Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  No. It was something else. And how could Chris have opened those locks? He was a fucking zombie. None of it made any sense.

  He gave every last drop of energy he had to his legs. Ran through the parted sea of creepers. Slipped through the lock sideways just as it closed.

  Chris slammed into it. Reaching out. Trying to snag Phil before he could get away. Didn’t make it. Phil stopped and doubled over. Panting. He looked at Brooks – too traumatized to move. Maurice – frozen. Then, finally, he looked at Chris. Standing there. Glaring at him. Blood clotted and streaked across him. Eyes black. Skin white and dead.

  Chris nodded, took two steps back, and smiled. “Perfect,” he said.

  [RL: Well, that’s Outpost Season One.]

  [TK: I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as we enjoyed writing. And make sure you buy a copy for all of your friends.]

  [RL: And all our other books, too. Oh, and don’t buy them used. Or from the library, we know how that shit works.]

  [TK: Right.]

  [RL: And make sure you check out the Prequel coming in January, Camp 417.]

  [TK: And that shit was all my idea.]

  [RL: Yes, yes, Tommy, you’re so brilliant.]

  [TK: I know, but it never gets old to hear it.]

  [RL: Now I’m going to get the fuck out of here, I’ve been sitting next to this bastard way too long.]

  [TK: Make sure you spay and neuter your dogs.]

  [RL: You mean cats.]

  [TK: God no, we need more bombs.]

  DELETED SCENES

  Gunshop

  Phil took the box of shotgun shells in one hand, the semi-automatic shotgun in the other, and said, “I’ll see you in a bit.” Disappeared into the gloom of the back office. He slide thumb sized plastic tubes into the slide until it was full, poured the rest of the box into his pocket, jacked one into the slide, and looked around.

  Darkness everywhere he looked, like a fog. He reached over and flipped on the light. Said, “Son of a bitch bastard,” and brought the shotgun up just as a creeper leapt. Got the stock up under its head and kicked kneed it in the groin. Heard a crunch as his knee connected with the gun store owners balls. The creeper – with its flat top faded perfectly to resemble Vanilla Ice’s from the nineties – didn’t register any response at all. Just pressed harder toward him.

  Phil took a step back. Holding the thing barely an inch from his face. Then another. Until he was backed up against the door. Put his foot up, braced his back for the push, and kicked the creeper away. The zombie took his shotgun with him as it tumbled backwards.

  The creeper rolled once, got to its feet, dropped the shotgun and sprang at him. Phil – desperate – kicked a file cabinet at it. The thing was heavy as hell, and brought the creeper down under its weight.

  Phil scrambled around it. Dove for his shotgun. Brought it up just as the creeper had dislodged itself. Fired. The buckshot tore the thing’s shoulder off in a blast of blood and purple, dead flesh. Brought the barrel back down from the recoil and fired again: too low. The creeper’s stomach exploded. The shot sending it backward in a wad of dead limbs and shattered organs.

  Phil let his breath out slowly. Trained the shotgun’s barrel on the creeper as it began moving again. Waiting for the head to pop up.

  Metal slipped across metal and Phil spun right on his ass as a creeper dressed in military fatigues burst through the side door. Fired. A perfect patch of BB’s slammed into the zombies head, eviscerating it. The forced flipping the thing almost completely around backwards, where it landed on its headless shoulders.

  But there were more.

  Two pushed past the corpse. Phil shot the one to the right, taking its head off, and swiveled left. Pulled the trigger again.

  Nothing.

  He looked down and found the previous shell jammed in the breach.

  Phil sagged.

  Swept the scatter gun around – his hand burning as it touched the barrel, and swung the stock around in a murderous arch. Catching the thing’s head with the edge of the butt. Sending it sprawling onto the office desk. It wasn’t enough. He couldn’t get a good arch from his position on the floor.

  He scrambled to his feet. Felt something try to snatch his ankles and jumped. The creeper with the flat top no longer had a lower half. But it was still coming at him. Dragging what was left of its torso with its one remaining arm.

  It could wait.

  The creeper on the desk was getting up. Just as it got its feet under it, Phil took two steps and jump-kicked the fucker right in the center of its chest. It went backwards. But the move cost him precious seconds and he sprawled from the forced. Got up. Picked back up his shotgun.

  Turned to the flat top. Still dragging itself. Stepped back, held up his right hand, the left holding the shot gun. Took a step forward and punted the creeper’s head. The torso spun off and the head hit the wall. Blood splatting along the hard wall in random angles.

  The creeper was getting off the desk again, but this time Phil was ready. He turned and planted his right foot. It lunged and he came around like a slugger, the sharp edge of the stock striking right on the sweet spot. Sending it left with some force.

  Phil got the shotgun facing the proper way, took the half ejected shell out with his right hand. Then jacked the slide. Brought the butt to his shoulder. Stalked up to the last creeper, where it was presumably dead from the head strike.

  Fired.

  Stopped. Looked around. Waited. His eyebrows raised expectantly. Nothing happened. He nodded. Passed the upper half, then lower half of the original creeper. Went through the door, into the gun shop proper.

  “Clear,” he said.

  “Good,” Sam told him. “They give you any trouble?”

  “I gave them more.”

  Maurice

  Maurice Avelanda touched the soldering iron to the chip – just barely – and attached the final piece to his latest – and greatest – invention. Shit, he told himself, if this works, it’ll be the greatest invention of all time. He wouldn’t be stuffed away in the crumby apartment anymore. No. He would be the darling of the electronics industry. Of the science industry. Of the engineering industry.

  Of the whole fucking world industry.

  And, even better, he would be forever famous as the man who destroyed the way everyone thought about thermodynamics. There wasn’t a history book in the world he wouldn’t be on the cover of.

  It hadn’t been easy. There are rocks in the lane of any path worth walking. But now, he thought he had it down. The solution to any question is found in the problems, he knew. And in this case it had all been about friction. Friction slows movement, which means there was no way logically to achieve a true, infinite perpetuation of movement.

  But in Maurice’s world, the laws of physics were made to be broken.

  He switched on his machine – not the fun part. It hummed to life. The key was to hit the particle just right, in order to establish stability. If it fired correctly, he would never need to turn the machine back on. He would never an outside influence to keep the real machine – which the current machine would make – operating.

  His finger hovered over the button. If he didn’t time it exactly right, it would cost him another two hundred and fifty dollars on his electric bill to try again. He watched a single, almost imperceptible, fleck of dust dance past the machine’s eye and pressed the button.

  He blinked.

  There, where the piece of dust had been, was a bubble the size of a basketball.

  Maurice howled with joy. “I fucking did it!”

  He settled himself. He wasn’t done. The little universe was no good to him if he couldn’t breach it and insert the object, then get it spinning. If he could do that he had succeeded. A universe without oxygen or gravity or anything to cause friction. The only gravitational pull exerted on the object would be its own. Which would cause it to spin. Until someone stopped it. Forever.

  The philosophical consequences of creating a universe inside
a universe never crossed his mind. What the fuck the power companies were supposed to do with it to turn a profit was never allowed to encroach on his dream.

  It was all or nothing.

  He picked up the mercury-filled needle and steadied his hands. It had to work. But he had to be gentle. He inched it forward slowly. An inch away. Three quarters. Half. Quarter. Eighth. Sixteenth. So close he didn’t know when it would touch. And then it did. And now the needle was inside the sphere. He pressed it further. Into the center. Took a deep breath, and pressed down the plunger.

  It made a blotch of mercury. Faster this time, excited, he retracted the needle and tossed it over his shoulder. Watching the mercury. Waiting. Did it just…? It did. It was moving, very slowly. Forming up. Pulling itself together into a ball. The size of a marble. And it was spinning.

  “I did it,” he mumbled. “I fucking did it!” he roared again, jumping up, knocking over his chair. He ran around the room three times. Did the happy dance. Pumped his fists.

  His stomach growled. Not for the first time. He hadn’t eaten in a day. How could he have? Hadn’t left the house for well over a week. Hadn’t turned on the TV, the radio, or the computer. Laser focused on this moment. Right here.

  But, now that it was done, another image came to mind. That of a giant steak bleeding on the plate. Mashed potatoes and gravy resting next to it. A beer, sweating onto the table top. No, what was his problem? Champaign! With its little bubbles racing each other to the top. It would cost a small fortune, but he didn’t need to worry about that any more. Once he made the right call, he’d be set for life.

  He got up from his work station and went into the bathroom. Ran through the shower, and then put on his best suit.

  He might just get himself laid tonight, too. He looked around his apartment.

  “At her house,” he admitted.

  Went to the door, opened it and went out. Strolling through the halls with a real swagger. King Shit.

  Passed one of his neighbors and shouted, “Later Jerry. Don’t think you’ll be seeing me around anymore! Except, maybe of TV!”

  He laughed. Then he heard something. Up ahead. Something oddly feral. Like a growl. But not like a dog. And he could hear footsteps, too. Definitely person footsteps. And the growling, getting louder now.

  He cocked his head to one side. Looking at the bend in the hall. Then someone came around the corner. And then another. And another. AT flat runs. Running… at him.

  “Stay back,” he called, startled. They kept coming. He was starting to get a look at their features. Jesus, he realized, they’re covered in blood. “I’ve got mace.”

  Didn’t stop them. Didn’t slow them. He turned and ran. Got to his door. Fumbled with the key. Went in and slammed it behind him, just as the first of the hoard hit it. He turned the bolt. Hooked the chain and then walked backwards away from it. The sound of them pounding on the heavy fire door the only noise in the apartment.

  He made it to the window. Turned to it, and pulled open the curtains…

  Mercedes and Jessie

  “Sounds like a wild ride,” Mercedes told Jessie, even if she wasn’t listening.

  Jessie was going at it in the bottom bunk. She was being a bitch about it, too. Making all the noise she wanted in the absence of guards. Moaning. Calling out Gibb’s name.

  Just to piss off Mercedes.

  And it was working. She lay in her bunk, rubbing her belly.

  “Oh, fuck yes,” Jessie called, and kicked the bottom of Mercedes’ bunk.

  Mercedes tried to ignore her, but it was impossible. She was really laying it on. Writhing around, giving the springs a run for their money. Mercedes wondered if it was all for show or if she was really feeling it.

  She decided she didn’t care. But it was getting her thinking.

  Something had happened. Brennick was changing. And the Warden was the type of prick that didn’t change unless there was a good reason. Unless his hand was forced. What was happening? Who was responsible? And what did it all mean?

  She didn’t know.

  But the simple fact of it was an upheaval she had never seen coming.

  At that very moment, Jessie was beneath her, openly playing with herself. Making a show of it. Calling out. Making noise after lights out. Breaking damn near every rule they had.

  And no one had come to punish her.

  That was… Well, it was almost like freedom.

  Now, the guards were sounding like prisoners: “I know he won’t let me leave”, and the prisoners were acting like guards: serving food and walking around freely – if only a select few – and it had all happened in a day or two. What would the next week bring? The next year?

  What in the hell was going on? What had happened to the world of Brennick she had been living in for years? A world with bars and rules and scheduled exercise and even scheduled rape?

  And what about this new Brennick? Was it the kind she could give birth in? Could she have a child here – she never could have at the old Brennick – and keep it? Raise it? Love it?

  Jessie moaned beneath her, the springs rocking again.

  And what would it be like to make love to a man? Not get fucked by asshole guards that didn’t ask if it was okay. But to be held, whispered to, loved? She had never considered it was something that could ever happen to her again. Not in this life. But could it? Could she be a woman again, instead of a convict? Could she be a lover?

  She didn’t know the answers to any of those questions.

  She sighed.

  Slipped off of the top bunk – her feet making a kissing sound as they struck the cold floor – and looked at the bottom one.

  Jessie lay there, naked atop the sheets, sweat glistening in the pale light, hunger in her eyes. Mercedes slid her panties off, then pulled her undershirt over her head. Stood there in the darkness, naked, watching as Jessie ran her left hand along her body. Her right hand working between her legs.

  Mercedes stalked forward, onto the bed. Like a cat slowly approaching its prey. She touched Jessie at the ankle, and then ran her fingers up along her calf. To her knee. Then she palmed her thigh and continued the trek up. Her arm behind her as her shoulders came level with Jessie’s breasts.

  She bent and took one into her mouth. Jessie moaning. Mercedes’ hand now above Jessie’s, holding it, working it, taking over. Her tongue flicking along the edge of Jessie’s nipple. Tasting her sweat, salty, as she licked it off.

  Then Jessie had a hold of her head. Brought it up and they kissed hungrily. Bodies joining. Tongues playing in each other’s mouths. Fury and passion passing between them as Mercedes’ nimble fingers worked harder. Faster. Breasts brushing Jessie’s stomach. Bent over her.

  They broke off the kiss and Mercedes dove for the point between Jessie’s legs. Short red hairs rubbing her face as she licked and teased and kissed. Jessie’s fluids pouring out, Mercedes drinking her in as her cellmate climaxed in a writhing, moaning crescendo.

  Mercedes let her tongue drag over Jessie’s rising and falling belly, then up between her breasts. Along her neck, and then to her mouth. Jessie sucked it in and they kissed again. Hard. Desperate. The need overwhelming them both. Tongues rolling along each other, feeling, tasting, enjoying. Wet lips sliding along wet lips. Opening and closing as they fought each other for every ravenous moment of longing.

  Jessie took Mercedes by the shoulders and flipped. Jessie, now straddling Mercedes sleek, toned body, leaned forward and their need enveloped them again as they kissed a frenzied a kiss, and then she was gone from Mercedes sight, as she moved down. Kissing, touching, licking, caressing. Kneading and sucking Mercedes’ breasts. Flcikign her nipples. Kissing and playing as she moved lower. Her tongue dipping into her cellmate’s belly button.

  Lower. Until Mercedes felt Jessie’s tongue inside her. Around her. Exploring her. In and out. And her fingers. Deep inside. Feeling along the walls. Searching out the portions of greater pleasure. Mercedes moaned louder than she ever had when she and Jes
sie fulfilled what needs they could.

  She thought of Erin, despite herself, as Jessie’s fingers and tongue moved along the edges of her lips, and then inside her again. She imagined his arms around her. She imagined his lips brushing her skin. His scent, masculine. His body hard. His touch soft.

  Jessie increased the pressure, increased the speed. Her lips kissing along Mercedes’ thighs. She thought of how he would feel atop her. How he would feel inside of her. How he would taste when she kissed his chest. How she would scream when he released himself into her. The warmth flooding through her.

  And she screamed as she fell into the abyss of ecstasy.

  Camp 417

  Generalstabsarzt Klaus Ebersbach had never met a living Jew he liked. The only good Jew was a dead Jew. Period.

  End of statement.

  And discussion.

  He would have been more than happy to just gas them all. But for the moment, he didn’t have that option. They were too important to the economy. Germany needed labor, the cheaper the better. But Klaus knew they were useful for other purposes, as well.

  Klaus pointed so his driver could see the turn. The man nodded and brought the heavy Mercedes-Benz around the bend. The forest around them blanketed in snow. No birds chirping. The gravel road frozen over. The world gray and dead. Sky clotted with clouds, blocking out the sun.

  The driver maneuvered the car around the curve and then Klaus could see it: the camp. Up ahead in the distance. A long scar across the horizon. He reached into his case and took out the paperwork, looking it over as they waited for the guard to open the gate.

  The guard approached the car, a submachine gun held loose in front of him, and spoke to the driver.