Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

One

  “She’s dead,” Sam said, “they all are.”

  “You don’t know that,” Bryce Stone told him, and took a step forward.

  “Yes, I do,” Sam said, and shot Bryce in the chest.

  Phillip Craig, his semi-automatic shotgun already pointed at Sam’s chest, fired and sent a burst of buckshot into his superior’s bullet proof vest. Sam got yanked back like he was on a cord and landed in the snow five feet back.

  [TK: No hesitation, boom!]

  Phil stormed past him and kicked in the front door, disappearing inside.

  Sam shook his head to clear it. His chest hurt like hell. But he was alive.

  He got to his hands and knees and started moving. Slowly rising as he got his breath back. Got to his feet and limped around the corner.

  He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he couldn’t go back. Could he make it alone? Fuck no. But he couldn’t risk going back to the prison with Phil and Chris. If he went back with them, he went back in chains.

  That wasn’t an option. Thirty seconds before, he had been one promotion away from Warden. He couldn’t go back a prisoner. Not after all this shit. Not after fighting off zombies all day, and most of the night. Not after eyeing those prisoners for years, moving up the ranks. Not after all the shit he had to do to get where he was before all hell broke loose.

  “Fuck it,” he said to no one. “I’m on my own.”

  [RL: Trust me.]

  Two

  Phil came through the door ready for anything. Scanned the living room and kitchen. Cleared them, and went down the hall.

  Kicked in the first door: bathroom. Second: office. Made it to the last and hesitated, unsure of what he would find. Kicked it open and recoiled. Looked in again, let it burn into his memory, and went back down the hall and outside.

  Sam wasn’t lying in the snow anymore.

  “Where the fuck is he?”

  Chris Reed pointed a shaking hand to the side of the house. “Creepers get her?” he asked.

  Creepers: otherwise dead humans now walking, hunting, and killing in a mass hysteria, with animal rage, nocturnal creatures. Thousands of them. The town was filled with them. The guards had every reason to believe the rest of the world was too.

  Phil shook his head and went to the corner, peeked around: empty. Started to turn it to follow. Not tall, not short, not fat, not thin, hair a dusty mix of brown and blond, there was nothing about Phil to draw attention – save for the fifty caliber sniper rifle on his back and his pleasure and skill at killing creepers.

  And anything else that pissed him off.

  [RL: And he is very, very pissed off.]

  Chris stopped him Phil with: “You’re going after him?”

  “You’re God damn right I’m going after him,” Phil said. “He just shot Bryce and murdered his wife.”

  “He killed her? When?”

  “Fuck if I know, man, but he made a mess.”

  Phil turned from Chris and took off alongside the house. Hit the corner, peeked around and caught a flash of uniform before Sam disappeared around the house behind his own, the yards connected.

  Phil crossed the yard – snow dancing around his boots – with his shotgun raised and ready, scanning left to right. Hit the corner, came around shotgun ready and put a burst into the side of the house just as Sam disappeared around it.

  Pissed now, he took off at a dead run. Made it to the next corner and threw himself against it. Leaned forward just long enough to see and then rocked back as a slew of automatic rifle fire peppered the area his head had just occupied.

  “You’re fucking dead,” Phil called to Sam. “I just haven’t made you that way yet.”

  [RL: Love that line. Classic Phil.]

  “Oh, yeah?” Sam called back. “We’ll see about that.”

  Phil eased around the corner, scatter gun ready, aiming at the spot where Sam would come out.

  “I’m waiting, asshole,” he said. Got no reply. Started forward.

  Three

  Sam hauled ass across the street. Made a left between a crop of houses, and cut between them. Breaking into another yard and crossed it. Ducked behind the house just as another blast of shotgun fire came from behind him.

  “Fucking asshole,” he said, and continued on.

  He didn’t know why Phil would be chasing him. Sam hadn’t done shit to Phil; it was Joyce he had had a problem with. But, he figured, the fucker must just liked to fight.

  Sam would give him one.

  He cut right around a house and tracked back. Kicked in a back door and stalked through the house.

  Came out the front.

  Checked the marks in the snow. Phil had moved past the corner and through the alley between the houses.

  Sam lay down in the snow and shifted up to the corner. Stuck his head out long enough to see Phil’s back, as the guard stood aiming his shotgun around the corner.

  Brought his rifle out, lined the barrel up on Phil’s back, and fired a burst.

  Four

  Phil felt something like a sledgehammer slam into his back and doubled forward. Rolled in the snow. Came around with his shotgun. Saw Sam moving in on him. Fired.

  Sam said, “Fuck,” and then was lifted off the ground and tossed into the bushes by the shotgun blast.

  [RL: Originally, this Episode had only included an initial exchange of gunfire and then Sam running for his life. But we were talking and Tom said, “I’ve never seen a gunfight where two guys with vests just blast each other over and over again.” We decided it was too fun of an idea to waste. I’m glad we did, it really is funny (if only to me) to see these guys keep fucking each other up.]

  [TK: Just two guys trying to kill each other, oblivious to the zombies homing in on every shot.]

  [RL: And really, when you think about it, there’s nothing like a return to normalcy after a crisis, and there’s nothing more normal to human nature than two guys trying to kill each other.]

  Phil let his head rest back for a moment, catching his breath. Certain he needed to adjust his aim. The fucking vest was crimping his style. It was the training: center mass was drilled into you for so long, it was hard to break the habit. But no, he needed a head shot – just like a creeper.

  Or needed to adjust weapons.

  He set the shotgun down and – with considerable effort – got the Barrett fifty-caliber sniper rifle out from under him. Checked the bolt to be sure, found a thumb sized bullet inside, closed it.

  Got his hands under him and dragged himself around the corner of the house – out of the line of fire – to rest a moment. He had never been shot before. He wasn’t pleased with the experience.

  “You wanna fucking shoot me?” he asked Sam, even if the man couldn’t hear him. “I’ll tap you back, man, believe that.”

  Five

  Sam went ass over end and came down on the other side of the bushes, moaning. He didn’t know if he could breathe anymore. He was sure at least three ribs were broken. The vest wasn’t designed to stop two point-blank shotgun blasts.

  Shit, he thought, his fucking body wasn’t designed for that sort of punishment.

  He dragged himself up, wheezing, and took off at a lope. Headed down the driveway and made a right onto the street. His body starting to get the idea. He settled into a jog.

  Heard a shot and looked back to see Phil standing alongside the house, using it for cover, firing a God damned cannon at him.

  That got Sam to start running.

  Phil fired again, missed again. That got him running faster.

  Six

  Phil came around the corner with the rifle raised, tracking right, aiming low. He wanted to keep Sam alive for a bit. Have a chat. But the Barrett was heavy – never intended for firing from a standing position – and he was having trouble keeping it steady.

  Fired.

  The recoil rocked the scope’s view. He brought it back around and fired again. Again the scope danced. He got Sam back in view – still up and running – and le
t his breath out slow. He needed to take his time. He wouldn’t miss three in a row.

  There was a sound like a wounded animal behind Phil and he spun in time to catch what had once been an elderly man – his skin now gray and sunken – come out of the house next door at a flat run, careening toward the sound of the gunshots.

  Phil pulled the trigger and the rifle spat its heavy bullet into the creeper, its upper body exploding in a wash of blood and shattered bone. Phil spun back around but couldn’t find Sam anywhere.

  “Fucker,” he said, and started after him. Stopped when he reached the end of the driveway. All along the street: movement. Coming from houses. From the trees. From every shadowy crevice. Everywhere. Creepers.

  Seven

  Chris pulled Bryce out of the snow and brushed him off. “You alright?” he asked.

  “Hell no, I’m not alright,” Bryce wheezed. “I just got shot.”

  “Vest stopped it.”

  Bryce reached in behind the vest and took his hand back out. No blood. “Vest stopped it,” he agreed. “But it hurts like hell.”

  Brooks, a mountain of black muscle, came up beside Chris. “What just happened?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Chris told him, shook his blocky, blond head. “Everything just got even more fucked.”

  “Who’s in command?” Brooks asked him. Brooks had always been Sam’s most loyal follower, though Chris was Sam’s right hand. The whole thing was as confusing to the lot as anything. Even the dead waking up.

  Chris raised a shaking hand to his com unit, then stopped. A spasm ran down his spine and he doubled over. The bite on his arm burning. Brooks grabbed him and held him up. Chris trying to catch his breath.

  “I’m fine,” he said. Mustered all his strength and stood. “I’m in command.”

  “What are we going to do?” Bryce asked, and pointed at a creeper coming out of the house across the street. “The gunshots,” he explained.

  “Let’s move.”

  Chris got back in the truck. Cranked the engine and got it moving. The others did the same, their trucks following Chris’ – now with no passenger. He made the first right, the trucks sliding a bit in the snow, and gunned it down the street. Hit the first side street and turned right again, the sound of heavy gunshots rolling over the trucks as they pulled on to the new road.

  The convoy drove down the street, following the sound. Slower now, looking. Chris watched Phil run out to the end of a driveway, his massive rifle held to his shoulder. He stopped, looked around, and then spotted the trucks coming.

  Chris braked. Phil climbed in. They got moving again.

  “Fucking creepers, man,” Phil said, “everywhere.”

  “Not where we’re going,” Chris told him.

  Phil looked at him. “We’re going after Sam,” he said.

  “No, we’re not. He’ll draw them away. Give us time to check the rest of the houses.”

  “So he just gets away?”

  Chris looked at all the dead stumbling down the street. Making for the trucks but being left behind. They’d center on Sam once he was forced to shoot again. And he would be. Soon.

  “He won’t get away,” Chris said.

  Nine

  Sam’s lungs were burning and he hadn’t even gone two blocks. He trotted to a stop and leaned over, panting. Stood back up and there were four creepers in front of him.

  “Shit,” he said and got his rifle up and cut them down with a burst of automatic rifle fire. Took off running again. He still didn’t know where he was going, but he was fairly certain he needed to get there fast.

  A glance behind him revealed more zombies, coming out of houses. Materializing out of shadows. Moving faster now, blind in the sun but locked on to the sound of shots being fired.

  He made a wide right and damn near collided with a crowd of creepers. Had to shoot them, too, drawing more from the darkness. Turned around and hit the road he had been on. It ran straight for a mile until it T-boned the river that fed the dam that supplied power to the town and prison.

  Muscles pumping acid. Melting through his veins. He pressed on. His mind now a machine of pain and perseverance. Emptied his rifle into a group that got too close, and slung it behind his back by the strap. No time to reload.

  Risked a glance behind him: hundreds of them. A mass now, running after him. Keeping pace as he slowed. Getting closer as he tired. More joining the hoard at every intersecting street.

  He gave his legs all the juice he could muster as he rounded the corner out onto Riverside, the water coursing beside the street. Frothing in the bright sunlight. Snow covered banks glistening with the low hung sun. Ice meandering down stream at a lazy pace.

  He hit the walking bridge that crossed the river. Sidewalk-wide with enough room for two walking shoulder to shoulder. Legs, arms, and torsos clotting along the foundations. Creepers down there, in the shadows, chewing. Sam burned across the bridge to the other side. Stopped. Pulled his rifle down into his hands. Spit out the spent clip and snapped a new one in: his last. Turned around and let go full automatic into the bottleneck on the other side. Dropped enough to dam the flow on the bridge and took off.

  Running until he started coughing blood.

  [RL: Trust me.]

  Ten

  Warden Bowers sighed and flicked off the computer monitor.

  He didn’t have a choice, he reasoned. They were alone in a hostile world, and every minute they were getting closer to the breaking point. His men weren’t just close to it. They were at it. Twelve hour shifts. Spending two nights straight in the towers, chopping zombies to bits with their rifles.

  It didn’t matter if the creepers were human anymore or not, the psychological effect on his guards was brutal, and even his best men were starting to fall apart.

  He needed new men. Needed to be able to rotate them out. Give them time off. Some semblance of hope. But that was impossible. Sam and Chris and their team had been tear-assing around town for hours – spent the night there – and had only found three living people. Three people. Brennick needed nine hundred to operate as designed. And that was when they were only worried about keeping prisoners in. Not keeping creepers out.

  He leaned back in his chair, stroked his large stomach, thinking.

  The Warden had one option. One pool with which to draw recruits. But it wasn’t a very good one. If anything, it held more risk than hope of reward.

  He thought some more. He didn’t have any other play. He had to at least consider it. And he would have to see if they would consider it. At any rate, a decision had to be made, and he was the man that made the decisions at Brennick Maximum Security Prison.

  There was a quiet knock and Bowers called for the person to enter. Alexander Pope, tall, lean, like a stick figure in an oversized uniform, came in and shut the door behind him.

  “Sorry to bother you, Warden,” he said. “But should I organize work duty for the prisoners to take the bodies away from the fence?”

  Bowers nodded. “And one other thing,” he said, took out a pen and paper and scribbled ten names down. Thought a moment, and added one. Tore the paper off and handed it to Pope. “I want to see these prisoners in an hour.”

  Pope read the list, made a face and read it again. “Sir?” he asked.

  “Just do it, Pope.”

  “Yes, sir.” The tall man nodded and went out.

  Warden Bowers sighed again. Took out a bottle of scotch and poured himself a finger. “God help us,” he said, and gulped it down.

  Eleven

  Chris closed the medicine cabinet and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked half dead. Felt about the same.

  He had found his home still locked up tight and empty. Told the men to take a twenty minute breather while he collected some personal effects. Then hit the master bathroom.

  Chris turned away from the mirror and looked at his arm again. Black lines curled up along his veins, to his elbow. The skin around the bite was green now, oozing hot white p
uss. It smelled fucking horrible. He cursed as he poured alcohol over it, knowing it wouldn’t solve anything.

  Wrapped a fresh bandage on the wound and left the bathroom. Took out his bag and filled it with fresh uniforms, shoes, socks. He took a few pictures out of their frames and tossed them in. Him and his parents, mostly. Under his socks he got the porno mags and a few naughty pictures of his previous conquests. Dropped them in.

  Zipped it up, pulled down his sleeves and went out.

  In the hall, Phil had Chris’ gun cabinet open and was putting its contents into a duffle bag.

  “Jesus, you could have asked me first,” Chris said, pointing at the broken glass door. “I have a key.”

  “Shit, man, what does it matter now?” Phil asked. “You planning on having any house parties soon?”

  Chris shrugged and crossed into the kitchen. Opened a cabinet and took a bottle of Southern Comfort out. Took a shot from the bottle and set it back down, wiping a few drops from his lips. That would do some good.

  “Anybody want to load my booze up?” he asked. “Take it with us?”

  “Don’t think the Warden would mind?” Bryce asked from the couch.

  Chris laughed. “When Bowers runs out of scotch, you can be damn sure we’ll be coming back this way to get him some.”

  Maurice Avelanda materialized in the hall, holding a box in his oven mitted hands. His bite suit slung heavily over his body. Flame thrower resting in the living room. Maurice wasn’t a guard, but he had saved their asses at the sheriff’s office and been allowed to join up. “You got tequila?” he asked. “I make a murderous margarita.”

  Chris smiled. “That’s the spirit,” he said and started loading bottles into the box.