leading them, said, “Take the prisoners away, please,” and the line got moving again.

  “Where’s maintenance?” Sam asked Chris.

  “Checking the fence,” Chris told him, blowing smoke. “Warden wanted me back so we could hit the town.”

  “I wanted them to be protected.”

  Chris looked uncomfortable again, glancing around. “You hear that?” he asked.

  “No,” Sam said, grinding his teeth.

  Chris stopped checking around him and said, “Right. Warden told me to come back.” He shrugged. “Warden’s the boss.”

  Sam stared at him a moment, hating him with every ounce he had. He didn’t have any desire to go back to that town, and definitely not with Chris, and most of all not with the Warden being a ball buster.

  He wasn’t afraid of what they might find in town. That didn’t really scare him. He had seen first hand what it was and wasn’t all that broken up about it. Half the fucking people deserved what they got, and the other half… Well, they got it anyway. His little speech about them being people and precious and all that shit was just to appease the troops – who were all sleeping like fucking babies right now anyway.

  No. He wasn’t worried about what they might find. But the other part was making his head split open. His insides torn to shreds. His hands shaky. His mouth dry.

  It was what he knew they would find.

  And it had nothing to do with zombies.

  “Oh fuck it,” he said. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

  [RL: Little Sammy did a baaad thing.]

  Twenty-One

  “Guards look like they’re ready to fucking eat each other,” Tall Bill Mahone told Erin Gibbs.

  “They’ll be fine,” Erin said, and laced his fingers behind his head. Bill had taken up his old position with his back pressed against the bars. Lately, though, there weren’t many guards passing by.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing,” Erin told him.

  “You’re thinking about the bodies out there, right?”

  Erin sat up. “Fucking of course I am,” he spat at Bill. “What the hell else should I be thinking about? Hooters girls and hot summers at the beach?”

  “I would recommend something along those lines.”

  “So you’re saying you’re not thinking about them?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Then what the fuck are we talking about?”

  Bill shrugged. “You got a weird kind of look in your eyes out there,” he said. “It wasn’t like you’d lost hope. I mean, I guess. But you’ve been a hundred-mile stare kind of guy the whole twenty-four hours I’ve known you. But… Looked like you died inside out there.”

  Erin shrugged this time and laid back down, returning his hands to their proper place.

  “You said you don’t know where they are,” Bill said. Sighed. “It’s a big world out there. Even if things were normal, chances of finding them are next to getting hit by lightning. Twice. At noon. On a Sunday. With no clouds.”

  “I get it.”

  “Now… Well…”

  “I fucking get it.”

  They were quiet for a long time.

  “Still,” Bill broke the silence, “for your boy, may be worth it.”

  “For my boy, anything is.”

  “Like running?”

  “Put it this way,” Erin said, not sitting up, staring at the ceiling. “They let me out that gate again, and it’ll take a hell of a lot more than chains and machine guns to get me back in.”

  [RL: That’s a great line, In My Opinion, delivered perfectly. Erin is the consummate badass.]

  Twenty-Two

  “So what you’re saying,” Jessie said, and dropped the dishes into the sink, “is that I really don’t want to know, or that I don’t need to know or that it’s safer if I don’t know? Which is it?”

  “If I choose any of those I’m saying it happened,” Mercedes said, and pushed a rack of dishes into the industrial washing machine.

  [RL: Leave it to a woman to only give you choices that incriminate you.]

  “Which you just did.”

  “No, I didn’t. I overreacted. I just get nervous when people start throwing things around with ‘Warden said’ before or after.”

  “You didn’t get nervous, you got scared.”

  “When’s the last time someone said: ‘Warden said’ you get to have a bubble bath?”

  Jessie shrugged. “Never,” she said.

  “Or ‘Warden said’ you get steak instead of dog meat? Or ‘Warden said’ you’re a beautiful woman who deserves to be treated better than an animal? It doesn’t happen. This is Brennick, and Warden’s a fucking asshole and anything he says is probably bad. Fair?”

  “Fair.”

  They let that sit. The only sound the clinking of dishes. After a moment, Jessie said, “What the fuck do you think is going on?”

  Mercedes looked at her a moment, then wiped the sweat from her dark face. Steam trailed up from the dish washer and ensured the sweat replaced itself. “Like what?” she asked.

  “Like what’s going on? Why are we here?”

  “Because we’re both murderers. Though, in my case, it was justified.”

  “The guy said I paint like a six year old,” Jessie spat. “Sticking a brush in his eye was totally justified.”

  “Lighting him on fire…”

  [TK: Some people just don’t appreciate art.]

  “Was overkill. I get that now. But it takes time to truly mature. That’s not what I meant. Why are we working in the kitchen? This is as max as it gets, they don’t let prisoners do anything here.”

  “And?”

  “We’re doing dishes. Like you said: When does Bowers let us out of our cells?”

  “When he feels like it.”

  “And it lasts?”

  “Five minutes, until someone offs the other side and then we’re back locked up.”

  “And who’s allowed out of their cells during lock down?”

  Mercedes shrugged and kept working. She didn’t have an answer. She didn’t feel like talking anyway. She was just glad Jessie wasn’t interrogating her anymore.

  “No one,” Jessie answered for her. “Until now.”

  [RL: Honestly, I’m starting to get annoyed doing this commentary. Every one of these scenes is good, and has their important points. But if I go through and list them all I’m just making myself sound like an arrogant ass. And Tom’s enough of an ass for both of us. So, I think from here on out I’m going to shut the fuck up and just read. If something strikes me as important enough to cut in I’ll do it.]

  [TK: And there was much rejoicing across the land.]

  Twenty-Three

  “What do you think crawled up Watkins’ ass?” the guard next to Chris asked. He was medium all around. Not dark, not light. Not tall, not short. Not thin, not heavy. Even his hair danced along the line of not being long, but not short, and not brown, b
ut not blonde. His name was Phillip Craig. Chris wanted to call him “Blah” but never had to his face.

  [TK: Here you’re thinking Phil is the Yeoman Johnson who always beams down with Kirk, Spock and Scotty. But you’d be wrong. He doesn’t have any stand out traits, because he’s everyman. Every one who’s seen every horror movie ever filmed, beaten every video game, and has been waiting his whole life for a chance, just once chance to be free in those worlds.]

  [RL: I know I said I was going to shut up, but I have to talk a bit in here because after working on this project, I wish I could meet Phil in real life and shake his hand. I want to have a beer with him. Maybe a gay day. Seriously, I love the guy that much.]

  [TK: And there it is, so glad you could be here for my brother’s coming out.]

  [RL: I don’t think it’s gay when it’s a fictional character. Like I couldn’t give a shit about Brad Pitt, but Tyler Durden is sexy. No homo. Wait, I might have been a bit late on the no homo, but I’m calling the same page rule. It counts.]

  “It’s the exhaustion,” Chris explained and cut the wheel a hair, banking around the carcass of an animal no longer identifiable. “Guy hasn’t slept in well over a day.”

  “Still,” Phil rubbed his knees, “seems awfully keyed up.”

  “You volunteered for this work?” Chris asked him.

  “Sure,” Phil said, shrugging. “I’ve given Resident Evil like three months of my life. Seen all the movies. Plus Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Walking Dead, Shawn of the Dead – which was awesome – Twenty-Eight Days Later, Twenty-Eight Weeks Later, Zombieland – also awesome…”

  “I get it.”

  “… I fully plan on naming my first born ‘Romero’ – boy or girl, doesn’t matter.” Phil shrugged. “Anyway, I figure it couldn’t be worse than CGI makes it out to be. Hell, might be better.”

  [RL: Phil is the first time in the genre of zombie fiction I’ve ever seen that a character accepts the fact that there have been some amazing films, books and games that built this genre. I’m not saying it’s never happened, but I’ve never seen it. And, Romero isn’t a bad name for a girl.]

  Chris looked at him. His right hand fingering the wheel. The road was straight for a mile, he knew. But he kept staring. A voice in his head was telling him to look back at the road, a turn was coming up. But he couldn’t. There was an artery. Right there. In the neck. He could see it, pulsing. He could… taste it…

  “Holy fucking hell!” Phil screeched.

  Chris turned, saw the road swerve left, and corrected. The truck kissed the guard rail for a moment and then they were back behind the others. As if nothing had happened.

  “Keep your fucking eyes on the road, man,” Blah scolded him. “Stead of checking me out. Fag.”

  [RL: Alright, I got to talk about Phil. I’ll really be quiet now. Promise.]

  Twenty-Four

  “The fuck was that?” Sam shouted into the microphone as they neared the town. Chris’ truck had hit a guard rail and nearly tossed the shooter in the bed.

  “No big deal,” Chris came back. “Lost my train of thought.”

  “Well, find it. We’re passing city limits.”

  Around them the wood had given way to exit ramps and fields. Farms unfolded lazily in the pale, winter sun.

  “Look at that,” Clancy said, pointing. “Whole fucking cow hollowed out.”

  “More than one,” Sam told him. To the left of the highway a half dozen were strewn across a long, rolling field. “They all probably got it in the end.”

  Clancy gripped his rifle stock until his knuckles turned white. His knee started rocking slowly.

  “Stop it, you’re making me nervous.”

  “I can’t help it,” Clancy said. “I am nervous. Not one fucking car. Not one person. Nothing.”

  “Everyone was told to stay home,” Sam explained. “The cars are in the driveways, I would assume.” Sam reached behind him and opened the window to the back. “Stay sharp,” he told the guard, Will Stockton.

  Five and a half feet of muscle and mustache nodded back.

  They took the second exit, Sam guiding the trucks through the turn, and dropped into town on the main road. In the distance clouds bruised the sky, moving in fast.

  “Shit,” Sam said. “Clouds coming in.”

  “So?”

  Everything looked deserted. Cars still lined the main boulevard, but they all sat empty. The shops were empty and dark. Bits of trash danced listlessly in the breeze. The motorcade crept past a few broken windows. The drug store, now a smoldering ruin. Local bar: door hanging open, crooked, on a single hinge. Gun store: windows shattered, bars streaked with dried blood, sidewalk a frozen waterfall of dark brown.

  “Where we heading first?” Clancy asked him.

  “Sheriff’s office.”

  Twenty-Five

  “Chow time,” the girl said, and passed a tray through the slot in the bars.

  “Hot damn,” Tall Bill said. “They went and upgraded the cooks.”

  Judging by the clothes, numbers fading on the right breast, she was an inmate. She was beautiful in the old ways: Soft. Sensual. Slightly fragile.

  “Just take your fucking food,” she spat, “and stop ogling me.”

  [RL: And wholesome. We forgot to mention that.]

  “Ooh,” Bill purred, “I’ve loved you all my life, I just didn’t know it until now.”

  [TK: Bill’s shameless flirtation is awesome because we get to use all those amazing cheap lines we thought of as kids. She’ll love this, this one’s totally gonna work, I’m getting laid for sure. I was in a bar and a friend took home a girl with the line “you’re as cute as a button.” The fuck? As cute as a button? Well, it got the buttons of her pants undone.]

  Erin passed him and took the next tray. “What’s going on?” he asked. “They’re having inmates help out now?”

  “You saw what’s going on,” Bill said, punched him. Erin glared at him, and Bill moved off to eat.

  The girl fidgeted a moment. “Yeah,” she said, “I mean, no. I don’t know what’s going on, but they’re having us help out. Fuck it, gets us out of our cell.”

  “Who’s us?”

  “Who are you talking to?” another female prisoner came up with the tray-filled cart. Erin recognized her. “Oh, shit,” she said. Apparently she recognized him.

  “Hello, Miss Mercedes.”

  “Fuck you, pig,” she sneered. “How’s it feel to be in the cage now, and not on the other side?”

  “I didn’t put you in a cage, Mercedes, your actions did.”

  “Very philosophical. Take his food back.”

  Erin pulled the tray away and set it on the bed behind him.

  “Don’t be childish,” he said. “I was a cop, you killed someone. If it hadn’t been me that dragged you in, it would have been someone else. And they wouldn’t have been as nice about it.”

  “I don’t remember you apologizing or rubbing my hand.”

  “I told you to watch your head.”

  [RL: He says that to all the girls.]

  “Hey,” a guard yelled out, running up to the girls. “I told you to keep moving and do your job. Move it along.”

  “For dinner,” Mercedes whispered, “I’m putting bleach in your mash potatoes.”

  Erin nodded. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” he said.

  Twenty-Six

  The parked trucks made an arch around the front of the Sheriff’s office. Sam’s truck in the lead. Will hopped out of the back and brought his rifle up steady, sweeping it around the open streets. His eyes sharp, almost not blinking. Sam got out and patted him on the shoulder.

  “You’re point,” he told Will. Then turned to Chris, who was trotting up, said: “I’ll take three in and see what the situation is. You take over out here and keep me posted. I want shooters ready and aiming down each of the five points. Will stays with the trucks. Don’t do anything without consulting me first.”

  “Except shoot,” Ch
ris said, nodding.

  “Fine, shoot, but make sure they’re dead first.” Sam thought a moment, unsure of how that sounded. It sounded ridiculous. “And after,” he added.

  [RL: Right, “Don’t shoot anyone unless you’re sure their dead.”]

  “Copy,” Chris said, turned and started instructing the men. He stopped, turned back and said, “Who’s going in?”

  “Clancy, Phil and Brooks. The others in shooting positions.”

  Chris repeated it to the others and they dispersed.

  Brooks Pilar, one of the largest men Sam had ever known, nearly seven feet and three hundred pounds of towering black bulk, came up beside him.

  “Watts,” he said, his voice like cannon fire.

  “Brooks,” Sam returned. “I want you in front of me.”

  “Always.”

  They assembled: Brooks in the lead, Phil behind him, then Sam and finally Clancy. They checked their rifles, looking balefully at the building they would enter.

  Though most of the prisoners came from the city, the town was originally peopled exclusively by those working at the prison, or there to support those working at the prison. As such, the Sheriff’s office was built first as a routing station for prisoners and guards. Over time, the city grew up around it. About fifty thousand souls. For that reason, Town Hall was positioned across the street. Five streets ran off from the lot that made up the office and surrounding park like a giant impact crack. The main street was the largest and ran to the highway. The others ran until the pavement stopped.

  They would have to clear it before they could do anything else.

  Sam took a deep breath, and touched Brooks’ shoulder. “Let’s move,” he said.

  [RL: Originally the town was going to have about five thousand people in it. But we decided that if we limited it to that we would be limiting our zombie killing enjoyment, so we increased it by a thousand percent.]