Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  “Anything I need to know about?” he asked.

  “You’re a piece of shit,” Mercedes told him.

  He shrugged. “Not urgent information.”

  “Oh, killer,” Tall Bill said as he approached. “Dinner.”

  “Lunch,” Erin corrected.

  Bill glared at him. Mercedes smirked.

  “At my house, this is ‘dinner’ and the other’s ‘supper.’”

  “Semantics,” Erin said.

  Jessie came alongside Mercedes, said, “Hey, Tall Sam McMahon.”

  “Tall Bill Mahone,” he corrected. “But anything you call me is like the finest symphony.”

  “I made something for you,” she told him. Reached into her shirt. Mercedes watched Bill turn nearly purple at the gesture. Jessie pulled out the canvass and passed it through the bars. “For the smokes. You know,” Jessie said, shrugging, “to say ‘thanks.’”

  Bill took the rolled up painting. Unfurled it in front of him. Looked at it. Started to say something. Stopped. Started again. Stopped. Said, “I’m playing hard to get,” and then stalked off to his bunk.

  Jessie covered a laugh with her hand.

  Erin leaned back and said, “Oh, fuck it, it’s dinner somewhere.”

  “At my house,” Bill said, “it’s called dinner.”

  Erin pushed himself up from the bunk, crossed to the counter next to his sink and took the bottle off it. Came back over and offered it to Jessie.

  They both looked at it. Mercedes hadn’t seen anything like it since…

  “Holy shit,” Jessie said, “is that real liquor?”

  “Scotch,” Gibbs said, shrugged.

  “Where’d you get it?” Mercedes asked.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s all have a pleasant drink.”

  Bill was back at the bars, leaning close, eyeing Jessie. “Like we will when we get those moments to ourselves, my love. Just a pleasant drink.”

  Jessie shook her head. Took the bottle and tossed back a bit. Grimaced. Passed it to Mercedes.

  Mercedes tipped it back and gave herself as much as she could stand without spitting it back out. Let the angle fall and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

  “Save some for the rest of us,” Bill told her.

  “What ‘rest of us’?” Mercedes asked him. “Police man gave me this, it’s mine now.”

  “Sadie,” Jessie said.

  “Come on,” Mercedes pushed the tray cart towards the next cell with her right hand, bottle held tight in the left. “Before it gets cold.”

  Thirty-Three

  Chris was kneeling down on the porch. Steve to his right. Maurice, now without his suit, looked small as he stood in front of the door.

  They were all waiting for the distraction.

  They needed something to get them out. They could make a run for the buses now if they wanted, but they’d be leaving all the weapons and ammunition behind. They couldn’t do that. And, with dozens of people moving at once, all it would take was a sneeze and they’d all be toast. They needed whatever Phil was planning – what it was, no one had mentioned to Chris – and they needed it soon.

  So he kneeled, waiting.

  The sky was blue and clear, not even a bird chirping. Or, perhaps there was and Chris couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t be sure he wasn’t missing things. A hundred conversations going on between his ears. Some of the voices were loud, some soft, some strong and others weak, some he recognized and some he didn’t. There was one that was most distinct. The original voice. The others had started as white noise and grown in volume, becoming distinct as they did.

  But the original voice remained the loudest.

  And it sounded like Chris.

  He cocked his head to the side and listened, the voices dying down for the moment.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “What?” Bryce asked.

  “That sound.”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  Chris listened for a moment. It was a distinct humming. No, a purring. No, a grumbling. He had heard it before, many times, but it seemed so out of place.

  “Is that…?”

  “What?” Maurice asked.

  “Is that a fucking chainsaw?”

  [RL: By now you know when I say I’ll be quiet I mean I’ll continue to talk ad nauseam, and I wanted to put in that I recognize a chainsaw isn’t the most original thing we’ve ever done. But we couldn’t pass up the opportunity. It’s too fun. Just because orgies have been done, doesn’t mean they’re not worth doing over and over again.]

  Thirty-Four

  Phil was running, screaming, and laughing – all at the same time. The chainsaw howling in his outstretched hands.

  All of it was tough in the bite suit.

  The saw bit into another creeper, the teeth tearing away flesh, sending it flying back in Phil’s face. He took a hand away and wiped the debris from the visor. Pushed as hard as he could and dislodged the saw and pushed forward.

  The things were converging on the sound, but the teeth just kept on chewing away, and he held it up to take out the heads rather than deform the bodies.

  But he hadn’t made it far. And time was ticking away.

  He needed distance, God damn it. Or he was going to end up vaporized like the fucking things he was trying to kill. He dug the teeth into an old man he recognized as his seventh grade English teacher. Decided the bastard needed extra killing for flunking him when everyone knew Shakespeare was a fag, and held the blade there until there was nothing left and the saw was binding on the bone.

  [TK: There are certain skills that they don’t teach in school.]

  Pressed forward again.

  The wall was becoming too dense for even the chainsaw to get through. It chewed and chewed and always there was more flesh to bite into.

  A creeper tried for his neck, was stopped by the suit, and he kicked it back and brought it to the ground. Spun around and took it apart at the neck with the saw’s grinding metal molars. Turned back toward the house – unable to see through the mass.

  He pressed on. Chainsaw pushing forward ahead of him. The teeth sending more flesh onto the helmet visor.

  “Damn,” he said as red splattered against the Plexiglas shield, “this is a nice fucking replica.”

  [RL: *Dying* On second thought, this may be my favorite episode of the season. *Laughing*]

  Let the saw work on a shoulder until the body dropped and stepped over it. Still holding the saw out, letting the creepers decide who was next.

  He took a step forward. The saw reaching out for a head, and then heard a ba-BOOOOM! and was weightless again. This time, he crashed only into darkness.

  Thirty-Five

  Chris watched the crowd with an eye he had never really known before. Now, they weren’t just creepers. Now, he could understand each story. He could hear their rage. Understand it. The voices weren’t abstract constructions of his psyche, they were out there. Walking. Hunting.

  He saw a red mist growing from the center of the crowd. The sound of the chainsaw growing. He watched as it approached.

  “Fucking Phil,” Bryce said, awestruck. “He’s almost here.”

  Chris only partially heard him. He was mesmerized by the bright red and dark browns flying up and then misting down. How far gone were the browns? he wondered. How fresh were the reds?

  He started to see the crowd breaking up. Moving. Around something. The sea of cold flesh gyrating, pulsing as something moved through. Like the wake on a ship. He squinted at the movement.

  “He’s almost back,” Bryce said. “He’s going to…”

  There was a slight pop, and then a brutal roar and a gust of wind that sent them all reeling. Chris ended up tucked into the corner of the porch from the blast. Shook his head. Pushed himself up and watched the mushroom cloud climb into the sky.

  In the air were the pieces to a thousand creepers, hanging there, floating for a moment on the wind. Then they came rushing down to the ground. L
anding everywhere. Sick slaps and dark rain falling all over. Pouring down the gutters. Chunks of bones being spit out onto the lawn. Bruising the snow a deep maroon as they did their job, funneling the fluid and sending it to the ground.

  Chris stood and walked down the steps. The blood had mostly all landed now. The last droplets a mist in the air. The rain flowing downhill. Running to the sewer drains and around where they were already clogged with creeper pieces. Rolling down and around his boots like a crimson river.

  “Come on,” he told the others, “we’re going home.”

  [RL: The only episode without a cliffhanger, this begins the transition from premise establishment to full fledged, independent season. Everything from here is building specifically to the two part finale.]

  [TK: That is my favor episode so far, Misty Kitty, Bite Suit Maurice, Chain Saw action, Erin & Mercedes, Tall Bill & Jessie, civilians going to the prison, Chris is losing it, all the pieces being set up for a great finale.]

  EPISODE 5:

  WHISPERS IN THE DARK

  One

  Chris Reed had never seen such a pissed off group of zombies in his life.

  Only moments after an explosion leveled the majority of the streets’ occupants, they were back up. Chris had his guards back in their trucks, cranking the engines and getting ready to flee back to the sanctuary of Brennick, the maximum security prison where the guards worked. The trucks pulled up long in front of the house. Behind the house, the last line of survivors were streaming out, cutting through yards and heading for the two buses Chris had commandeered.

  All that was fine, and when the first “creeper” started to stir, Chris hadn’t really cared. He didn’t have any desire to kill them all. He just wanted to get back to the prison.

  But it wasn’t long before he realized something was wrong. Very wrong.

  He could hear them, in his mind, and they were screaming. He could feel their rage. Coursing through him. Like ether, intoxicating him. Filling every pour. Pure, unfettered rage. And not the kind he had felt before. White hot, now. And focused.

  Focused on the trucks.

  [RL: Rut Row.]

  Two

  Bryce Stone keyed his microphone and said, “Ready when you are, boss,” into it. Waited for Chris to respond.

  Nothing.

  “Chris, we’re all loaded up and ready to head home,” Bryce tried again. “Go on your orders.”

  Nothing but white noise came from the speakers.

  Bryce keyed it again, said, “Come on, Big Guy. Just say the word.”

  A voice came through the static – not Chris’ though, another man’s. A guard named Brooks who was driving one of the trucks that followed Chris’ said, “Jesus Christ, Chris, if you don’t put that fucking thing in drive, I’m leaving without you.”

  Bryce said, “Brooks, what the fuck is going on?”

  “We’re moving,” Brooks reported.

  “Good. Are you providing escort?”

  There was a silence on the other end, then Brooks said, “Negative. Get moving now. Make your own way. You hear me? Stay the fuck away from us.”

  Sweat broke out on the back of Bryce’s neck. He keyed up the mic. Asked: “Why’s that?”

  Brooks didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. A second after he asked the question, the guard’s trucks exploded through the intersection up ahead. Screamed across it. Disappeared at the other end. Bryce blinked twice, unsure of what had just happened. Then a flood of creepers emerged, surging through the intersection, following the trucks. Bryce flinched, dropped the microphone, dragged it back up by the cord and keyed it again:

  “Marshall,” he said into it, calling the driver of the second bus.

  “Roger,” Marshall acknowledged. “What in the hell is going on?”

  “We’re moving. Looks like they’re heading west. That means we’re heading east. We’ll leave town out the back way, circle around and head to the prison.”

  “Without escort?”

  “Do you want them escorting you?”

  Marshall didn’t answer. Bryce took that as a No. Put it in drive and pulled a U-turn over someone’s lawn. Took out the mailbox. Shrugged, and got the long vehicle back on the road. Pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

  “Alright everyone,” he called to the huddled group of survivors in the seats behind him. “Cross your fingers and say your prayers. Next stop, Brennick.”

  [RL: I like all of this scene, especially visualizing the trucks going through the intersection, the small pause and then the mob. But most of all, I like how at this point they’ve all gotten it beaten into them that the old things don’t matter: there’s no reason to do a three point turn and avoid the mailbox, because no one’s going to get upset about their lawn anymore.]

  [TK: “Say your prayers.” I love that line. It’s always in horror or disaster movies and books. I think by the time it’s at this point you can pretty much say Gods sitting this one out.]

  Three

  “Do you have any fucking concept of what you’re doing?” Steve Morris asked Chris as the truck sped through town.

  Steve sitting passenger. In his uniform. He had been on his way home when the outbreak hit. Had saved over seventy people. Most would consider him a hero. Chris didn’t even remember the guy was in the truck.

  [RL: Let’s see how long that hero makes it.]

  He cut the wheel right, tires squealing as they rounded the corner. It was the last turn they’d need to make until they hit the highway. They were almost home. Chris wasn’t thinking about that, either. It was an abstract thing. He was driving on autopilot. All he could do was try to block out the sounds of the enraged creepers as they chased the trucks. He could feel them, like a cold spot in his mind.

  They were getting farther away. The further behind they grew, the quieter his mind. He liked that. Pressed the pedal down to the floor board. The engine screaming as the speedometer maxed out.

  “You’re gonna fucking kill us,” Steve shouted.

  Chris ignored him. The voices low now. A dull roar. That rage, only a hint of it still lingering. The animal hatred. Hunger. He was so hungry. But less now. If he could just go a little bit faster.

  Steve squinted at the windshield, turned and said, “Toby?” and pointed as the truck blurred past two figures on the sidewalk.

  Suddenly, there was a rush of cool air and then Steve was gone. Chris looked over at the empty space as the door slammed shut from the wind. Looked in the rear view mirror and saw Steve rolling to a stop as the trucks behind swerved to avoid him.

  “What the fuck?” Chris asked and slammed on the brakes. Cut the wheel. Flipping a bitch with the truck in the middle of the street. Gunned it for a few seconds until he was close and then slammed the truck in park and hopped out.

  [RL: I momentarily thought we should say “Pulled a U-turn” instead of “Flipping a bitch” but decided anyone who doesn’t know what flipping a bitch is has no business reading, let alone driving.]

  Steve was up now. But barely. Dragging his right leg. Bloody and bruised from the roll. He was approaching the two children. Chris kept his distance. Not wanting to be too far from the trucks and possible escape. The creepers running towards them. Their voices growing into a fury in Chris’s mind.

  Steve gurgled, “Toby,” and staggered towards his son. There was another figure. How many kids did Steve have? Chris wondered. Steve said, “Toby,” again. Louder now. Dragging his leg. Getting closer. Reaching out now.

  “Toby! Get back!” a woman screamed. Three shots cracked hot and angry, rolling across the street and continuing on. Steve’s head exploded and he crumpled to the ground. A woman, running desperately, emerged from the darkness along the street, her hair flying in all directions. She bent down and scooped up the two children. Ran towards the truck, a kid under each arm.

  She made it to the truck, Chris watching in bewilderment. Stuck the kids in the front seat and climbed in after them. Chris couldn’t think, his mind so close to the creepers,
every thought was drowned out by their rage.

  “Come on!” the woman shrieked.

  Chris obeyed. Ran back to the truck, hopped into the driver’s seat. Dropped it into gear and took off. Passed the other trucks – the drivers stopped and watching – and kept on. Checked in the rear view mirror and saw them get moving.

  Chris was just glad to be putting some distance between him and the creepers.

  “Are you alright?” he mumbled to the woman.

  “We’re okay,” she said between gasping breathes. Looked at Chris, studying him. “You’re from the prison?”

  Chris nodded.

  “Oh, thank God. You work with my husband, Steve. Where is he? Is he alright?”

  [RL: Bye Steve. As an aside, there’s one particular Morris I’ve always wanted to kill. It is not a Freudian slip that Mr. Morris doesn’t make it long, or that he’s shot by his wife.]

  [TK: I remember when I thought of this scene. I was driving through my neighborhood and saw a few kids playing and they waved as I drove by. We were working on the initial drafts of Outpost and I jumped in my head. What would you do if you were on the run from hordes of zombies and you drove by seeing your kids on the street playing? Initially, I saw the dad dragging himself towards the kids as the zombies were closing in. As he reaches them, scooping them into his arms, they disappear under a wave of zombies. Ryan came up with the awesome idea to have the wife shoot him and grab the kids, jumping into the truck. Only later realizing that she shot her husband as he was trying to save the kids. Oh, and I couldn’t agree more with the name choice. She probably could have put a couple more rounds into him just to make sure. Reload, and keep on blasting.]

  [RL: Did I come up with that? I have so many awesome ideas sometimes I forget them.]

  [TK: I thought it was. Because I originally wanted you to think he was going to make it and then bam they eat him.]