Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  He raised his barrel away from the fence below, sighting on the shadowy figures as they lurched and dragged themselves through the newly fallen powder. Slapped the man next to him, pointing at them, instructing him where to fire. Settled back into his stance and started raking them methodically. At that distance, he couldn’t tell where he was hitting them, but they were going down just the same.

  That was enough in his book.

  So long as they didn’t start getting back up.

  Two

  Chris Reed stalked behind his select group of guards, watching as they cut down the hoard. Ran a hand through his short, cropped blonde hair, snow clumping on his head as it fell.

  “This ain’t play day at the rifle range, boys,” he said. “As fucked as it sounds to say it: these are real life zombie mother fuckers that want to feast on your insides. Give them one, two – or ten, if that’s what it takes – but try to conserve fucking ammunition.” He stopped and punched a guard in the shoulder. “You,” he said, “aim high. Take out the head and upper body. I don’t want wounded, I want dead.”

  He continued on.

  He watched as the lights rolled over the corpses at the fence, their bodies making a hill of shattered flesh. It was starting to get high. Easily seven feet. A few more and they could just walk over, torn from razor wire, and be inside the first line of defense.

  He thought about that, rubbing his arm as he did.

  “You,” he flagged a guard who was reloading. If you got them firing, they couldn’t hear a fucking word. “See if we can get a few guys down there to fire from ground level. I know it’s fucked up work, but we need to make sure no one makes it over, and we need to keep that pile from getting any bigger.”

  The guard nodded and disappeared.

  “These fuckers killed eight of our brothers today,” Chris explained as he started pacing again. “And if you see any of them – and you just might – you put them out so the Lord can help them in. All the others, you put them out to save your own asses. This isn’t about prisoners anymore. This is about survival.”

  He stopped next to a man who had broken down, kneeling, sobbing. His name was Mike Poterus. His right knee was soaked through from the snow, his uniform bruised with condensation. Chris bent down next to him and took him by the shoulder.

  “What?” he asked.

  “My daughter,” Mike explained. “My daughter’s out there.”

  Chris stood up, sighted down his rifle and searched the crowd. He found her quick. Seven years old. Pretty cute kid. He had seen pictures. She was wearing a little girl’s night gown. As the light swept across her, he thought it had Strawberry Shortcake on it. She was still carrying her favorite bear. Slowly making her way to the pile by the fence.

  He sighed, letting the exhalation steady his arm.

  Fired once.

  Her head let out a mushroom of brown that covered the snow behind her. Then she collapsed, knees buckling, falling face first into the cold, wispy snow. It puffed around her as she hit, and then settled back down.

  “No she’s not,” he told Mike. “Not anymore.”

  Three

  "He was born December twenty-eighth," Erin Gibbs told his cellmate, Tall Bill Mahone. "Two days after Christmas. Nina said 'Santa was late this year.'"

  Erin imagined Bill nodding in his bunk beneath. Erin in the top bunk, orange pants, white shirt, gray skin, blanketed in darkness.

  "How old is he?"

  Erin thought a moment. It was hard to judge time inside. He thought he'd been in five years, which would make Blake... "Ten. He's ten."

  "Never visited?"

  Erin was silent a moment. "No," he said. "Let's not talk about him."

  "Deal. What about your wife? Nina, was it?"

  "It was." Erin nodded. "Also no,” he said. “Her lawyer brought the papers for me to sign so she wouldn't have to see me."

  "Brutal."

  Erin shrugged, even if no one could see him. "Not really," he said. "We were just two dumbass kids anyway. We probably wouldn't have stuck it out, even if things had turned out differently."

  "How old were you?"

  "Twenty-five. Hot shot cop with a hard on. She was twenty-three, worked at her old man’s deli. Used to see me come in and her eyes would get all wide." Erin shook his head at the memories. "I knew what I wanted," he said.

  "To get married?"

  "Hell no. To get laid."

  They shared a laugh.

  "I never really thought of it as a permanent venture,” Erin explained. “You know, they teach you in school it might come to that, but it's always like getting struck by lighting or winning the lotto: it's always going happen to someone else. Then you get a knock at the door and she's there, her mascara tracking down her cheeks, her old man next to her, shotgun in hand, telling you that he doesn't give a shit if you are a cop, he'll shoot you just the same. And before you know it, there you are: a newlywed. They don't call them shotgun weddings because they're quick."

  Bill laughed again. "Right," he said.

  "About six years later, we're still okay. Argue a bit. Hard to get along, bills wise. But okay. I get a call ‘shots fired.’ Haul ass to the crime scene. See a kid running away. I chase him a bit. He's going through yards and all that, so the cruiser's out. Finally, after telling him to stop fifty fucking times, I draw, tell him ‘stop or I'll shoot.’" Erin was quiet a moment. "He spins - it's dark as hell, can't see shit - maybe he's got something in his hand, maybe not. I fire. Kill him.”

  Erin shifted in his bunk.

  "Turns out he's unarmed,” he said. “Honor roll student, all that shit. No one knows why he was in that neighborhood at that time of night, why he was at the crime scene, why he ran. Just he was such a good kid cut down so young. Some asshole says I profiled him - which I did: he was leaving a crime scene so I assumed he was a criminal – and claims racism. I'm white and I shot a black kid, so obviously I'm a registered fucking white supremacist..."

  "Even though you're half black..."

  "My dad was white, so I must be too. And BAM-O. First degree murder."

  Erin paused for a minute, then continued, "The last time I saw her, we fought. They were offering second degree before they gave it to the jury. All I had to do was admit it was racially motivated and apologize. She wanted me to take it. I told her to go to hell."

  Erin shifted on his bunk again, said: "The story of my life. Literally."

  "Sorry, man."

  Erin sighed. "I'd say ‘it's not over yet,’ but..."

  Four

  “Status report,” Warden Bowers said into the microphone. He was in the prison’s Communications Room. Behind him, leaning casually against the wall, was Dave Sanders, Brinnick’s Com Specialist. He was taking the whole outbreak in stride. Calmly. God Bless Him.

  He was also single, and childless.

  “We got the better of them taken down,” Watkins reported. “Other towers reporting about the same. Few stragglers coming out of the woods, but we can handle them.”

  “Took you long enough. Damn near sunrise.”

  “Think that’s the only reason they stopped, sir.”

  “Integrity of the fence?” Bowers asked. “I want that standing.”

  “There’s a pretty big pile.”

  Warden Bowers nodded. Then, into the mic: “I want you to organize a team from maintenance, ready to move out at first light, to keep that fence up. If these things really don’t like the light, I want to know.”

  “Should we take a few alive?”

  Bowers laughed. “I’d rather let Mr. President himself in here than one of those fucking things,” he said. “No. They’ll go out, toss the bodies, and in range of our towers we’ll find out if the uglies’ll come out in daylight.”

  “Roger,” Watkins returned.

  “I want a team of you and some good guys – not your best, I need them here – ready to move at first light, too.”

  “Roger. Where to?”

  “Wherever I say,” Bowers
told him, set the microphone down and left the room.

  Five

  Mercedes lay in her dark cell, rubbing her belly. Beneath her, Jessie had been asleep for hours. Her rhythmic breathing helping Mercedes relax. But she didn’t sleep, she couldn’t, the world was too confusing.

  Who did she think she was?

  A mother?

  That was a tall order by any standard. She had never thought of herself in those terms, and wondered if she could.

  God, if she was anything like her mother… she couldn’t even think about it. It’s every child’s worst nightmare. But she wasn’t a child anymore. She had to consider that her mother was a person, not some demon. She had had problems. She had tried to deal. She was probably doing her best.

  Mercedes rolled to her side, her deep black hair folding over her ebony face until she brushed it off.

  It didn’t do anyone any good to think about it. There wasn’t a fucking thing anyone could do, least of all her. She could bend it and twist it and flip it upside down and inside out, but couldn’t change it one way or the other: they were going to take her baby. She would never be a mother. Just a woman who gave birth.

  And what would that be like? Could she do it? Hell yes, she could. But could she feel it grow inside her? She would. Could she get it out, alive and healthy? She’d have to. And when she did, could she let them take it?

  She wondered.

  Could she let it go to people she had never met? Taken from her arms only seconds after it took its first breathe? Let them just take away the only good thing she had ever done, the only thing in her entire life that might – someday – mean something?

  Could she do it?

  Or could she just kill them all before they took her baby away?

  Six

  “We’ll stay locked up tight as a newlywed and keep it that way until we know what the hell is going on,” Warden Bowers told the group. “I couldn’t give half a rat’s ass what anyone thinks about it, either. We’re prepared to deal with a single enemy at any given time. Most times it’s from our population. Right now it’s not. I’m not spreading us thin dealing with both.”

  “Warden,” Sam said, raising his hand, “I was thinking about what happened last night.”

  The sun had broken over the horizon a half hour before, and the creepers had all but disappeared. Save for the fallen. They remained where they fell.

  “Two things,” Sam continued. “One, we’ve got our boys in those towers using two-twenty-threes now. It’s better for ammunition, but I think if we’re going to have our boys in harms way, tossing those bodies, we need stopping power.”

  “You want thirty-aughts in the towers?” Bowers asked, furrowing his brow. “Because we don’t have a hell of a lot of them.”

  “I want an escort for maintenance.”

  Each member of the group looked at Sam. Eric Dubluis, head of maintenance, seemed to be nodding to himself. Dave Sanders, coms chief, just leaned, pressing his glasses back up his nose with his pointer finger. Chris looked dumbstruck. Warden Bowers glared.

  “If they needed escort, I would have ordered one,” he said.

  “Warden,” Sam pleaded, “I’m not questioning orders. I’m saying this is not something we ever saw coming. Chris,” he turned to him, “how fast can they move?”

  Chris looked uncomfortable with the question. “Fast,” he said. “They smell blood, we’ll have hundreds – maybe thousands – on us in minutes. Seconds, maybe.”

  Sam nodded and turned back to the warden. “Too fast for five men in a tower,” he said. “Especially for two. And especially if they’re shooting NATO rounds meant more for target practice then putting something down.”

  Bowers stopped glaring, leaned back and stroked his stomach. Something he was fond of doing. “Four man team,” he said. “Led by Chris. And not because you asked for it, Watkins,” he told him, leaning forward, in Sam’s face. “Because I’m not wasting a single bullet, and shooters on the ground are more accurate than shooters a hundred fifty feet away.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “I want a scout team,” Bowers continued, “set and ready to roll. Watkins, you’ll be on lead. Pick three others to go. Again, not your best, I need them here, but good men you trust. Chris will be your number two.”

  “I need more,” Sam said. “They’ve already…” he picked his words a moment, “overwhelmed two teams that size.”

  “And what – in your vast experience – would be a better number?”

  “Double. Four trucks, in case we bring back survivors. That would be two men a truck plus one in the bed of front and back trucks with AK’s to lay down fire.”

  The Warden studied him carefully. Leaned his head back. Sighed. Said, “Done. Sound good to everyone?”

  They all nodded again.

  “How long to clear the fence and check integrity?”

  “Three hours,” Eric answered. “If you give me some prisoners, one. I could use twenty. We’ll have them clear off the weight while my men check the foundations.”

  “Explain.”

  “Each post has an eight foot foundation. The poles go deep, and they dig out to compensate for the possible weight of all the prisoners pushing at once. Think yard time, they all gang up, not worried about who gets shot, knowing we can’t shoot them all…”

  “That’s why we have the wall.”

  “Yes, but the fence was built to withstand it anyway. It should hold ten thousand pounds of pressure – should. We’ll stress test the foundations. Basically, we’ll clear the ground around them, and see if any movement has taken place. If it has, we’ll place a jack against it and see what amount of poundage forces movement. We need to know that every post is solid. If one goes down and breaks the link, the chain will be pulled down and simply separate from the other, stronger posts.”

  “All of them, in an hour?”

  “I’m assuming the majority will be intact,” Eric told the Warden.

  “What minority are we looking at?”

  “Possibly ten percent.” He shrugged. “We’ll go by load. The ones with more pounds of pressure are much more likely to be compromised.”

  “So not dig them all up?”

  “Exactly.”

  Warden Bowers nodded. “Good,” he said, “get on it.”

  “And what do I do?” Sam asked. “Chris’ll be gone for an hour, and it’ll only take a quarter that to assemble a team.”

  “Pick prisoners for work detail, establish defensive positions to watch outside, and our backs inside, and stop being a pain in my ass.” Bowers smiled at him. “Can you handle that?” he asked.

  Seven

  “Gibbs,” the guard called as the cell door opened, “you pulled work detail.”

  Erin Gibbs sat up in his bunk, squinting against the fluorescents. “We haven’t had roll call yet,” he said.

  “Not gonna have no roll call today,” the guard said. Erin didn’t recognize him but his patch read: HARPER. “Probably not going to have it anymore, period.”

  “That’s a relief,” Erin said, and slipped his feet off the bunk. They stayed there a moment, dangling, until he pushed himself off, dropped, and they landed with a thump, his knees bending as they hit. “I’d love to sleep in Sundays.”

  “Not what I meant,” Harper said.

  “I don’t remember volunteering for work detail.”

  “You don’t?” The guard scratched his head. “Well,” he said, “do you remember volunteering for prison? Because here at Brennick Maximum Security, you do what the fuck we tell you.”

  Erin shrugged, said, “Whatever,” and started getting dressed.

  “Outside, so put on the cold ones.”

  “Outside?” Erin and Bill asked together. Bill was still wiping the sleep from his eyes, but sat up at the word.

  “What do you mean ‘outside’?” Erin asked.

  “Like outside. The opposite of inside.”

  “I’m down,” Bill said, and got up, making for his clothes.r />
  “You Gibbs?” Harper asked. He was on the heavy side of four hundred pounds, but more football player pounds – all upper body. He hooked his two thumbs up under his belt and slouched against the cell door.

  Bill looked around, said, “No, he is.”

  “Then I don’t give a damn if you’re ‘down’, you’re not on the list.”

  “Aw, come on,” Bill moaned. “I’m fucking offering to help.”

  “You never struck me as the type,” Erin whispered.

  “If it’ll get me out of this cell an hour, I’ll kick some ass on this project. Whatever the hell it is.”

  Harper eyed him for a moment, then said, “Fine. I like your enthusiasm. If half your generation was so eager, we wouldn’t be fucked like we are. Course, eager about things like not killing people…”

  “One step at a time,” Erin told him.

  Harper shrugged him off. “Let’s get a move on,” he said and led the way, clipboard in hand.

  Eight

  "I got thirty-two," Tim Harper told Sam Watkins.

  Sam stared at him a moment, and then shook his head. "I asked for twenty,” he said. “Twenty. Not thirty-two."

  Tim's massive bulk had guarded Brennick's gates for nearly a decade, but had rarely ever been inside. His experience with prisoners amounted to waving buses of them through the gate, not guarding them. But with the outbreak, Warden Bowers had pulled all the men in and sealed the gate for the time being. Tim's guard shack had initial control of the gate, but it was outside, and so the Warden had reassigned Harper inside, and taken over control of the gate from his office.

  Tim shrugged. "I'm an over-achiever," he said.

  "No, you're an idiot,” Sam told him. “I can't take thirty-two prisoners out there. It's bad enough with twenty. How many guards do you think I'm bringing?"