Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  “Where the hell is Marshall?” Brooks shouted over the music.

  Two seconds later Marshall walked up with another box of full magazines. “It’s a long walk from the armory,” he explained.

  Brooks nodded and slapped a clip in his AK. Jacked a shell in and then set it down. Pulling out magazines and stuffing them in his side pockets. Maurice did the same. Though he had told Brooks he had never fired a gun, he expressed immediate admiration for the design of the Aptomov Kalashnikov 1947.

  “Simple. Deadly. Rugged,” he had said. “Perfect for the job.”

  Harper took up his post next to Marshall and Brooks, Maurice behind the two armed guards. They would go in the same way. Marshall and Brooks side by side. Maurice behind. Harper staying right where he was standing. Another guard, Brad Quinn, would operate the lock.

  Brad was the only one Brooks was worried about.

  Scratch that. He was worried about Brad running the lock because Brad was a rookie, and under pressure he might just close the fucker and strand them. But Brooks was also deathly worried about Harper. If shit went wrong, he realized, Harper would probably order the young bastard to close the lock.

  “We ready?” Marshall asked him.

  Brooks nodded. Sighed. Motioned to Harper, who waved to Brad to open the gate.

  Brad reached forward.

  The music stopped.

  Brad’s hand stayed there, frozen in time.

  Everyone looked around. Brooks cocked his head. “Now what?” he asked.

  They waited. Waited for Chris to come back on and announce the latest victim. Waited for a minute. Then two. Brooks was trying to figure out the game. There had to be an angle. What was Chris up to?

  Brooks looked at Marshall, who shrugged. Then Harper. Then back at the lock. Beyond it, creepers were pressing harder against the gate. The mass getting denser as they tried for the only living flesh left within reach.

  “I…” Brooks said, and then his coms unit erupted with frantic calls for help.

  Thirty-Four

  Mercedes looked at the ceiling as the music stopped. It was eerily quiet now. The silence like a void in the darkness. She had no way of knowing what was happening, but the music dying out seemed like a good sign.

  She slowly got up from the corner. Jessie following. Approached the bars, peering out. The floor was deserted.

  “Hey,” she called to the cell next to theirs. “What’s going on?”

  “How the hell would I know?” one of the inmates called back. “Whatever that freak show was, I guess it’s over.”

  Mercedes nodded and retreated to her bunk. Passed Jessie and climbed up. Jessie crawled into her bunk beneath Mercedes, silently. There was nothing for them say.

  Was it over? Mercedes hoped it was. She hoped the long nights and empty days were a thing of the past. That the Brennick she had lived in for years was over. That the Brennick she had seen over the past few days had started and ended, and the new Brennick could start in the morning.

  She hoped the armed guards were gone. That the violence and rapes were over. She hoped that in the morning, the sun would rise and the world would be cleansed. That the blood would be washed from the grass and the fence and the walls and concrete. That it would be gone from her hands and those of her captors.

  She hoped the world would be at peace. She hoped it for herself, for her child, for Jessie and Erin Gibbs and Tall Bill and every other prisoner. The guards. The Warden. But most of all, for her unborn child.

  She hoped all these things, but even as she did, she doubted. Something deep inside her, embedded into her DNA from so many generations of descendants, from so many long, hard years of her life, told her that it wasn’t over.

  Not by a long shot.

  It was all just getting started.

  [RL: That’s us telling you that we’re not going anywhere. So, just in case someone’s reading and goes “Ah, man, you end it like that? Fuck you assholes!” Don’t worry. Season Two will pick up right where we leave off. And, as we’ve been saying, we have several seasons plotted, as well as a Prequel (a sneak peak of which is included here) and an offshoot series. So, trust us, there’s plenty of zombie fun yet to come.]

  Thirty-Five

  Phil didn’t have time to save Pope. It was too late for him. But he could use it to his advantage. If Chris stayed occupied long enough, it would give Phil those precious few seconds he needed to end the fucker and be done with this whole episode. Put it behind him. Have some fun clearing D-Block.

  But that after this. After Chris.

  He took three steps, Chris on top of Pope on the floor. Walked up and drop kicked Chris in the head. The creeper lifted from the force and fell backwards against the desk, his neck smacking the hard edge. It only took a split second for it to recover.

  Got its feet under it and lunged at Phil. Arms out, teeth bared. Phil was off balance, and the creeper tackled him. He got his legs up between himself and the undead Chris and flipped it off to the side. Sent it crashing into computer towers.

  Outside, the lights flickered a few times, but remained on.

  Phil rolled and got to his feet. Snatched the keyboard off the desk. The creeper came at him again. He brought the keyboard up along the right side of its face. The creeper went left. The keyboard shattered. Little keys flying around the room. Phil searched desperately for another weapon. Chris getting back up now.

  There was nothing. More keyboards. The monitor. He picked it up and hurled it at the creeper just as it was coming off the floor. The screen hit it full in the face, knocking it backwards again. Phil ran up and tried to jump on its head, but landed wrong, the back of the monitor not perfectly flat. He went sideways and landed on his shoulder, slid a few inches. Now between the zombie and the door.

  Tried to get back to his feet. Creeper Chris got the monitor off its head and threw it back at Phil. Phil never seeing it coming. Just as he got to his feet, there it was, in the air, coming at him. It struck him hard on the chest. He tumbled backwards. Out the door. Down the stairs. The creeper running after him as he rolled.

  Phil went through the gate. Swiveled on the floor and slammed it shut in Chris’ face. Held it there with his feet. Kicking off the hands as they reached through to snag him.

  He needed to lock it to be safe. But how?

  He snatched at the ring of keys on his belt, got them in his hand after the third try. Picked the right one. Let the gate open enough to give the creeper momentum and then kicked it back shut. Chris went flying onto the stairs behind him. Phil jumped up and slid the key in. Turned the lock and heard the bolt slide true.

  Turned and ran for his life down the stairs.

  Thirty-Six

  “One coming out,” Phil’s voice came through the coms unit. “Coming out hot.”

  “You can’t expect us to open this lock,” Brooks told him.

  “That’s exactly what I expect you to do.”

  “We’ve got about a hundred creepers pressing on this gate. If it starts to open, there’s no way we’re keeping them in.”

  “A distraction,” Phil reminded him, breathing hard, obviously running. “Like with the buses.”

  Brooks looked at Marshall, who shrugged. Maurice passed him another flash bang. Brooks thought a moment. He no longer had any interest in saving or protecting Chris from anything. Fuck the Warden. But Phil… Phil had gone in and risked everything to stop it. That was the kind of men Brennick needed.

  “Fine,” Brooks said. “How long?”

  “I can do a mile in seven, but I never had creepers coming after me before.”

  “Two minutes?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Fine,” Brooks said again. “We’ll open halfway and then close it. That gives you about a thirty second window to slip through. After that, you’re on your own.”

  “You’re the best.”

  Brooks turned to Harper. “Get those flash bangs ready,” he said. “We’re gonna need them.”

  Thir
ty-Seven

  Phil’s plan hadn’t worked out, and now he was on plan “just-trying-to-survive.”

  [TK: Good plan.]

  He had figured once he was locked in the stairway he could wait it out. Hang tough and wait for the cavalry to come and sweep the place clean. Sure, he wouldn’t get to participate, but he’d have plenty of time to play after he made it out. The key was to survive to play another day.

  But something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

  Chris was following him. Through the locked gates. Somehow. Phil turned and slammed another shut. Locked it and watched in confused amazement as Chris stopped at the last gate he had locked, took out his keys, and opened it.

  “What the fuck, man?” Phil asked. Took off down the last flight of stairs.

  Things were going to get sticky pretty soon. Once he was through the last gate he was going to have to run flat out, through a sea of creepers to the lock, and pass through untouched.

  He likened his odds to bumping into Jesus at a strip club.

  Maybe slightly worse than that, he conceded.

  Got to the second to last gate. Went through. Slammed it shut and locked it. Watched Chris pass into the final stairwell. Not slowing down. Phil turned and unlocked the gate to the ground floor. Took a deep breath and swung it open.

  Thirty-Eight

  “Now!” Brooks bellowed, and Harper let a flash bang fly through the space between the bars. The thing flipped a few times before landing with a metallic sound somewhere past the mass of creepers.

  Seconds ticked by.

  The thing exploded. The sound deafening. The concrete walls allowing no dulling as it rolled along them and moved past Brooks and Marshall and Maurice and Harper.

  The creepers turned and started breaking off. Going to it. Blind in the bright lights. Driven only by their animal instinct and rage.

  Brooks nodded to Brad, who – shaking – hit the switch. The gate started open. As soon as the space was large enough, a creeper pushed through. Brooks shot it in the head. Another was through. Then two more. Marshall executed one, Brooks hit the other.

  “Another flash bag,” Brooks called. Harper pulled the pin. Drew his arm back. Was taken to the floor in a rush by a creeper as it slipped through the gate, closed the space in a blink and clamped onto his forearm. He screamed. The flash bang went skidding along the slick floor. The creeper got its knees on Harper’s chest, his wrist held tight in its jaw, and then it pressed up and tore the arm away in a blast of red oxygenated fluid.

  The flash bang rolled to the wall of the booth operating the lock to C-Block, and exploded. The blast knocking down Marshall and Maurice. Brooks the only solid thing to stay standing. The force of the explosion shattering the booth’s Plexiglas window. The pieces now held on only by the embedded mesh.

  Creepers were streaming in now. Brooks trying to stem the flow. Mowing them down. Reached into his pocket, took a flash bang out. Pulled the pin and lobbed it through the open gate.

  A creeper passed him in the instant it took to throw the bomb and ran full bore for the shattered window. Jumped through head first. Its shoulder and body weight bringing down the mesh. It tumbled inside and went after the guard. The man fell back. Hit the computer’s keyboard.

  The lock to C-Block began to open.

  Thirty-Nine

  Phil ran.

  His muscles screaming. His mind a blur of pain, adrenaline, and fear. Creepers everywhere. Up ahead, something exploded. He tried to steer around it. Knowing the creepers would converge there.

  He ran into two creepers, splitting them, and sprawled. Got back up as fast as he could. Kicked one away from him. Took back off.

  Gunfire now. From the lock at the end. The chatter making its way along the ground floor. How much farther did he have to go? A hundred yards? Tops, he decided. Time to pour it on.

  He risked a glance behind and could see the crowd parting. Moving around something.

  Chris.

  Coming at him at a dead run. Blood caked on his pale face. His prison uniform rumpled. His dead face a mask of white hot hatred.

  God, Phil thought, if you’re up there, fuck you.

  And ran.

  [RL: I always get a bit teary eyed at this point…]

  Forty

  “What the fuck is going on?” Erin shouted as the feral screams filtered down C-Block. Something was wrong, and he knew it. Those screams were from inside C-Block. Not D-Block. The gunfire and explosions didn’t put him any more at ease, either.

  “Open the cell,” he shouted at the guard on the catwalk. His voice like a beacon for the creeper. “I can help. I’m the Warden’s go-between! Open my damn cell!”

  The guard looked down, said something into his coms unit, and then nodded.

  “Come on,” Erin told Bill. “We’re putting a stop to this.”

  Turned when he heard the latch move and the gate start opening. Waited. Someone ran up to the cell door. Reaching through the slowly opening space. Trying to get Erin.

  Erin jumped back.

  “Close the fucking door!” he roared. The bars kept moving. The creeper slipped through and was on him in an instant. The bars stopped moving. Then began closing again.

  The creeper came up close. Tackling Erin onto Bill’s bunk. Jaws gnashing at him. Trying to get a good bite. Erin held it off. His muscles pressing it back. Bill threw a boot at it.

  “Not helping,” Erin growled. Flipped the thing off the bed and jumped on top of it. Got his knee on its throat and punched it. Again. Again. Pressing down with his knee, trying to collapse the windpipe. Not sure if that would accomplish anything anyway.

  Bill came up next to him and kicked it in the head. Two times. The thing tried to bite his foot. He thought better of it and looked around.

  “Help me here,” Erin ground out. Pressing down with his knee. Bill looked around a moment, then snatched something off the sink and handed it to Erin.

  Erin took the thing – he didn’t know what – and brought it down with all the force he had on the creeper’s head. Again. Again.

  Heard glass break. Again. Again.

  Saw clear fluid running along the floor. Again. Again.

  Saw blood running with it.

  Looked down at the mangled mass that had once been the creeper’s head. Sighed. Stood up. Looked at his hand. He was holding the shattered remains of his snow globe. The father and son ice skating. Bloody. The father figure broken in half. Embedded in the creeper’s head.

  He stepped away. Went to the sink, and set it down. Blood puddled with the last drops of water. White flakes swirling inside the bright red.

  [RL: A. if you’re wondering why they would open the cell, the reason is because if Erin hadn’t killed it, and he and Bill had both been turned, they would still be isolated and unable to infect anyone else. The guards would simply walk up and shoot them all. As opposed to having one creeper running from cell to cell, infecting God only knew how many prisoners.

  B. This is a very important and symbolic scene for Erin. You’ll find out why next season.]

  [TK: Killing your first creeper with the last thing holding you to this world. Huge fan of the image of the snowflakes floating in a sea of blood. Kind of symbolic if you think about it, the broken father and the son alone knee deep in blood.]

  [RL: Yes, I did think about it. But, it’s nice to know I have a fan.]

  Forty-One

  Maurice pushed himself up and looked around. Pandemonium. Brooks was holding the majority of them back. Firing wildly into the mass as they tried to move through the lock. The gate closing now. Phil running out of time.

  Marshall was on the floor. A creeper atop him, feasting. Harper, dead, laid out in the corner. Maurice took two steps and sprayed the creeper atop Marshall. Then kicked it off and shot Marshall in the head. Then he stepped up and shot Harper in the head, too. Not taking any chances.

  Behind him, he heard a screech and turned just in time to see a creeper coming out of the shattered window of
the booth. He brought the rifle up and pulled the trigger. The creeper went back like he was pulled by a chute and slapped wet against the wall.

  Maurice trotted up and fired into the booth. Eviscerating the remains of the guard.

  Brooks said, “What the fuck,” from behind him and Maurice spun. The creepers were falling back. Parting, and moving away from the space left open by the slowly closing gate. Maurice ran up next to him. Leveled his rifle.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “I thought they were mindless.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Maurice stared as the gap widened. There was something coming. He could see Phil now. Running for all he was worth. But why would they let Phil through? It didn’t make any sense.

  Now he could see someone else. Running after Phil. Chasing him. Maurice recognized him:

  Chris.

  Forty-Two

  Phil could see the creepers parting. Letting him through. But why? Then he realized they weren’t parting for him. They were parting for Chris. Letting him go past. Like he was their king. Like he was controlling them.

  But was he?

  He couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. A million zombie books, movies, games, Phil thought, no way. And besides, if he was, they’d be converging on Phil.

  [RL: Again, the one zombie book that also has a zombie whose mind is not gone, and does control the zombies, is Monster Island, by David Wellington, and before you ask: No. Chris is not controlling them and we made the point the first time of saying it, before I knew that I had accidentally jacked Mr. Wellington for the other idea, if only slightly. We take originality very seriously, and if David ever reads this, or anyone who knows him does, I would love to speak with him and let him know what happened, that it wasn’t intentional, and that I enjoyed his book.]