Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  [RL: I changed my mind, this is my favorite transition of Season One.]

  “Mercedes,” he called from the corner.

  She started, looking around. Then she saw him, and gasped.

  “It’s okay,” he told her, “it’s just me.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “Nothing,” he said, grinning. “I’ve never been better.”

  “You look like you died and came back.”

  “Oh, that,” he said, and let out a nervous laugh, “just fighting a cold.”

  “You said you’d never been better.”

  Chris thought he heard something. Let his eyes scan the bright room. The lights were too much. He squinted against the glare. “You hear that?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Anyway, what I meant was: I’m in charge now. Watkins is gone. I’m the man now.”

  Mercedes shrank back against the wall. “Warden’s in charge.”

  Chris shook his head quickly. “Not for long,” he said. “I’m gonna be in charge. You’ll see.”

  He came up to her. Quick. Startling her. He touched her shoulder. She recoiled. He pressed closer. Until she was backed against the wall. Trapped between the cold tile and his body.

  “We can have everything,” he whispered in her ear. Smelled her. She smelled delicious. He wanted to taste her now. He licked her neck. So sweet. He wanted more. His lips parted, teeth coming out. Her arms were up against him now, pushing. Chris shook his head and eased back a hair, looking into her eyes.

  “Our baby,” he said. “We can have our baby.”

  He pushed forward again, kissing her soft lips. His tongue trying to enter her mouth. He was so hungry. He needed her. He needed to taste her. Mercedes lips stayed clamped. Her hands pressed against his chest. He fought her. Took her wrist in his hand and twisted. She started to cry out and his tongue flicked into her mouth. Rolling inside. Consuming her.

  He felt a shock like lighting and doubled over. Realized she had kneed him in the groin.

  “Stay the fuck away from me,” she shouted in his face, and pushed him away. Got around him and made for the door.

  “No you don’t,” he snarled, limping after her.

  Twenty-Two

  Phil stopped pumping a moment and said, “Did you hear that?”

  Mystique said, “No,” and rolled her hips.

  Phil groaned. “I thought I heard someone shout,” he said.

  “It’s a prison,” Mystique told him, keeping up the workout without his help. Breathing heavy. Almost there. “It’s filled with criminals.”

  Phil shrugged and got back into it. Watching as he slipped in and out of her, his right hand pressed against the shower stall’s wall, keeping them upright.

  Stopped again. He could swear he heard a man’s voice now. Low and angry. There shouldn’t be any men in this wing, he thought. Turned his head and listened.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Mystique spat and pushed him away. “At least pretend to be paying attention.”

  Phil ignored her. He knew he heard it now. He pulled his pants up, fumbled with the belt.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  He wasn’t listening. Got his belt secured and pushed the curtain aside and came out of the stall. He heard Mystique curse but didn’t care. He could hear it louder now. Coming from just outside the showers. He crossed the open space and put his back against the wall, listening. They were close.

  Rolled out of the door and found Chris with a female prisoner, on the ground. Chris pounding her head against the floor.

  Phil felt something inside him break. Came up behind his boss and took him by the hair. Pulled until Chris cried out and let go of the prisoner. Then Phil tossed him by his hair against the wall. Chris grunted as his head slapped against the hard concrete block.

  “How’s that feel?” Phil asked him, and kicked him in the side. “You fucking like that, man?”

  Came up on him, looming over, and punched him in the jaw. Again. And again. Took a step back and kicked him in the head. Again. And again. Leaned back down and punched him again. Took him by the hair and pulled his head back, ready to smash it against the wall.

  “Phil!” He turned and saw Mystique standing behind him, ashen.

  Phil held up a finger. “One sec,” he told her, and wracked Chris’ head into the concrete. Pulled back for another and felt something odd. A sharp pain. Small. Like he’d been stuck with a needle. Then his muscles locked up and the world hazed and he passed out.

  [RL: Again, I can’t see why anyone would see Phil as cold. I pray someday I get to see the man I imagine Phil to look like holding Chris’ head in one hand, turning and saying “One sec” before slamming the fucker’s head into the wall. It’s a personal dream of mine. I also have a dream about walking down the street and overhearing someone say:

  “I’m telling you, she was tighter than a fetus.”

  And then I stop, look at him, and ask: “The fuck did you just say?”

  Guy: “It’s a figure of speech, man.”

  Me: “You bet your ass it is.” And then I just walk away…]

  [TK: You’ve resorted to using my material?]

  [RL: Um, I’m pretty sure it was still our book. And I usually end up taking the flak for your psychotic ideas. So, yeah, I have a dream.]

  [TK: Ok, fine. That shit was all me though, and you know that. Legally, if something comes up, you can take the credit for it, but right now I’m saying I said that shit first.]

  Twenty-Three

  Chris couldn’t move. His body awash in pain. His skull felt like it had been split open.

  Maybe it had, he thought.

  There were stars dancing around his peripheral. Somewhere in the distance, someone was talking in a quick, machinegun burst of words. He couldn’t make them out. They just blurred together with the pain.

  He tried to move his hands. Got them under him and went to push himself up. His head weighed too much for his arms to carry. He lay back down.

  “Get up,” the voice instructed.

  He tried to tell it he was trying, but only gargled. Sipped the blood back into his mouth and swallowed.

  “Get up, or you’ll die here.”

  He tried to push himself up again, this time finding the strength. Got up to his knees and tried to look around. Everything was smoky and faint. The person was still chattering off somewhere, but he couldn’t see the speaker. His head starting to clear. His mind clicking into gear. Fear stabbed deep into his chest. The voice was right, he had to move.

  “Go,” it told him.

  Chris got to his feet. Shook his head and winced. It weighed so much, how was his neck supporting it?

  Took a few steps.

  Now he was walking, but he didn’t know how. He couldn’t remember building the momentum.

  Now he was running, but to where? Everything was wrong. Everything was fucked.

  “Everything is perfect,” the voice reminded him. “Just keep going.”

  “Where?” he asked it, his voice a croak.

  “D-Block.”

  Twenty-Four

  Warden Bowers came out of his dream with the ringing of his phone. He glanced around, his mind fogged with scotch. The television screen was a blue blank. He flipped it off and pushed himself up off the couch. Went around it and picked up the phone.

  “Someone had better be dead,” he said into it.

  Mystique’s voice came through hurried, “It’s Phil,” she said.

  “Phil who?”

  “Craig. Phil Craig.”

  “What about him?”

  “He just almost killed Chris.”

  “What?”

  “I had to tase him to get him off.”

  Warden Bowers shook his head and rubbed his eyes, not understanding. “Why?” he asked.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Where’s Chris?”

  “I don’t know. He got up and took off.”

&
nbsp; “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s Phil?”

  “He’s here, on the floor.”

  “Where’s ‘here’?”

  “Outside the women’s showers.”

  “What the fuck were they doing there?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  [RL: “And what the fuck is this thing I’m hearing about called Outpost Season One?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “You’re God damned right it is.”]

  Bowers sighed and rubbed his eyes again. He couldn’t take one fucking night off, he fumed. And, with all the shit going on, now he had his night shift supervisor running around where he shouldn’t be, and getting into fights with guards, who were also not where they were supposed to be. Didn’t they get it? He needed them to step up, not start killing each other.

  “When Phil wakes up,” he told Mystique, “I want him up here to explain himself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if you find Chris, tell him I want him checked for major injuries, and then I want him up here to explain himself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep me informed,” Bowers told her, and hung up.

  Twenty-Five

  Mercedes had watched it happen in a state of utter disbelief. At Brennick, guards didn’t protect prisoners. Not at the Brennick she was used to. She looked up, wide eyed, at Mystique.

  “What the hell just happened?” she asked her.

  Mystique looked at her like Mercedes had just materialized out of smoke. “You weren’t here,” she told her.

  Mercedes nodded.

  “Get back to your cell.”

  Mercedes went to get up, but stopped. “No escort?” she asked.

  The guard on the floor groaned. Pushed himself up off the floor, shaking his head. “Oh, man. You fucking tased me?” he asked Mystique. “Today just keeps getting better and better.”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  He got to one knee, looked around and asked, “Where’s that sack of shit?”

  “He took off.”

  “Which way?”

  “Warden wants to see you right away.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “He sounds pissed.”

  “Then he knows how I feel,” the guard told her, and stood up. “Which way?”

  “Go back to your cell,” Mystique told Mercedes.

  The male guard turned and looked at Mercedes. “Which way?” he asked her.

  Mercedes pointed.

  “I said go,” Mystique told her.

  “Which way’s your cell?” the male guard asked.

  Mercedes pointed.

  “Same way,” he told Mystique, then to Mercedes: “I’ll escort you. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.” He turned back to Mystique. “I had a lovely evening, but I’m afraid I have other business to attend to. Mind if I call you some time?”

  Mystique shrugged. Said, “You know where to find me.”

  The guard smiled and nodded, then ushered Mercedes away. They walked a bit in silence, Mercedes not sure what they would talk about. She glanced over at him. Not tall. Not short. Not handsome but not ugly. Not really anything to distinguish him from a million others. She felt like she should just call him Blah.

  He caught her studying him and stopped. Put out his hand and said, “My name’s Phil. Nice to meet you.”

  [TK: It’s great that he can maintain a positive attitude, even though he didn’t get to finish either time (killing Chris or with Mystique). See that’s why I try to go as fast as possible: A. It increases cuddle time, which the chicks love. B. I can respond to attacks in the shower, which having two sons in the house is known to happen.]

  [RL: It’s called a “lock.” Five days out of seven I’m in the shower and I hear my door knob trying to turn, but it’s locked, and then my midget yells: “Dad! Daddy!” and I’m like “I’m in the fucking shower!”

  Only once his leg was broken.]

  Twenty-Six

  The voice in Chris’ head was reminding him that this was what happened when he didn’t follow orders. Chris wanted to tell it to go fuck itself, but it wouldn’t do any good: it was right and they both knew it.

  His mind clearing. He could remember everything that had happened. He knew his mission. He knew where he was going. No pain now. No weights in his head. Just pure, unfettered rage and purpose.

  “It’s not over,” he told himself. “He’ll get his. They all will. That little bitch, too.”

  He paused at a lock, the guard inside stared at him as the gate rolled sideways. “What the fuck happened to you?” he asked.

  Chris passed through without acknowledging the question.

  Walking down along the floor, muttering to himself, the lights too bright for him to see well. He checked his watch: fifteen minutes to lights out. He would have to hurry now, but everything would be easier in the darkness.

  He passed through A Block without a problem. The prisoners watching him pass without showing any emotion. Stopped at the lock that split the passages between A-Block and B-Block and waited for it to open. When it did, he went through. Crossed the hall that ran between them and stopped at the lock leading to B-Block.

  Checked his watch again while he waited.

  The gate came open and he passed through and kept going.

  “Everything’s going to be perfect,” he told himself. “No one’s ever going to fuck with me again. Not after tonight.”

  The lights burning his eyes. Everything a bright white haze. He made it through B-Block. Went through the locks mechanically. Not even sure where he was. Just knowing he had to move forward. Get to D-Block. Do as he was told.

  He made it halfway through C-Block and heard his name. Stopped and turned.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “I said ‘how’s it going?’” the prisoner told him.

  Chris blinked a few times, trying to focus. “Gibbs,” he said. “Going great. Almost lights out.”

  “I know,” Gibbs told him. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, you look like shit.”

  “Fine, don’t worry about me.”

  Gibbs studied him a minute. “Warden tell you what’s up in the morning? Me taking over as his go between?”

  “He mentioned something about it. But don’t worry, everything’s going to be perfect.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Chris looked at him a moment. Studying his gray skin. His eyes, alive and boring into Chris’. He wondered what he was going to look like after. Chris would have to wait and find out.

  “You’ll see in a few minutes,” Chris told Gibbs, and left.

  Twenty-Seven

  “What do you think that’s supposed to mean?” Tall Bill asked Erin.

  “Fuck if I know,” Erin told him, and sat down in the corner, thinking.

  “What happens in a few minutes?”

  “Lights out,” Erin reminded him.

  “Right, but I mean, so what?”

  “No idea.” Erin shook his head. “Did you see that guy? Looked like he’d been through a fucking grinder.”

  “Looked like he got his ass kicked and then some,” Bill agreed. “Like he got himself killed, then when he tried to dig himself out to come back to life, someone hit him with a steam roller.”

  “Very descriptive,” Erin said.

  “Thanks.” Bill smiled.

  [TK: A lot different people making references to Chris coming back from the dead, think someone might put 2 and 2 together pretty soon.]

  He hadn’t been exaggerating, Erin thought. Chris’ face had been a tapestry of blood and slowly bruising flesh. His left eye sunken, the right already inflaming from some recent trauma. A gash on his forehead, slowly trickling blood. What looked like a boot mark to his jawline.

  “Someone fucked him up, big time,” Erin told Bill.


  “Yep.”

  “Now,” Erin asked, “who the hell would do that?”

  Twenty-Eight

  “This is your stop,” Phil told Mercedes. She was holding up alright, he decided, as they waited for the cell door to open. After getting beaten like that, she could easily have been in hysterics. He had seen it before. Many times.

  [RL: Now might be a good time to explain what we try to do with our transitions, our chapter beginnings and ends, and why.

  I relish comedy. Real comedy. Not sitcoms. Sitcoms are the trough at which most people (myself included) gorge themselves in order to be even fatter and less intelligent. But comedy: that’s smart, illustrative and perfectly timed. You can tell nearly everything about a civilization by its modern (whichever sense of “modern” it is, every civilization is “modern” all the time, it just depends on if you’re looking at it from their perspective) comedy.

  Truly great comedy – in my opinion – exists when the characters in it have absolutely no idea they are playing a roll. The comedic roll exists solely for the purpose of illustrating one’s roll without them knowing. The timing is key, because each character has no idea they are even in the middle of it. So, you’ll have someone look at a crippled machine and say “Who the hell was working on this?” Cut to idiot holding a wrench. The audience knows who it is, and laughs, but the characters are still befuddled.

  We’ve always tried to do that with our chapter jumps: let the story tell itself without the characters knowing they’re a part of it. So we jump from someone asking who would kick Chris’ ass to Phil, who just kicked his ass. Therefore the question (though not needing to be asked since the reader knows) is never answered for the character, he’s still ignorant. But for the audience (i.e. reader) they nod and say: “Right.”

  I also love a great story. One that hooks you and won’t let you go. The kind that keeps you wide eyed by the fire. Those kinds of stories are always revealing something at every pause. Forcing you to wait with baited breath for the next line, the next scene, the explanation. I recently spoke with a woman who was complaining to me about never ending cliffhangers. I told her I love them if they’re done right.