Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

Sam Watkins finally regained his composure and handed Phillip Craig back his side arm.

  Phil nodded to him.

  “Where’d they come from?” Sam asked.

  Phil shrugged. “If I had to guess,” he said, “the first of them would’ve come out of the morgue.”

  Sam nodded. “Downstairs,” he said.

  “Right. So they start coming up from the basement and hit that door, probably bite a few local cops, so they come up with locking them down there. The local boys die, turn, and we got a sheriff’s station full of walkers.”

  “Creepers.”

  “Whatever.”

  [RL: I love that exchange. That’s us saying to the reader: “We know everyone else calls them walkers, but we call them creepers.”]

  Chris said, “The holding cells are down there, too.” He looked at Sam for confirmation, who nodded. “They keep the holding cells down there,” Chris said again, “with all the prisoners for Brennick that come in in the middle of the night. Plus locals that get pinched.”

  “That wouldn’t be what did it,” Phil told him. “They’d be in cells.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Chris explained, rubbed his arm. “If they’re in the cells, maybe they’re still alive.”

  Eight

  Maurice Avelanda had made his decision: he had to move. He could do it now – had to – while the creatures were being drawn to the sheriff’s office and the sound of gunfire. He had no idea how long they would be converged on the office.

  Now was the time.

  He thumbed the handle of the baseball bat as he slowly turned the deadbolt. When it came free, he did the same with the lock on the handle. Then, as quietly as he could, he pulled the chain off, carefully setting it against the door so it wouldn’t make a sound.

  He sighed.

  Slipped his grip down on the bat. One handed. His right. Rolled his shoulders to loosen them. Took the knob in his left hand. Turned it so slowly he wasn’t sure if it was really moving until he felt the catch come free.

  Then, silently pulled it open.

  The hall was empty save for debris. Blood smeared the walls, dried brown from exposure. Papers and glass and children’s toys littered the floor everywhere.

  He let his breath out in a whoosh and crept forward.

  He took a step into the hall. Then another, the bat held back, ready to strike. Stopped to listen, like a hunter. Total, absolute silence. Another step. Faster now. Smoother. The place was deserted.

  “You’re fine,” he said aloud, startled by the sound. He hadn’t heard anyone speak for two days.

  Creeping, each step heel to toe, glass crunching beneath his thick boots, he stalked forward. He made the first corner, peeked around it: empty. Turned it, took two steps and stopped.

  His hair was on end, and he knew why: there were zombies in every apartment he had passed.

  [RL: A very common mistake. For future reference: Just because the hall is empty, doesn’t mean the fucking building is empty.]

  Nine

  “Stay tight,” Chris told Phil.

  Phil looked at him sideways. “Man,” he said, “I got this. It’s what I do.”

  Chris nodded to him. His arm was burning but he couldn’t risk reapplying the bandage – if Phil got a look at it, that would be the end. He pulled his rifle up shakily. He was having hand tremors, but the voices had stopped. For now.

  “I know they’re pretty, but are we gonna look at the stairs, or go down them?” Phil asked.

  Chris ignored him and started down. The sheriff’s office was three stories, but only one tall. Large, about ten thousand square feet on each floor. The top level was for administration and booking, the middle floor was holding cells, the basement held the morgue and storage. They would need to clear twenty thousand more square feet to actually feel safe in the office.

  Sam had decided only two men would go down. He said it was because he needed all the hands he could get to fortify the upper level. Everyone knew it was because he planned on locking the door after them. Phil volunteered because he was obviously psychotic. Sam picked Chris because Sam picked Chris for everything.

  [RL: I love the inference here: “Just two. I need all hands I can get up here.”

  They walk through the door, take two steps down the stairs and bang – the doors bolted. I also love the line: Phil volunteered because he was obviously psychotic. This is kind of how they look at him through the whole first season, like there’s just something not quite right about him.]

  [TK: It’s one thing being one of the guys selected, it’s a whole nother level to volunteer.]

  They broke into a slow lope as they made their way down the stairs. The bright lights illuminating all the signs of violence: blood spattered and pooled dry on the steps, the walls, the railings – everywhere. Chris stepped over a severed leg. Phil kicked it over the side. It landed two flights down with a crack.

  They kept moving.

  Passed half a creeper dragging itself up the stairs. Phil executed it with a three round burst to the head.

  They were on the landing now. They stopped, readied themselves, and pushed the door open.

  Ten

  Maurice waited until the first of them was close enough – it was off to his left, coming out of the door he was standing in front of – and then came around with the bat, using all the force that a ninety degree spin to strike would allow. Connected the thing’s temple with the sweet spot on the bat. Its head popped in a quick burst of blood, the droplets chasing the body to the floor.

  He turned right, found one of the creatures less than three feet off. Kicked it in the stomach, then – when it wretched – came down on the spot where the head met the neck. A sickening crack rolled down the hall, but Maurice was already moving.

  He came across his body with the slugger and took off one’s jaw, then brought it opposite to the ear, sending the thing spinning to the ground.

  Two more were ahead of him now. He checked his peripheral and didn’t see any behind him. But the two ahead were coming fast. Closing the space. One, once a man; the other, a severely overweight elderly woman.

  Maurice didn’t run.

  He shifted his stance. Moving his right foot back, he planted the left. In one fluid motion he took a step forward with his right and brought the bat across his body, then snapped it back down and took out the female creeper’s left leg. Came back up and down on the male’s neck, just above the shoulder.

  The bat now across his body again, he came across level and lined up the logo with the zombie’s head, just behind the eye socket. Blood making an ink blotch on the wall. The massive body rolling forward and coming to rest in a heap.

  The creeper to the left wasn’t down completely. It had its right shoulder leaned against the wall, on one knee, spasming and lurching to get back up.

  Maurice came up to it, took a deep breath, and then – double handed – beat its head with the bat until the aluminum was connecting with the wall and vibrating through his arms.

  [RL: For the record, all of the fight scenes in Outpost Season One were carefully mapped out by the Choreography Team at Finnean Nilsen Projects. The team consists of me, standing in my office, Rage Against the Machine blaring as loud as the speakers will allow, slowly at first and then faster each time, going through the motions until I think I’ve got it, then running back and typing feverishly. It’s an advanced system, one that I’m sure every production company will employ eventually.]

  [TK: You shouldn’t be releasing trade secrets like that. Now everyone’s going to be acting out slaying zombies in their living rooms.]

  [RL: But not everyone can look this sexy while they do it.]

  Eleven

  The sound of automatic gunfire ricocheted off the walls as Chris and Phil methodically cleared the second floor. Phil was a fucking machine with it. Chris had never seen someone so pleased with the idea.

  They had ignored the residents of the cells throughout the slaughter, which Chris tallied as abo
ut fifteen in all. Not too many. Outside had been worse. The woods had been crazy. Not that he really felt bad for them: he was measuring it in the amount of risk to his life. In the woods he had been surrounded. Here, they were moving from one side to the other, with the lights on, the creepers nearly blind as Chris and Phil swept through the floor, cutting them down.

  They let their rifles hang low now, slung on their shoulder as the last creeper fell, riddled with holes.

  “Thank God,” a man said from a cell. There were about fifty in total, ten by ten, with two beds and a toilet. Plus rooms to fingerprint, photograph and interrogate. The cells were split into three sections: “squatters” – those only being held until the paperwork went through – which consisted of twenty cells, “occupants” – those being held until they made bail – ten cells, and “lifers” – transfers to Brennick. They had found no prisoners in either the “occupants” or “lifers” sections.

  Chris stopped and looked through the bars at the man. “What’s your beef?” he asked.

  The man shuddered. “Beef? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know, your beef. Your charge.”

  “Oh,” he said, nodding, his hands shaking like Chris’. “Um, public intoxication.”

  “You’re a drunk,” Phil told him.

  “I… I…”

  “Whatever.” Phil waved him off. “What about you?” he asked a scrawny, pale looking kid in the next cell.

  “Possession.”

  “Not surprised. Meth, right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “You look like a fucking vampire,” Phil said. “Get some sun, man.”

  [TK: It’s funny how different drugs effect the body, beyond the high, but how you can tell a stoner from a tweeker, crack-head vs. drunk, etc.]

  “Hey, fuck you too.”

  “Enough,” Chris told Phil.

  Phil moved on.

  “What about you?”

  A tall, handsome man smiled at him. “I sent my wife to the hospital, the whore.”

  Phil smiled back, and then shot him five times in the chest.

  [RL: This is a recurring theme with Phil, and one of the things that really makes me love him even more: he does not like guys that hurt women.]

  “What the fuck?” Chris burst.

  Phil shrugged. “Just some light housecleaning,” he explained, and moved to the last.

  Two hands leapt out at him. Cold, white fingers bunching and extending. Trying to get a hold of him. He took a few steps back and laughed. “Well, look at that,” he said.

  Chris could already see. A creeper was in the cell. Its face pressed against the bars, biting at Phil, then at Chris as he approached. Teeth making a chopping noise as the jaw opened and closed.

  “One of them got a hold of him,” the junky told them. “Maybe… I don’t know, two hours ago or so, we heard him get back up.”

  “Wait,” Chris said, “he died two days ago, just got back up?”

  “No. He got bit or scratched or breathed on or whatever-the-fuck two days ago. A few hours ago it was quiet and then we hear him. Like that.”

  “So,” Phil said, nodding, “about a two day gestation period.”

  Chris’ heart skipped a beat. How long had it been? A day? Shit. He wasn’t even sick yet.

  “Yes, you are.”

  He ignored the voice.

  Twelve

  Maurice made the street and scanned it. All of the zombies were pushing themselves into a tighter mass around the sheriff’s station. That was good. But more were coming. He watched them as they passed, seemingly unaware of his presence. He let that sink in: they couldn’t read his body heat. They couldn’t smell him. It was the noise and movement that attracted attention. Then once they saw you, they were locked on.

  He stalked along the building’s wall until he reached the parking lot. Ducked down and tracked between the cars. Keeping out of sight. Got to his truck and put his key in the door. It was tough at that angle, stooped down. Habit was to be standing when he unlocked it. Got it turned and slipped into the driver’s seat. They were going to hear his truck for sure. But he couldn’t do what needed to be done without it.

  He had a plan. A plan that would not only get him to the sheriff’s office unharmed – he hoped – but get him into the prison and safety.

  But he needed the truck.

  He put the key in and turned it. The starter scratched out for a few moments, then he stopped it. Fucking thing, he thought, of all the days. It was just cold. Had to get the blood flowing. He tried again. Nothing but the tired sound of the starter whining.

  He pounded the dashboard. Two had already targeted the sound. Turned. Saw him sitting there, throwing a tantrum.

  He turned the key again. Pumped the gas pedal.

  They were coming now. More on the way. Drawn by the sound of the droning starter. Maurice screamed. Turning the key, pumping the gas.

  “God fucking damn you. Start, you piece of…”

  [RL: Who hasn’t had one of those days?]

  The engine roared to life. The sound drawing two more of the creatures. He dropped it in gear and took off. Running a few down as he peeled out of the parking lot. Blood splashing across the hood as he mowed them down. Their bodies crunching under the heavy snow tires.

  “First stop,” he said to himself, “the animal shelter.”

  [TK: I know what you’re thinking: here come the zombie dogs…blah. Wrong, we have much more creative uses for animals than simply following the standard formula. We will broach this concept in season Three or Four, however, it will be on a huge scale.]

  Thirteen

  “Status,” Sam called over the com unit.

  “Phil just shot someone,” Chris told him.

  “Roger.”

  [RL: I always get a kick out of that exchange.]

  “No,” Chris said, shaking his head, “a person.”

  “Non-creeper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Phil, what the hell is going on down there?”

  “He was an asshole,” Phil said into the microphone.

  “So?”

  “So, he tripped and fell on a few bullets.”

  “How many?”

  Phil shrugged. “Five or six,” he said.

  The com was silent a moment. Then Sam said, “Next time use one. Where are you?”

  [TK: Nice to see other’s getting into the spirit of things. Funny that Chris, the guy who shot a co-worker/friend in the back, is the only one who has a problem with Phil killing someone.]

  [RL: I think it’s more of a problem for him because he’s bit. He knew Phil would kill him for being bit, now Phil could kill him just because he feels like it. I think he’s feeling his little walls closing in.]

  “We’re in the squatters section. We’ve got two survivors in cells, and about fifteen dead creepers. One live one in a cell, as well.”

  “Have either of them been bitten?”

  Chris studied them. “I don’t think so. I think they would have turned by now.”

  “That’s a lot of thinking for you.”

  “I won’t make a habit of it.”

  The coms were silent again. Then: “Basement?”

  “Haven’t gotten there yet.”

  “Make the live creeper into a dead one and head to the basement. You can pick up the survivors on your way back up, but I want them strip searched before we let them out of the cells.”

  Chris nodded. “Phil will have fun with that,” he said.

  “Hey, fuck you, man,” Phil spat at him. Spun and shot the creeper in the head. Then turned and walked up to Chris. “Let’s check the basement,” he said with the slightest giggle.

  Fourteen

  Sam slapped a fresh magazine in and checked their supplies. They were fucked, and he knew it.

  “What in the holy hell did they expect to do with this? Piss them off?”

  The armory hadn’t been what they were expecting. It was probably because the previous occupa
nts had cleared out a good amount of the most effective weapons when the plague first hit. But it could just as well have been the sheriff being a fucking moron.

  Either way, they were screwed.

  Three bolt action rifles. Two shotguns. A box of shells for either. That was it. And no two-twenty-threes – the ammunition they needed for the AKs.

  Brooks paced the room like a caged lion; a massive, dark skinned lion the size of a boxcar, watching the creepers press against the glass. His rifle held tight in his massive hands. “I was wrong,” he said. “We can’t stay here.”

  Sam looked at the doors, stress cracks starting to spread out and make webs. He gave the door a half hour – tops. He looked at the windows – no bars, no nothing. When they went, they’d go at once, just shatter in and the things would be on them. He had no idea how long they would last.

  “I haven’t checked the weather channel lately,” Brooks told him, “but if there’s a break in the storm, we might be able to make a run for it.”

  Sam shook his head. “Not with these munitions,” he said. “What do you have left?”

  “I got thirty rounds, total.”

  Sam turned to the others.

  “I’m still fully loaded,” Bryce Stone told him. “Haven’t had to fire a shot. Got ten mags, thirty each, plus the one in my rifle.”

  “The same,” another responded.

  Sam did some quick math. Clancy was gone, but had gone down firing in the sheriff’s office. Will was gone, but had also fired shots. Both of their rifles should still be in the building.

  “Find Clancy and Will’s rifles,” he told Brooks. The man nodded his blocky head and disappeared. That left Chris, who must be damn near empty, and Phil, probably about the same. Plus four guards, none of whom had fired a shot, for whatever reasons.

  Well over a thousand rounds. But would that be enough? On full automatic they could burn through that in a few minutes, and then where would they be?