I answered: “It’s fucking awesome, right?”
He stammered a moment, then said: “Well, yeah!”
And to this day, whenever I read Maurice putting together his new toy, I get a bit steamy eyed. I can remember shaking as I typed it for the first time. Knowing that this was possibly the most important thing I had ever done (And, No, having children does not compare.)
It’s my favorite. I hope you enjoy it, too.]
One
Will Stockton knew that one day he would die. He’d just never thought it would be then, at that moment, right there.
He made a right and crossed through the threshold. His rifle slung loose by his side. Stopped for a moment and flicked on the light – the power grid was still up. It would be for some time, he knew. The dam maintained a steady flow. Until the rotors seized, the power would be fine.
Will was a big fan of “Life After People” on the history channel.
[RL: The History Channel was the first, and really only, reality television network.]
[TK: Fucking love that show.]
Light flooded the small space, the white painted walls reflecting it back. He squinted for a moment, until his eyes adjusted.
Will looked around, examining the empty room. Saw a door on the far side. Crossed to it. Tried the knob. It was locked from his side.
He shrugged.
Unlocked the bolt and turned the handle.
[RL: Because it’s always a good idea to open a door that was locked from your side.]
[TK: Wouldn’t have much of a body count if nobody went into the dark.]
[RL: True. It’s the classic bitch about the girl running up the stairs instead of out the front door. Hello? If she went out the front she might survive.]
[TK: Right.]
Two
Everyone heard Will Stockton scream, but Phillip Craig was faster than the rest. Phil – with his plain hair, face, and build – had been moving in the same direction as Will, but ahead of him. Looking for ammunition. When the siren called.
He jumped, spun, and went out of the gun room – which was empty. Took five steps down the hall and turned left. Inside the room he entered, five creepers were tearing Will Stockton apart.
He fired his rifle.
Holding the trigger down.
Full automatic.
Blood spattered and bone splintered as he raked the creepers and their prey. Stockton slumped to the floor and fell over. The creepers shot backwards from the onslaught. Phil gave them one more long spray and then let the trigger return to ready.
Quiet settled in like a weight.
“Holy fuck,” Sam Watkins said as he ran in. “I thought we got them all.”
Phil sighed. Let his rifle drop in its strap on his side. Snatched out his pistol and walked over to Will. He pointed it at the fallen man’s head.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sam asked him.
“Making sure he doesn’t turn,” Phil explained.
“Turn?”
“Fucking turn, man. Into one of them.” Phil showcased the zombies with his hand.
“He’s dead, he’s not gonna turn. Shooting him now would be: A. a waste of ammunition, and B. mutilating his fucking corpse. Put that thing away.”
Phil squinted at Sam. “Haven’t you seen ‘the Walking Dead’?” he asked. “It’s in the brain, man.”
Sam rolled his eyes, crossed the room and took the gun out of Phil’s hand.
“What happened?” Chris Reed asked from the door, ran a hand through his short blonde hair.
Sam ignored him and looked at Phil. “That was a television show,” he said. “This is real life.”
[RL: Again, I love this gag. I once read a brilliant short by an as yet undiscovered author where the character turned on the author. He refuses to do what the writer says. And so the author starts writing in fragmented sentences, to build tension, and the character says: “Don’t think those fragmented sentences scare me. I’m sick of you!”
Anyway, I don’t know where I was going with that. But I love the idea of people in fiction pointing at fiction and saying, “Come on, that’s fiction. This is real.”]
“Right,” Phil said, nodded. “Because in real life, dead people eat live people. Tear them apart. And all of that. Right? Hold on, let me call the local talk radio station, we’ll figure out what the President has to say.”
He took out his phone, looked at it, and said, “Damn. No bars. Guess we’ll have to assume there’s fucking zombies and that the best guess is we go by the only information we got: movies, TV, an’ books.”
“We know they’re nocturnal,” Chris cut in. “Because their eyes are dilated, they can’t see during the day.”
“Zombies are always nocturnal in the movies,” Phil said, nodded again. Went to put his phone back in his pocket, stopped, looked at it, and said, “I don’t even know why I still have this fucking thing,” and chucked it.
[RL: A relatively mundane sentence that I think caries a great deal of weight. I read an article recently that explained they’ve named a new psychological disorder: fear of being without your cell phone. I can’t remember the name of the phobia, but that’s what it translated to. I can relate – I feel naked without the damn thing. But it’s more than that. The TV, the internet, cell phones, GPS, Twitter, Facebook: these things have become as necessary as air to modern day Americans. The logical thing to do with a cell phone is to put it back in your pocket, even though you’re obviously in the fucking zombie apocalypse and it doesn’t work. Why are you keeping it?
I always thought Phil’s instinct and then reaction – realizing it no longer has a use – was a perfect way of showcasing how much we’ve come to rely on things that are inherently flawed.]
Sam shook his head. “What in the hell does any of this mean?” he asked.
“It means that just because they’re movies doesn’t mean they’re fiction. There’ve been zombies for hundreds of years – probably thousands – and it’s always when someone kills part of the brain. They would poison someone with something that slowed their heart, and because of that, the victim would suffer oxygen deprivation to the brain. They’d become retards, basically, and then they could be controlled.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Sam asked.
“I’m saying, the people that wrote these zombie stories didn’t make it all up out of their asses. I trust them to tell me what’s what.”
[TK: It’s nice to see someone applying some logic to the situation.]
“Well,” Sam spat, “I couldn’t give half a shit if you trust them. I’m in charge. You’ll trust me.”
Phil sensed something move behind him. A shift in density. He started, turned, and found Will Stockton standing a few inches away.
[RL: Oops.]
Three
"See, and that's why I'm a big fan of the old gods."
"Old gods?" Erin Gibbs asked. Leaned back in his bunk and laced his fingers behind his head.
"You know, like Zeus and shit," Tall Bill Mahone explained. His back to the bars as usual.
"Gotcha."
"See, all of the religions say we were made by somebody else, right? In their image."
"I believe so." Erin looked at the concrete ceiling as he listened. His orange jumpsuit pulled down to his waist. Gray skin against his white undershirt. “But…”
"But, if God's so damn great, how come we're all fucked up?"
"Speak for yourself, I'm awesome."
[RL: Funny, I have nearly that exact exchange with my therapist once a month.]
"What I mean is: God's perfect. Infallible. Never makes mistakes, right?"
"Sure," Erin said, shrugged in his bunk.
"Then why aren't we? Either He screwed up somewhere – which isn't possible – or He didn't make us in His image. You can't have it both ways. People are mean, spiteful, destructive little creatures. If we were made in God's image, I would think He was a douche bag."
"True. But He ki
nd of was, if you think about it. He was a vengeful God."
"But He's not anymore. Once He got older, had a kid, He mellowed out. Which means He changed His mind about all the fire and brimstone stuff. Which means He was wrong about it in the beginning, and that He's not perfect and infallible."
"How did we get on this subject?"
"Rise of the Titans. I was saying that I like the old gods better."
"That's right."
"See, the old gods weren't perfect. In fact, they were just like people, only more powerful. They had envy, lust, anger, love, passion, all that stuff. Fathers had to keep their eyes on their daughters because you never knew when you were gonna catch her playing peek-a-boo with some demi-god's shaft. They were like all-powerful step-parents: you were allowed to hate them – they didn't mind that – but you did respect them. That's the kind of gods human beings can relate with. They make the most sense.
“But, a God that claims to be perfect and then makes us in His image, and we have all these traits, and He's like 'Don't blame me, it was my number two that fucked you guys up', is just not a logical person to listen to on matters of character."
"Wait a minute, are you saying you're a pagan?"
"No, I'm saying I'm realistic. In the end, God is not infallible. He made us just the way He is. And it's right in the bible that He acts exactly like we do. The angels, too. They act just like people. Think about the battle in heaven and the fallen angels afterwards. So God's Big Man on campus, and then Satin turns against Him. Tries to take power. But he loses. So what does God do? He exiles him. He doesn't kill him. Why?"
"Are you asking me?"
"Guess."
"Because He still loves him, maybe? I don't know. Because the script told him to."
"No, He doesn't love him. In Revelations it says Jesus will kill him. So it's not love. It's because every tyrant needs a scapegoat."
"Okay, so all this going on. What's that? Are you saying this is God? Or the devil?"
"If I had to guess, I'd say it was the Big Guy," Bill told him, deadly serious.
"Really? You think God would do this to us?"
"I'll put it to you this way: if He didn't want it to happen, wouldn't we have heard from Him by now?"
[RL: You can’t overestimate the place of religion when something like this happens. There will naturally be – even in the faithless – an intense reflection on their belief system. I would think.]
[TK: I would like to believe that when the shit really hits the fan, the bible thumpers will have to sit down and do some serious reflection. Maybe they didn’t put enough in the collection plate for God to stop the rampaging hordes. Maybe Mr. Smith, high school dropout, was full of shit and there’s no golden plates hidin’ in a secret cave with special writing that only he can read. Maybe the Buddhist or Indians had it right all along. Maybe they’ll realize religion is nothing more than the business of faith, and its shackles will continue to keep “man” a shallow shell of our potential.]
[RL: Please, Tom, don’t hold back. I’m sure every reader is really interested in hearing you and our sister’s discussion from every single fucking family Christmas. And just so her side is represented (and because I’m in the middle of the two sides philosophically) her point is: “I know there’s a God. Because I can feel Him.”
My arguments tend to be more based in fact – like, I don’t know, that statistically the Judeo-Christian philosophy produces more productive citizens and less poverty – but I don’t want to make this about me.]
Four
Sam watched it happen. Too dumb struck by the sight of one of his guards actually turning into a creeper, and right in front of him. He had used the words “turn” and “zombies,” told the other guards it would happen, but when it came down to executing one of them, he was lost for that split second it would normally take to get you killed.
And if Phil hadn’t been there, they probably all would have been.
Phil said, “Shit,” as the creeper lunged, but got his hands up in time. The creeper that had once been Will Stockton gnashed out, trying for the throat. Phil held it there, its face an inch from the aorta.
He kicked at it, trying to push it back. Went for the knee. The joint went backwards and the creeper’s weight dropped it down. Right onto Phil’s chest. Jaw clamped closed by the motion. He used the momentum to give it a good shove before it could recover. Went for his pistol – but it was still in Sam’s hand.
He tried for the rifle. Snatched it and started to bring it up. But the creeper was coming back at him. He only got it to gut level before the thing closed the space and was on him.
The sound of automatic rifle fire chattered through the room, bouncing off the thick walls. Blood exploded across everything. Coating the walls in a mist of red. Phil stopped firing, got a knee up between himself and the creeper and kicked it back against the wall. Took a step forward and emptied his clip into its head.
When the creeper dropped, there was nothing left above the jaw line.
Phil wiped the blood on his face with a palm, and said, “Like that.”
[RL: ‘Nuff said.]
[TK: Fucking love that guy.]
Five
“What are you doing?” Jessie asked Mercedes.
“What does it look like?” Mercedes asked, and wiped the sweat from her dark face. Her long, curly hair frizzing in the moisture.
“It looks like you’re pouring bleach into someone’s food.”
“And?”
“You’re not poisoning that guy,” Jessie told her. Pulled a lock of her red hair out of her eyes, tucked it behind her ear. It fell back onto her face almost immediately.
Mercedes glared at her. “I’m not?” she asked. “Who fucking says?”
“I’m saying.”
“You’re sticking up for him?”
Jessie shrugged. “Maybe.”
“He was a cop, he took me in. You’re going to sit there and tell me I don’t have a beef?”
Jessie shrugged again. “It was his job,” she told Mercedes. “Now he’s a convict. Same as you and me.”
Mercedes squinted, sizing her up. “You think he’s cute,” she said.
Jessie sighed now, throwing up her hands. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sadie, you don’t? I mean, I’m in prison, I’m not dead.”
Mercedes hadn’t really considered it. She didn’t now, either. “What are you going to do? Ask him to hang the thing out the bars so you can jump on it?”
“That might be fun.” Jessie laughed.
[RL: If you’re a female prisoner of consenting age please understand I think that could be incredible and would be willing to try. Although, I’m not in prison. Damn it. Okay, if you want to pretend to be a female prisoner of consenting… No, are of consenting age and want to pretend to be a prisoner, I think that could be fun.
We just have to find bars. *Shrug* That could probably be arranged. Yeah. Just saying. Call me.]
“And for how long? Until a guard catches you? That’s real romantic.”
“I’m not looking for romance.”
“You’re looking for a cheap fuck,” Mercedes spat.
“Well maybe if I had ‘work duty’ as often as you, I wouldn’t have to worry about it.”
They both recoiled. Jessie put a hand to her mouth. Mercedes just worked her jaw a moment, and then turned back to her task: pouring a small amount of bleach into the soup from a massive jug. Too much, and he’d taste it out right and stop eating. She’d just have to keep at it. The consistent dosing would get him eventually. She had plenty of time.
“I’m sorry.”
Mercedes stopped pouring, closed the lid and put the jug back under the sink, where it was meant for sanitizing the towels.
“I said I’m sorry.”
Mercedes took the tray and brought it over to the other counter. Took a butter knife out and scratched an X on it. Then went and put it on the cart with the other trays.
“Come on,” she said to Jessie. “Before it gets c
old.”
[RL: Again that line: “Before it gets cold.”]
Six
Maurice Avelanda wasn’t sure of the right play, but he knew he needed to make one soon. Whatever it was.
If the prison guards were in town, that was like having the police back. But in a different way. In his experience the prison guards were the kind that became bastards once they clocked out. Maybe they were just always bastards. But still, they were here, they were armed, and those two things meant the prison was free of the plague. And that state or federal government existed.
If he had any chance in hell, his best chance was the prison guards at Brennick.
But how was he going to get their attention?
Half the zombies in the city had already converged on the sheriff’s office – the logical place the guards would go if they had good intentions. They had come in to see what was happening, now they were locked up tight, trying to survive their first trip back in.
The more he thought about it, the more he needed to go back with them. He needed them to protect him. He needed those thick walls between him and the hoard.
But how?
It wasn’t safe to go outside. That much had always been obvious, only more so now that a heavily armed group had locked themselves up in a building to escape the creatures. He couldn’t just walk up to them. And he didn’t have any weapons. Even if he did, it wouldn’t be enough. He would need a fucking tank to get through those things and to the door. And then they’d have to get back out.
He closed the blinds, replaced the tin foil and blanket, and sat down to weigh his options.
[TK: I wonder how many people would do just that, sit there in their housing waiting for help. Lucky for Maurice he’s more of a hands-on kind of guy.]
Seven
Outpost Season One Page 42