Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  [TK: That’s fine, you should get a little credit.]

  “So, who’s up next on the Fight for Your Life Party? Oh, this is a good one. Okay, so what shouldn’t you do when you have three bodies in a freezer?”

  Silence.

  “No guesses? I’m sure contestant number three knows. You shouldn’t hook it up to a surge protector. Because if you do, and then leave town for a week, the power could cut out and you’d have decomp running down your driveway. Sound familiar?”

  Erin remembered the case. He hadn’t been involved, but all the boys at the precinct thought it was funny as hell. Far off, rolling down the halls from D-Block, Erin could hear the perp shouting at Chris. Erin didn’t know why, it hadn’t worked out well for the last guy.

  A moment later there were screams again. High, shrill, painful screams. The kind that made your throat bleed. Erin shook his head.

  “Another satisfied customer,” Chris said.

  Six

  “We need a plan,” Larry McInnis told his cellmate.

  Jerome Baker nodded. Jerome hadn’t kept a body in his freezer. That was Larry’s deal. Jerome had knifed a guy in a bar fight. That wouldn’t have been that big of a deal, except the guy was a cop. And he died. And when they searched Jerome’s apartment they found a pipe bomb. And a Tommy gun. And a meth lab.

  [RL: I loved this because it starts with he’s a nice guy who had a bad night, and progressively gets worse and worse until you no longer feel even the slightest bit sorry for him.]

  “So,” he asked as Chris read out the crime, “what are we going to do?”

  “As soon as the door starts to open,” Larry told him, “you go right, I’ll go left.”

  “What? Like run?”

  “In opposite directions,” Larry said, nodded, “yeah.”

  “Very creative,” Jerome said. The light came on. The latch came free. The door started to open.

  [TK: We always try to imagine ourselves stuck in the character’s predicament. If you’re contestant #3, you know staying in your cell is a bad idea. So we figured someone would make a run for it, at least one of you might have a chance. Plus I love the visual of the prisoner racing past another cell being chased by a horde of zombies. And that guy’s thinking: “I’m so fucking dead.”]

  Larry bolted. Jerome followed. Came out of the cell and turned right, running as fast as he could. He heard Larry scream behind him, but didn’t risk a look back. Just ran. He could see the lock up ahead, a light on in the guard’s booth.

  Pushed himself to make it. To get there as fast as he could. To beat those fucking things and survive this. If only for a moment. If only for the night.

  Hit the lock and screamed, “Open the fucking lock!”

  The guard inside shook his head. Went to pick up the phone.

  Something collided with Jerome’s back. It felt like a person trying to tackle him. Then pain surged through his side and he looked down: a zombie had impaled him with its hand, ripping parts of him out the side. Trying for organs. Holding him against the lock, pinning there, snarling in his ears.

  His knees didn’t want to hold any more. He let them go. Slid down, the creature now kneeling now. Following his side. Pressing vital organs into its mouth.

  [RL: The thought just occurred to me that zombies are always able to rip people’s insides out with their bare hands. Why don’t regular people have that ability? I know I always see the cliché about ripping someone’s heart out while it’s still beating, but the Mayans did that shit, and they still needed a knife. If it is possible, it would be good to know for the next time you gut-punch your buddy because he called you a fag and you had to prove him wrong. Though, I still don’t know why kicking someone’s ass proves you’re not gay. I thought liking to fuck girls made you not gay, but there are a lot of the macho rules I don’t get. Like why is it okay to kiss a chick after she blows you? I always thought that there was something very wrong about that. I’m not saying I’ve never done it, I’m just saying it seems like it would be outlawed by the man code, but for some reason it’s allowed. I think I got off topic…]

  [TK: Freudian slip.]

  Seven

  Phil’s com unit squawked again: “Holy shit. There’s creepers in D-Block. Repeat, creepers in D-Block.”

  “Where the hell did they come from?”

  “Fuck if I know, but they’re at my lock, trying to get out.”

  Phil stopped running and coasted to a stop at a lock, waving to the guard. Keyed his com unit and said, “Don’t open that lock. Don’t open it.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “You said D-Block?”

  “Roger.”

  He turned to the guard in the room attached to the lock he was passing through. “Is there a way to the control room at D-Block without walking the floor?”

  The guard shook his head.

  “Fuck,” Phil said and took off. He needed a plan. At least he knew where the fucker was now. That helped. But it didn’t do shit if he couldn’t get to him. Chris was in commercials again, the music pounding out of the speakers.

  Phil made it to the first maximum security lock, three away from A-Block. Said, “Come on, man, I don’t have all day.”

  The gate started open. He passed sideways through it. No time to wait. He ran another twenty feet and then stopped.

  “The cat walk,” he said. If he could get to the cat walk, he’d be able to cross D-Block without touching the floor. It would be a bitch, but it was better than trying to kill every damn creeper on the way.

  He had to try. But that meant: “Shit,” he said. “Back up the stairs.”

  Eight

  “What’s happening?” Maurice Avelanda asked the nearest guard. He had to shout over the music.

  “No God damned clue,” the guard shouted back. “Hey, you’re the guy with the flame thrower.”

  Maurice nodded.

  “Marshall,” he said, and held out his hand, “we were never introduced with all that crazy shit in town.”

  Maurice took Marshall’s hand and shook it. The guard had more than just a firm handshake. “What are you doing here?” Maurice asked him.

  “Trying to sleep,” Marshall said, and laughed. “What do you make of all this?”

  Maurice shrugged. “Sounds like someone’s having a little fun.”

  “Sure. But what’s all the ‘fight for your life’ and contestant stuff?”

  Maurice thought about it. Then shook his head.

  “I think Chris’ lost it,” Marshall explained. “But I still don’t know what it means.”

  Marshall looked Maurice up and down, studying him. Then said, “Take that off your arm.” Pointed to the piece of fabric that identified Maurice as a civilian, even though he was dressed in a guard uniform. “And then come with me.”

  Maurice pulled it off. “Why? Where we going?”

  “To figure out what it all means.”

  [RL: Two things. One, this was the point where it started getting really confusing remembering who knows what, and when. And two, part of what made it confusing was that I had fallen into a pretty deep depression after working on this for – at the point this was originally written – about two and a half months. The only thing that kept me sane were large quantities of Jack Daniels. Which was great for keeping the writing dark, but probably didn’t help me concentrate on who was where and when. It took a few times going to over to get it all straight.]

  [TK: Maurice is officially one of the boys. And yes, you should probably buy stock in JD so you can get some of your money back.]

  Nine

  Jessie and Mercedes huddled together in the corner of their cell. Mercedes didn’t know what was going on. She didn’t know what Chris was talking about. But she knew it couldn’t be good.

  He had been out of his mind in the showers. Now, it seemed he was in control of the prison. God, what if he was? Could Phil stop him? He could, she knew. The next time Phil got a hold of Chris; there might not be someone there wi
th a taser. She smiled a tight, grim smile. She liked the sound of that.

  The music stopped mid-song, and Chris came back on:

  “Now, Ladies and Gentlemen of radio land, we move to round two of our fantastic new game show: the Fight for Your Life Party. In this round, we move one floor up D-Block, to the C and D cells. Don’t worry E, F, G and H, we’re on our way to you. Promise.”

  “It sounds like he’s moving up the floors,” Mercedes whispered.

  “What gave you that idea?” Jessie shot back, her voice still hushed.

  Mercedes looked at her sideways. “It might be a clue,” she said. “If there’s someone killing people in D-Block, why would they be moving floor to floor?”

  Jessie shrugged.

  “This round’s first lucky contestant once told a room full of Catholic schoolgirls that he wouldn’t hurt them if they didn’t tell. Now, while I can understand many of you not being offended, the state found it less than professional. They also didn’t appreciate it when they found one of said schoolgirls wrapped in plastic in the trunk of Father Harold’s Buick.”

  There was a pause. Then Chris said, “Don’t worry Father Harold, there’s no need to come on down, they’re coming to you…”

  Ten

  Father Harold Morgan shuddered as his name was announced. He could hear what was happening below. He didn’t need to be a genius to know it wasn’t good. Something was down there, and it was killing prisoners. And for some reason, the more prisoners that were killed, the more of those monsters there seemed to be. It could only mean one thing: the rumors he had heard were true.

  Down the hall – the second, third and fourth floors didn’t have the same open floor design as the ground. Their cells opened to a railed and chain linked walkway that led to a lock. Once through the lock, they reached the chain linked stairs. Going down them, they reached another lock which allowed them to either the next level or the ground floor – Harold could hear a cell door opening. He thought maybe – just maybe – Chris had opened the wrong cell.

  Then came a shriek. Like the ones he could hear below. A furious wail. Then the slapping of bare feet on concrete.

  Harold looked at his cellmate. An abortion bomber who had always preached the end being near, Tucker White, who nodded at him, knowingly.

  The light in their cell came on. Then the door began to open. The wet sucking sound of the bare feet again. And suddenly a form was inside their cell. Pasty black skin and shaved head. Harold couldn’t even recognize the face before the creature plunged into Tucker, knocking him to the ground.

  Harold started to pray:

  “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be His…”

  A zombie came around the corner and cut him off as it lunged forward, arms out, teeth bared. He brought his hands up and they locked on the thing’s neck. Its hands around his. Jaw snapping as it tried to press closer.

  Harold screamed in its face: “In the name of God…” and then his right elbow snapped and the creeper got hold of his throat and tore at it. Teeth shredding his flesh. The head pulled back, bits of veins wedged between its teeth.

  The creeper tilted back and screamed with all the fury its dry lungs could give. Then leaned forward and resumed its meal.

  [RL: I don’t know why I love the visual of the fallen preacher screaming “in the name of God!” just before he’s shredded. Oh, that’s right, because fuck him, that’s why.]

  [TK: I love the idea of a pedophile priest and a clinic bomber being torn to shreds by a raving mass of flesh eaters. Two less people restricting humanity to the dark ages.]

  Eleven

  Brooks Pilar stopped at the lock heading to D-Block. Six foot plus and just beneath three hundred pounds of hard muscle and dark skin, Brooks made everyone nervous.

  Even if he was a nice guy.

  “What the fuck is going on?” he ground out.

  “Nobody knows,” the guard rambled off in a quick, machine gun of words. “Fucking D-Block’s overrun.”

  “How?”

  “Nobody knows,” the guard repeated.

  “Every level?”

  “I don’t know. But Chris just said he was moving up a floor, whatever the hell that means.”

  Brooks had heard it. He had heard the whole thing. He thought about the pieces of information he had and placed them together. He didn’t like the picture the assembled puzzle made.

  “Arm every guard you can find,” he told the man in the booth. “Keep every lock sealed tight. No one moves in or out. Understood?”

  The guard started to nod, and then stopped, picked up the phone and talked into it. Then he held it out to Brooks and said through the speakers, “It’s for you, sir. Warden.”

  Brooks passed through the lock. Came around and typed in his security code to open the door to the lock’s security room. Came in, took the phone, and said, “Warden, sir.”

  “Do you have any idea what in the sweet Mother of Saint Paul is going on in my prison?” Warden Bowers barked.

  “I think I have an idea,” Brooks told him.

  “Then get your ass up here. You’re my number two and I need you.”

  “What about Pope?”

  “Fuck Pope! He was supposed to be keeping an eye on Chris. Now my boy’s in D-Block apparently having delusions of Howard Stern.”

  “Where’s Pope?”

  “I said ‘fuck him.’”

  “You don’t know, sir?”

  The line was silent.

  “No.”

  “I’ll be up immediately,” Brooks said, handed the phone back to the guard and went out.

  Twelve

  Alexander Pope hugged his knees to his chest and tried to breathe slowly. Calm down. Stay silent. Not move.

  He shouldn’t have come here, he decided. He was pissed, and that had been understandable, but he didn’t want to be here anymore.

  Here, was the lock separating ground level and the stairs leading up to the second floor. It was basically a cage. Chain link on all sides, with nothing more than a safe key being needed to open each of its two doors. The thought had crossed his mind that he could move up and to safety, maybe make the control room, but now with creepers on the second floor, too, he discarded that idea on the whole.

  “Stupid,” he whispered to himself.

  After dealing with the survivors, Pope had decided the time was right to find Chris and set him straight about some things. There was no way he was going to be passed up for promotion and made to do all the fucking work, too.

  So, he had gone looking for his new boss. Searched through word of mouth from Admin, to D-Block and all the way to the female wing, where he deserted his search. Then, he saw the bastard passing through A-Block, and went after him. He almost caught him, too. Chris had moved up the stairs to the control room. Pope followed. Went into the stairwell. Turned and closed the gate, moved to the next side, went to put his key in and heard someone scream.

  That had been… He didn’t know.

  A creeper came up, cocking its head from side to side. The ground level was a sea of shouting voices. Chris had retired to his loud music, and the prisoners were taking the opportunity to release a little pressure. It was driving the creepers fucking nuts.

  The creeper came closer. It had been a prisoner. A massive one. It punched the chain link three times – the metal bending under the pressure – then tried to gnaw it open. Someone shouted something and it turned. Pope had never been this close to one. It ran for the shouting prisoner and reached into the cell, somehow got the poor bastard close enough and clamped on. Pope heard the prisoner screaming. The others joining in. Then Chris was back on and Pope covered his ears, trying to forget any of this was happening.

  [RL: Honestly, I never really liked Pope. He always struck me as a weasel. That made his ending much more enjoyable for me.]

  Thirteen

  “Squires and Ladies, please,” Chris said into the microphone, swarthy, in control. “We would appreciate it if you would keep your applaus
e until after the program. The performers tend to get a bit flustered if they’re heckled.”

  [RL: Stole that line from Robin Hood Men in Tights. Anyone who’s seen that movie (and everyone should at least seventy-five times) will notice it. Those who haven’t, go watch it. It’s a classic.]

  Chris thought he could hear the voice laughing in his ears. But he wasn’t sure anymore if it was the voice or him that was laughing, and which was actually speaking.

  “Next up in our star-studded line-up is none other than the OG-Triple-OG himself: Jamal ‘Abu-Wazeeri’ X.” Chris laughed. “Come on,” he said, “that shit got old like thirty years ago.” He thought a moment. “Oh, I guess it was probably very trendy in your day.

  “Anyway, the fine rebel leader of the Black Panthers, Abu-Whatever got his rocks off killing cops in the seventies. His Modus Operandi was to cut off their hands and feet, some deep symbolic meaning for the struggle of the black man. So, now, the Big Reveal…”

  Fourteen

  Jamal “Abu-Wazeeri” X – not his real name – shrugged. [RL: “Not his real name” is back! I was wondering what happened to that.] Small, shriveled, his once tan skin now pale from lack of exposure. He didn’t need a fucking guard to talk shit to him. He had heard it all. Never topping out above five six and reaching the plump weight of one forty only once, the little, blonde-haired California boy had been ridiculed by everyone from the Black Panthers to the cops and back again. By now, his heart was nothing but scar tissue.

  “Fuck man,” his cellmate said, and paced. His name was Paul Greenburg and he had been born long after Jamal had been incarcerated. “I fucking knew he’d pick you. You fucking joke.”