Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  “My fucking God,” Ryan breathed.

  Jared started and looked at him. Black eyes. He snarled.

  Ryan almost made it to the bars before the creeper tore his spine out.

  [RL: And, crescendo!

  I learned all of this from Little Einstein, in case you’re wondering.]

  [TK: The first time you read this, did you see this coming? Chris building his zombie army before he turned? Be honest.

  I don’t know why but Ryan loves that show, I think he’s got a thing for the girl who sings. It’s cool, she’s a cartoon it doesn’t count, and if you don’t believe me go rent some sub-titled Japanese animation (not the American watered down shit).]

  Thirty-Seven

  Erin lay there. He didn’t have anything more to say. He didn’t want to think any more. He was done. Whatever would be would be. He thought there was a Spanish phrase for that.

  “Que Sera, Sera,” Tall Bill told him.

  “What, are you a fucking mind reader now?”

  “No. But you’re that quiet that long, I figured you were thinking. Then I figured ‘what’s he thinking about?’ Then I remembered your little spiel about how the girls didn’t need to know and you didn’t need to think about your family. And I figured you were thinking about your plans, and about how you can’t do anything about it now. Right?”

  “Fuck you,” Erin told him.

  “I already told you: I pay attention.”

  “At this point, I feel like you’re stalking me.”

  “I live with you.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  [RL: Great exchange.]

  “You’re right though,” Bill told him. “There’s nothing you can do until tomorrow.”

  Erin only half heard him. He thought there was something odd coming down from one of the blocks. Them all connected only by steel gates, the noise could travel through most of the male wing before dying out. Sound waves bouncing off the concrete walls. The prisoners used it often to communicate between blocks.

  “What was that?” Erin asked.

  “What was what?”

  “It sounded like someone screamed.”

  [TK: Fuck yeah, here we go. It’s like when the roller coaster finally stops clickity-clacking and you know you’re at the top. Finally, let’s get to it.]

  Thirty-Eight

  Chris smiled when he heard Ryan Parker scream. Everything was coming together so nicely. The voice had been right. Everything was going to be perfect.

  He stepped into the control room.

  Fred Hunter had been sitting in his chair, watching the TV screens. He jumped when he heard the scream, and when the film of Ryan being torn to shreds crossed the screen. He made it a step and then stopped. Staring at Chris. Not understanding.

  “What’s happening?” he asked. “There’s… He’s…”

  “Go help Parker,” Chris told him. “I’ll keep an eye on control.”

  Fred nodded and moved forward. Chris waited until he was just next to him and swung around with his nightstick and hit him at the base of his neck. Fred grunted and went down. Chris stepped over him. Fred’s body now between his legs. Brought the club down five times, hard. Until blood sprayed out with every strike.

  When it was done, he sighed. Stepped back and looked around the control room.

  “Everything’s just like you promised,” he said. Walked over to the PA system and keyed it.

  Thirty-Nine

  “What the fuck is all this supposed to be?” Warden Bowers asked Phil. Phil didn’t know what to tell him.

  “I’m saying, man, you needed to see this,” he said.

  Around them, covering every wall, were insane ramblings scrawled out in Chris’ childlike handwriting. Prophetic omens and biblical preaching’s, all shamelessly rewritten to include Chris as a deity. Phil went up to one and touched it. Pulled his finger back and smelled.

  “Magic marker,” he said.

  “You think Sam did this?” Bowers asked.

  “Unless he’s got a serious crush on our boy, Chris, no.”

  Bowers looked at him. “What are you saying? It’s his office.”

  “Sam’s gone, man,” Phil told him. “Who’s the last one in here?”

  “Chris.”

  Phil nodded. “Right,” he said.

  “What are you saying?” Bowers asked again.

  “I’m saying we need to go get him. Now. Before he fucking kills someone.”

  “Chris?”

  “Yes. Chris. The guy’s lost his mind. He’s fit for a fucking cell, man.”

  [RL: The standard cliché is: “he’s fit for a straight jacket.” We thought it was a nice twist to change that up and show the way a prison guard thinks: for him, a cell is the proper place for someone who is no longer trustworthy. “He’s fit for a fucking cell” is tantamount to saying he’s become an animal, which is why Bowers reacts violently. A throwaway line, for sure, but one that I always go back to and enjoy.]

  Bowers took two steps and punched Phil in the jaw. Phil went down. Sucked in a bit of blood as it flowed out of his gums, and spit it onto the carpet.

  “Watch what you say,” Bowers growled, looming over him, “that’s my son you’re talking about.”

  [RL: And that’s why it’s called foreshadowing.]

  The PA system exploded with feedback. Both men covered their ears. Then it subsided and a low voice came across. Slow and slurring:

  “Mic check,” it said, “one two, one two. Can you hear me now?

  “Hello all of you ladies and gentlemen out in radio land. My name is Christopher Reed, and I’ll be your host for this evening’s entertainment.”

  [TK: Did you see Chris as Bower’s son? You should have, there are about a dozen references to it. You should re-buy all the episodes to check, that’s the only way to really be sure.

  The ending of Episode 6 Part 1 alludes to what might very well be one of the greatest ideas ever in the zombie genre, and it was all mine.]

  [RL: Wait. I was going to let that just chill, because it’s a good closing for the commentary moving into the next episode. But I seem to remember you wanting to have him open a side door and usher them in like he was letting underage kids into a night club. I thought I came up with the injecting them with his blood, giving it an hour and then giving them lethal injections…?]

  [TK: Yes, you did, but it was my idea for the game show. Which I think has never been done, and will probably never be done again.]

  [RL: If it is it will not be as cool, simply because I had a part in it.]

  EPISODE 6:

  WITH A VENGEANCE

  PART TWO

  One

  Someone screamed. A blood freezing scream that echoed off the concrete walls and danced along the floor as it made its way through Brennick.

  Mike Sanchez sat up in his bunk. The scream had come from three cells over.

  “Hey, Patterson,” he called. “You finally break that bitch in half?”

  The PA system came to life with a whine of feedback. Mike covered his ears and waited. Then the sound faded and a voice took its place. Low, slurred, he recognized it despite the synthesized tone:

  Chris. Warden Bowers’ puppy.

  “Mic check,” he said, “one two, one two. Can you hear me now?

  “Hello, all of you ladies and gentlemen out in radio land. My name is Christopher Reed, and I’ll be your host for this evening’s entertainment.”

  “What the fuck?” Mike wondered.

  His cell mate, Alec Young, said, “Got me.”

  “For those of you who are wondering, our program will be somewhat of a beginning and somewhat of an end. You see, a lot is changing here at Brennick Maximum Security, and I wanted to celebrate that by bringing you some original content, and giving some people a bit of closure. How does that sound, by way of applause?”

  There was a pause, D-Block completely silent. Then the PA system came back to life.

  “I thought so,” Chris’ voice came over. “So
, who’s our first, lucky winner? Let’s see here. Well! It’s the one and only Michael Rafael Sanchez! Congratulations!”

  Sanchez sat in his bunk, not sure what he was supposed to do.

  “And this is coming from Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby Malone. Do you remember them, Mr. Sanchez?”

  Mike probed his memory. Was that their names? Yeah, he thought it was.

  “Yeah,” he said, “that’s the old folks I killed.”

  “He can’t hear you,” Alec told him.

  There was the sound of metal scraping metal and then their cell door started open. The lights came on in the cell. But not out on the floor. The door rolled to the side. Mike leaned forward, peering out of the bars to the right of the door. “Is this a joke?” he asked.

  Mike heard a low, predatory growl and then Jared Patterson was inside his cell. But there was something wrong with him. He was covered in blood. His skin pale under the halogens.

  And he was attacking Alec.

  “What the fuck?” Mike said and pressed himself back against the wall.

  Alec made a high pitched noise that started as a scream and ended in a gurgle. Mike pressed himself further back, all the way in the corner. Samantha – Jared’s bitch – came through the door next, vaulted onto Mike’s bunk and went after him. Teeth exposed in a long gash across half Sam’s face. He skittered across the bunk towards Mike.

  Mike kicked it back. The creature came at him again. He kicked it again, this time harder. The zombie flew back a few feet and almost off the bunk, but it got a hold of Mike’s leg and stopped the momentum with it. Righted itself and then rocketed forward. Clamped its mouth down on the fleshy inside of Mike’s leg.

  He screamed. The teeth ripping through his orange uniform and into his skin. Blood poured out in a steady flow. With a ripping sound, its jaws came away, gnashing blood and flesh while its greedy fingers clawed past the torn fabric and plunged into the exposed soft tissue. The bitch’s long fingernails sinking into Mike’s leg, rupturing the artery. Blood tore across the wall of the cell.

  Mike took a breath to scream again, but before he could release it, another one of the creatures – this one in a guard’s uniform – came over the cross-dressed zombie and sank its teeth into his throat, shaking its head like a dog, tearing flesh and veins.

  With morbid fascination, Mike watched his blood rise up like a geyser and fan out in a red mist.

  And then, everything went white.

  Two

  “And now,” Chris said into the microphone, “a brief word from our sponsors.”

  He plugged his iPod into the system and pressed play. Heavy metal began pouring out of the speakers, flooding Brennick with rage. Chris could feel it. White hot. Like a drug, coursing through his veins. He could feel Jared down there. Samantha. Ryan Parker. Their hatred.

  And he could feel something else. Even stronger: Fear.

  The fear of the prisoners. The whole place stank of it. He inhaled through his nose, savoring it. Then, he sighed and leaned forward. Turned off the music and activated the microphone. Said, “Without the sponsors, none of this would be possible.”

  He paused, thinking. Then continued, “And let’s not forget the taxpayers of our great state. Those are the people that have kept us in business all these years. Without them, there’d be nobody for you all to rape and murder and then we wouldn’t all be here together, enjoying this wonderful show. And where would the fun be in that?”

  He cleared his throat, coughed, and then recovered. “And one of those taxpayers,” he said, “was Curtis Smith. Nineteen years young, he was shot to death by a gang member because he wore the wrong color hat. Very compassionate. And that leads us to our next big winner…”

  Chris reached over to press a button but stopped. He thought he heard something. He crossed out of the control room and stuck his head over the railing.

  “What was that?” he called down.

  “I said ‘fuck you!’” someone yelled back.

  “You mean you don’t want your prize?” Chris asked.

  “Let me out of here and I’ll show you a fucking prize. I’ll snap you in two, you little prick!”

  Chris laughed. “Deal,” he said. Went back into the control room and opened the next cell.

  Three

  Rick Taylor hadn’t meant to kill the kid. That wasn’t true, he meant to kill him, but it hadn’t been his idea. It was his initiation. He did what he was told.

  The lights came on in his cell, and then the door started to slide right. Rick huddled in the back by the toilet, a toothbrush shank in his right hand. His cellmate, Will Johnson, to his left. A pencil the only object he could find to defend himself.

  “If I get bit,” he said to Rick, “just fucking kill me.”

  “Same,” Rick said, nodded.

  Waited.

  He could hear them coming. Fast. They rounded the corner, the big one that had once been Jared Patterson in the lead. Rick waited for him. The bastard was a mountain. And they were moving so fast. Rick thought time would slow down, but it didn’t, it went into fast forward.

  The zombies flooded in – five of them now – filling the room. Rick lashed out with his shank. Expected them to jump away from it.

  They didn’t.

  He caught the lead on in the neck with the shank but it kept coming. Its mouth open wide. Came down on Rick’s shoulder and clamped down like a vice. Its weight dragging them both to the ground. Rick heard Will grunt and looked to see two zombies – both inmates – pulling his insides out. A third – this one a guard – had Will’s head in its hands and was trying to gnaw through his skull.

  Rick wanted to scream, but he had his own problems.

  He tried to get his shank out of the thing’s neck and try for the brains. He remembered something he had seen somewhere – but couldn’t remember where – that zombies went for the brains. It was all about the brains. To his right, what sounded like a cantaloupe being split drew his attention that way once more. Will’s head had been opened up. The uniformed creeper gorging itself on the gray pudding inside.

  Frantic now, Rick put everything he had into it and the shank came loose. The creature was still latched onto his shoulder, drinking his blood. He could feel its tongue flicking over his skin. Rick brought the shank around and stabbed it into the back of the zombie’s head.

  The plastic broke on the bone.

  He screamed.

  Over the PA system, he heard Chris laughing.

  [RL: Maybe I’m a sadist, but I love my fucking job.]

  [TK: You are, and that’s all most people could hope for in life. And the occasional hummer (not the car).]

  Four

  Phillip Craig and Warden Bowers passed a blank stare between the two of them, and then Phil said, “I fucking told you,” and took off at a dead run. Out of the office. Down the hall. Hit the elevator. He didn’t need to put his code in at this level. Pushed the button instead.

  Pushed it again.

  Tapping it now. Over and over. Like Morse code.

  [RL: I don’t know why that line always cracks me up.]

  Then said, “Fuck it,” and took off again. Ran to the door marked “STAIRS” and blasted through it. Going down them two and three at a time. Jumped from four up to the landing below and kept on. Around and down. Further. Brennick was five stories. He needed to get to the floor level and through to wherever Chris was.

  Hit the second to last landing and vaulted over the railing. Dropped the last ten feet and landed on his feet. His knees cushioning the fall. Spun and burst through the doors onto the ground level. Ran until he hit the first minimum security lock.

  “What the fuck is going on?” the guard inside asked him through the speakers.

  Chris had left the PA system, but now music was blaring. It was hard as hell to hear anything.

  “Chris’ lost his fucking mind, man,” Phil told him. “Open the God damned lock.”

  The gate started moving. Phil passed through it. “Where’s Chris?”
he asked the guard.

  He shrugged.

  Phil took off down the hall. Ran flat out for a full minute until he reached another lock. Cursed. The gate slid to the side. He went through and started running again. Came to another lock.

  “God fucking damn it,” he yelled at the guard in the booth. “Just leave them open. We need to be able to move.”

  “What? What do you mean ‘leave them open’?”

  “Where’s Chris?” Phil demanded, ignoring her question.

  “Don’t know. He passed through here about….”

  “It doesn’t fucking matter when. He’s somewhere that has access to the PA system.”

  “Any of the block’s control rooms would have it. Or the Warden’s office.”

  Phil took off again. Trying to think. Trying to guess. Trying to find the crazy bastard before it was too late.

  Five

  “What the fuck is going on?” Tall Bill Mahone asked Erin Gibbs.

  “Do you realize how many times we’ve asked that in the past two days?” Erin asked back.

  “That’s because crazy shit like this,” Bill told him, and pointed at the ceiling, “keeps happening lately.”

  The music cut out and Chris’ voice came back over the loud speakers.

  “Hey there and welcome back to… Shit, I just realized, we haven’t named our little show here. Let’s see…”

  There was a long pause. Erin and Bill looked at each other, waiting.

  “Let’s call it the ‘Fight for Your Life Party.’” Chris’ laughter crackled over the PA. “Yeah,” he said, “I like that.

  [RL: Right, play like that isn’t an awesome fucking name. And, I came up with that shit.]