Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  But now, he had to make a decision: leave her out there, alone, like that, or kill her.

  He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Figure a way out.

  She took another awkward step. Almost tripped. Righted herself. Kept on.

  It was the only right thing to do, he told himself. If it was the other way around, he would want her to do it. But, how could he say that for sure? Was any life better than none? The prisoners at Brennick lived out their lives, just differently than others.

  It was a life.

  Was this her life now? Was he just selfishly assigning his own beliefs on life? Projecting them onto her? Hell no, he decided, she was a creeper. If there were any others who had survived and he let her go on like this, she could be the one that turns the last true person into one of them.

  He started to pull his service pistol out. Stopped. He heard something. Something that shouldn’t seem so out of place. But even just two days since he had last heard it, it seemed wrong. Eerie. Alien.

  “What is it?” the boy asked from behind him, standing in the doorway to the bus.

  “Music,” Marshall told him.

  Twenty-Three

  “I take it you know each other,” Bowers said as he stepped in front of Mercedes, halting her running attack on Erin.

  “Piece of shit,” she spat at Erin. “Once a pig, always a pig.”

  Erin frowned at her. “Does she know what’s going on?” he asked Bowers.

  “Partially,” Bowers said. “Can we all sit down like human beings so I can explain?”

  Erin wondered at Bowers’ game. He was acting very different around Mercedes than he had around the male prisoners. Erin guessed that made sense, but the Warden never struck him as chivalrous. If anything, Bowers was treating Mercedes like he knew her well, which he must have for her to be in the room. Erin wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  He filed it away for later and took a seat.

  Mercedes took the chair she had flipped over when he walked in, sat it up, turned it backwards and sat with her legs spread like a gangster.

  “Very lady-like,” Erin told her.

  “Fuck you,” she said back.

  “Now,” Bowers interrupted their staring contest, “the reason I said this was perfect timing is, Mercedes doesn’t believe what’s happening is actually happening.”

  Erin shook his head. “It sounds crazy,” he said, “but it’s true. I’ve seen them in action.”

  “Says you.”

  Erin shrugged.

  Bowers sighed. Walked over to the door and knocked. Brooks opened it. “The wheelbarrow, please,” Bowers said. Brooks nodded and disappeared.

  “That’s not necessary,” Gibbs told him. Turned back to Mercedes. “It’s true. Trust me.”

  He let his eyes bore into hers until she broke the connection. Turned her head and whispered something he couldn’t catch. Then Brooks was back with the corpse in the wheelbarrow.

  Mercedes started when the dead creeper in the guard’s uniform was wheeled in. Stood up and took a few steps back.

  “It’s dead,” Bowers assured her. “That first group I sent out to fix the lines? He was part of it. They ate him, and then, he turned into one.”

  Mercedes looked around the room, as if searching for a viable exit, backing herself into the corner as she did. Finally, her gaze settled on Erin.

  “You knew about this?” she asked him.

  He nodded.

  “How?”

  “They had Bill and I outside yesterday, pulling bodies off the fence.”

  “Off the fence?”

  He nodded again. “From what I understand – which isn’t much – they can’t see during the day. So at night, they made for the guard towers. The only living people still around.”

  “Not the only,” Bowers told them. “We’ve got two buses full coming in right now.”

  Two buses full, Erin thought. So there were survivors. He filed that away for later, too.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Mercedes asked Erin.

  “I didn’t see how it would help.”

  “Help what?”

  “You,” Erin said.

  Mercedes covered her mouth, and rocked back and forth a moment.

  “Can we get that fucking thing out of here?” Erin asked.

  Bowers waved. Brooks nodded. Wheeled it out.

  “Jessie,” Mercedes said, her hand muffling the voice. “She thinks…”

  “What?” Bowers asked. “She thinks what?”

  Mercedes turned her gaze to the Warden. Her face twitched once and then went vacant of emotion. Like a switch being tossed.

  “Why are you showing me this?” she asked Bowers.

  Bowers shrugged and looked away. Erin read something in his eyes before he could turn. He didn’t like the implications. Something deep inside him wanted to stomp the Warden into the carpet.

  “I’m putting together a sort of…” Bowers thought a moment, as if trying to choose his words, “…a ‘coalition’ if you will.”

  “What are we doing?” Mercedes asked, incredulous. “Invading Mexico?”

  Bowers sighed and rubbed his face. Erin tried not to smile. Mercedes was getting to him. That thing behind his eyes was starting to turn. It was like he was shrinking. Erin knew enough to know that was the first sign of trouble. A man like Bowers only fell back so far, and then he lashed out.

  But, Erin wondered, why was this exchange taking place at all? When Eddie “the Prince” had questioned Bowers, he had gotten a one way ticket to the chopping block. Mercedes was being openly disrespectful. Erin wondered how long this would go on before Bowers cracked.

  “No,” Bowers told her, “we’re not invading fucking Mexico.”

  “Warden wants to take us out of lock down,” Erin explained. “He had us in here earlier to discuss it.”

  “Us?”

  “Me and the Shot Callers.”

  “Why you?”

  “Because he needs someone outside the prisoner hierarchy as a go-between. To bring the prisoners issues to the Warden without having a full on democracy. The Shot Callers will control the population. The Warden will control the guards. I’ll be the guy in the middle, keeping everyone from killing each other.”

  Mercedes glared at him, and then nodded and said, “So, why am I here?”

  “You’re here,” Bowers told her, “because I need someone I can trust to do the same with the female prisoners.”

  He let that settle in a moment, then continued: “The women don’t have the same gang structure as the men, so I’ll need you to appoint women who can keep the peace. I’ll assign you a five guard security detail, as well, until everything’s settled. Any woman who causes a problem will be released, where she will be promptly dismembered by creepers.”

  “Creepers?” Mercedes asked.

  “That’s what the guards are calling the zombies,” Erin explained.

  Mercedes shook her head.

  “Now,” Bowers continued, “I’m going to have the men keep up maintenance. I want the women to take over administrative duties. Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry. Paperwork. All of that. Because of this, we will be having women moving through the male portions of the prison, and vice versa. That means you two will have to work together and communicate.”

  This was sounding better to Erin every second. He was waiting for the catch.

  “The last thing I need,” Bowers said, “is to have some poor girl gang raped while she’s trying to take out the trash. So if anything like that happens – on either of your ends – I will hold you both personally responsible.”

  There it was.

  “Understood?”

  They nodded.

  “Good,” Bowers said, nodding too. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other business to attend to. I trust you can find your way back to your cells.”

  Twenty-Four

  Marshall couldn’t believe his ears. It wasn’t just music, it was rock. Hard rock. Like riot music. And it was loud. G
etting louder.

  The creeper that had once been his sister heard it too. Had adjusted course. Now traveling up the highway toward the sound. Stumbling along the center line.

  Marshall didn’t know what to do. His mind told him to get back in the bus and take off. His heart told him to ignore the music and shoot the creeper behind the ear. Humane as he could be. Put her down quick and painless. Yet another part of him said if there was music, there were people. And if there were more people, alive and well, there was hope.

  He pressed the service pistol back down in his holster and watched the road. There was a car on it now. Small but getting larger. Growing with the volume of the music. He couldn’t tell what make yet. It had something strange on the front of it.

  Yellow. With black lines running crooked across it.

  He squinted at it as it grew larger.

  Then in a blare of hard guitar, the car materialized fully on the highway. Swerved, clipped the creeper in the night gown, sending her careening off to the side as the V shaped plow struck her. Then blasted past and kept going. Marshall watched it until it disappeared around a bend and then shook his head. Not sure what had just happened.

  Got back in the bus and dropped it in drive.

  Twenty-Five

  Chris lay on the couch, the office dark as tar, listening to the voice speak. He tried to ignore it at first, but it was very persistent.

  And, it had started making sense.

  “I don’t get that last part,” Chris told the voice.

  It repeated itself. Calmly. Understanding. Comforting.

  “Really?” Chris asked. “How is that possible?”

  The voice explained it to him. How it had all been right there. In that report he read from the CDC. Chris tried to remember but couldn’t. His mind was too sluggish. If only he could sleep.

  The voice reminded him that sleep wasn’t what he needed. What he needed was to listen. The voice would help him. It was the only thing that really cared about him. And, of course, Chris thought, it would care about him. Without him, the voice wouldn’t exist.

  The voice told him they needed each other. Together, they could beat this. With the voice’s help, Chris was unstoppable. He could be anything he wanted to be. He could be the Warden. He could be above the Warden. He could be a god.

  Chris smiled. He liked the sound of that.

  The voice told him he could have anything he wanted. Anyone he wanted.

  Chris liked the sound of that, too.

  Just do what the voice tells you. Even when you don’t understand. Even when it sounds crazy. Even when it makes no sense. Just do it. And everything will be alright. Everything will be perfect. Everything will be the way it was always supposed to be.

  Chris nodded.

  “Whatever you say,” he told it.

  Twenty-Six

  Mercedes walked behind Gibbs and off to his right. It wasn’t like she was worried about him: she just wanted him to know she didn’t trust him.

  They came to the first of many locks that led back to their respective cells, the guards exchanging glances at the pair. Didn’t open the lock.

  “Gibbs,” one of them said through the speakers. “Where’s your escort?”

  Erin shrugged. “Warden didn’t give us one.”

  The guards looked at each other again. The one who had spoken to Gibbs picked up the phone and punched an extension. Erin and Mercedes waited. The guard said something into the phone. Nodded. Hung it up and said, “Okay. Warden says you two will get clearance badges tomorrow. Until then, I’ll have Mystique escort you.”

  The lock opened and Mystique came out. Nodded to them, and started down the hall. Erin followed her. Mercedes followed him.

  “Strange stuff, huh?” Mystique asked over her shoulder. “If someone had told me two days ago you two would be allowed to just traipse around wherever you wanted, I would’ve fainted. But now, Warden says to let you two through, and I didn’t even bat an eyelash.”

  “The times they are a changing,” Erin told her.

  “So,” Mercedes asked, “we’re going to be able to go wherever we want? Just walk up to a lock and nod and you guys’ll open it?”

  “Pretty much,” Mystique told them. They stopped at a lock. Mystique waved. The gate opened. “But I don’t suggest you take advantage. The two of you aren’t going to be real popular with the guards. Every time you pass through a lock, instinct is to shoot you.”

  “Very comforting,” Erin said.

  “And I don’t guess the prisoners are going to be real impressed with you two having special privileges, either. You might want to spend the time in your cells tonight figuring out how you’re going to survive all of this.”

  They paused at a lock, and Mystique waved. The lock opened and a guard came out, his bald head shining under the halogens.

  “Gibbs,” he said to Erin.

  “Roc,” Erin returned.

  Mystique said, “Rococoa’ll take you back to your cell. I’ll escort Mercedes the rest of the way.”

  Erin nodded and followed the guard through the lock. Made a left. Mystique got moving again. Passed through the lock with Mercedes in tow and made a right. They walked in silence for a while.

  Then Mystique said, “Gibbs is cute.”

  Mercedes wanted to puke. Two days ago the prisoners were “animals,” now it looked like it would take everything the Warden had to keep Brennick from turning into an orgy.

  Twenty-Seven

  Marshall pulled the bus into the loading bay. Put it in park. Shut the engine off. Opened the folding door, and got out.

  Brooks said, “Warden wants to see you and Bryce right away.”

  “Nice to see you too,” Marshall told him.

  “If you had gotten here on time you could’ve showered and shaved first like the rest of us. What’d you do, stop for snacks?”

  “Bryce’s fucking front tire blew,” Marshall huffed. “We had to fix it on the side of the highway. I was killing creepers with my bare hands! And I found my sister. That was fun.”

  “She with you?” Brooks asked, looking past Marshall at the stream of survivors coming out of the bus.

  “No,” Marshall told him. “She was a creeper.”

  “You kill her?”

  “No, she got hit by a car.”

  Brooks stared at him. Then said, “Where’s Bryce?”

  “He got hit by a bus.”

  Brooks stared at him again. Marshall shrugged. Brooks turned from him and said, “Get these people checked out. I want full cavity searches of everyone, even the kids. If anyone’s bit or shows any sign of being sick, send them right back out the way they came.”

  The guard he had instructed nodded.

  “Come on,” Brooks told Marshall. “We don’t want to keep the Warden waiting any longer than he already has.”

  Twenty-Eight

  “Have a nice visit?” Tall Bill asked Erin as the door to their cell closed.

  “How’s that?”

  “You and your beautiful woman?”

  “How’d you know she was there?”

  “Jessie told me,” Bill said, and shrugged. Pointed over his shoulder. “She brought you back your bottle.”

  “Nice of her.” Erin went around him to the sink and took the bottle. Looked at the amber fluid inside. “Have a bit of a party?” he asked Bill.

  Bill shrugged again.

  Erin sighed. Opened the bottle and downed some. “It was interesting,” he told Bill. “Mercedes didn’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “She didn’t know, because I didn’t tell her.”

  Bill nodded his understanding. “How’d she take it?”

  “Not well. I think she’s pissed at me.”

  “More than before?”

  “More than before.”

  Bill nodded. “That sucks,” he said.

  Erin climbed into his bunk and laced his fingers behind his head. Thinking. Thinking about Mercedes. And Bowers. And that look in the Ward
en’s eyes. The history he read there. He thought about the knot in the pit of his stomach, and the quietly burning rage he held for the Warden. He thought about where this all was going, and what he would be able to do once he got that security pass. He thought about Blake, out there in the world alone. Possibly with his mother. Possibly not. Possibly dead.

  “Tomorrow,” he told Bill, “I get a security pass to go through any lock, anywhere in Brennick.”

  “Anywhere?”

  “I’m not playing repeater,” Erin told him.

  “Sorry,” Bill said. Erin couldn’t see his face, but knew he was smiling.

  “But, yes, anywhere.”

  “So, we just have to make it through the night. Snug as bugs in our cells here. And then tomorrow morning you get a hall pass. And we’re set.”

  Erin nodded. Shifted in his bunk. Said, “Just one more night.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Warden Bowers glared across the table at Marshall. The young man now the fifth guard to return alive to the prison. It wasn’t that Bowers had anything against the guy: he just couldn’t imagine what took him so long to return, or how he had done it without the sixth guard.

  “Where’s Bryce?” he asked Marshall.

  “There was an accident,” Marshall explained.

  “An accident?” Bowers asked, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of accident?”

  “The bus fell on him.”

  Bowers continued to glare.

  “He got a flat,” Marshall began, “and he had the bus jacked up. The jack slipped and it came down on top of him.”

  “Killing him?”

  Marshall squirmed a bit. “No, but he was screaming and it was attracting creepers…”

  “So?”

  “So, I killed him.”

  Bowers sighed and nodded. “I see,” he said.

  Warden Bowers was getting tired. He felt his age. Which meant he didn’t feel well. It was bad enough all this shit going on, but when the troops get back and can’t tell a fucking straight story to save their lives, it takes an even heavier toll. Now Bowers was ready to call it a night. Lock the door, pour himself a tall one of straight scotch, and have himself a good drunk.