Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  “If we could make the gun store,” Bryce said, “we’d have a chance.”

  Sam nodded. “If we have to run,” he said, “that’s where we’ll be running.”

  “And then what? Where are we running from there?”

  “If I have anything to say about it, home.”

  “What about the warden’s shit? And everyone’s family?”

  Sam’s stomach doubled when Bryce mentioned it. Fucking Warden, he thought again. One way or the other, they started checking those houses, driving all over hell on the Warden’s orders, Sam was going to have a very bad day.

  He stopped thinking about that when he saw a pair of headlights zip by.

  [RL: The raw selfishness of Sam Watkins is breathtaking. He couldn’t give a shit less if they leave a thousand people to die, so long as no one finds out about what he’s done.]

  Fifteen

  Maurice dropped the bulky bundle into the back of the truck, hopped in it and took off. Went over a creeper and didn’t slow down. Two more got on his trail and he gunned it around the corner and lost sight of them.

  Snow had begun falling and it melted on his windshield as he drove, tracking down in lazy currents until he accelerated and the wind made them reverse course.

  He cut right and blasted along the main street. Three zombies sent in opposite directions like bowling pins as he plowed through a small crowd. He passed the sheriff’s office and resisted the urge to honk and wave. Let them know he was on his way. Getting the attention of every creature within hearing distance wouldn’t do him any good. It might help the boys inside, but he was already working on that.

  He made a right and then a left, weaving through town.

  Slid a bit in the snow as he came to a stop in front of the hardware store. Jumped out and ran in, the glass doors blasted out and bloody.

  He did a full 360 in the store, trying to find his purchases in the gloom. Caught site of the right sign and ran to the isle. Then stormed along it, looking for the right one. Found it. Smiled. Left the isle.

  He set the item on the counter and went looking for the next. It was harder. He wasn’t even sure if they had them, but he didn’t want to risk another store. It took him five minutes – checking behind his shoulder every few seconds – to find it, his baseball bat held tightly in his right hand.

  He would be trading up soon, he thought.

  He took the second item to the front, picked up the first and held it with his elbow. The final item was in a locked cage at the front, he realized. Dropped his purchases back on the counter and went looking for a key. The set was hanging under the counter. He took them, went around, opened the cage, took one out, and got the rest of his stuff. First thing back under his arm, second in his right hand with the bat, third in the left.

  Went out into the slowly falling snow. Dropped everything in the back of the truck and climbed in.

  “Very soon,” he said, and took off.

  [RL: Do they sell oven mitts at hardware stores? I doubt it, but what the hell, the stretch is worth it.]

  Sixteen

  “Chow time,” Mercedes told Erin, and slid the tray through the slot. “I hope you enjoy it.”

  “Should we play twenty-one questions?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “There’s no mashed potatoes. I think it’s only fair you let me at least try and guess what you poisoned.”

  “It’s the soup,” her friend told him. “I’m Jessie, nice to meet you.” She put a dainty hand through the bars and Erin shook it.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” he said.

  Tall Bill made a move for the hand but Jessie pulled it back and stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Aw, come on. I got… Hold on, stay right there, don’t move…” He held his hands up and pumped them. “Just stay right there… I have something for you.”

  The other three watched Bill as he ran the three feet to his bunk and rooted through his stuff. Then, after considerable effort, he reemerged and ran the few feet back to her. Stopped, cocked his head back, and then slowly presented an unopened package of rolling tobacco.

  “For the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he announced.

  Jessie looked at him, then the pouch, then back at him. “I don’t smoke,” she said.

  [RL: Crushing.]

  He stood dumb for a second, then said, “That’s okay. No problem. Trade them. Get something nice. You deserve it. You deserve the world.”

  She sighed.

  Tall Bill continued, “I would give you the world if I could. But it’s through these bars, the closest we can ever get. You know how that hurts my heart? To know I’ll never be able to hold you in my strong arms?”

  “Holy shit, cuz,” Jessie said to Mercedes, “he must read all those foofy books the librarian always pushes on us.”

  “I could be your hero,” he assured her.

  [RL: I have actually opened with that line several times. Surprisingly, I’m still single.]

  [TK: Friend of mine got a girl with the line “you’re as cute as a button.” No shit.]

  [RL: Really? God, I can’t believe it! Wait, yes I can, because you already told that story. Why don’t you tell them the one about your friend that fucked the girl in the outhouse? My Big Bro, running with the classiest of crouds…]

  [TK: Did I tell you an outhouse one?]

  [RL: I believe he was at a concert.]

  [TK: Ooooh, yeah, I remember that, it was a porta-potty. Good story…]

  She laughed. “Just sit down and eat, ya moron. Come on, Sadie, we got food to serve.”

  Jessie started to walk away, then came back and took the pouch of tobacco. “Thanks, Prince Charming,” she said.

  “Where’s the guard?” Erin asked her. “The guy with you before.”

  “They pulled him off,” Jessie told him. “Haven’t seen a guard this whole pass. They’re just staying up in their little catwalk, fifty feet up, keeping an eye.”

  And then the girls were gone.

  “I think that went well,” Bill said. “She’s crazy about me. I can tell. It’s in the eyes.”

  Erin popped his neck, thinking.

  “What’s up?” Bill asked.

  “Nothing,” Erin said, shaking his head, “just what she said. No guards.”

  Bill swallowed a massive helping of green beans, and said, “What about it?”

  “Very interesting.”

  Seventeen

  Phil shot the last creeper in the eye from about five feet away. Waited for its head to slap against the linoleum floor, and then took a running start and jumped on it like a kid hits a puddle. Blood and brains shot out in a halo.

  “That was fun,” he said.

  [RL: *Laughing* Come on, how could you not love this fucking guy?]

  “You really need to see somebody,” Chris told him. “I think you might have a serious problem.”

  “If there’s any justice in this world, the shrinks got eaten first.”

  [RL: My therapist would be very upset if she read that.]

  Chris looked around the room, at the papers strewn haphazardly across the tables, floors, some soaked or smeared with blood. Mostly they were “Cause of Death” descriptions, many with “Undetermined” scrawled at the bottom.

  He picked one up from the table. He couldn’t make any sense of it though. It was from the CDC. He read it twice before he started to figure what the hell it meant.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Phil asked him from across the room.

  Chris started, looked at him, and then shook his head. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Your hand’s shakin’ like fucking crazy, man,” Phil said, pointed at it. “And you’re sweatin’. You coming down off a few hard nights?”

  “Just the cold.”

  “People usually sweat when it’s cold,” Phil told him, dead pan.

  Chris started to say something when the coms crackled to life.

  Sam’s voice said, “Have you boys had your fun down there yet?”
<
br />   “Roger,” Chris said. “Coming up now.”

  “You might want to hurry. Looks like we have a ride.”

  [TK: He’s back. Let the fun begin.]

  Eighteen

  “Why in the name of the Virgin Mary’s sweet ass would I send a rescue mission?” Warden Bowers asked the microphone. “No one ever said you needed one.”

  [RL: I’m not 100% the Virgin Mary had all that sweet of an ass. I mean, I guess if she was hot enough for God she was probably pretty sexy, but she was also married and a virgin. If she was so fucking hot, why wouldn’t her hubby have tapped that ass?]

  “It all happened so fast, I never got a chance to,” Sam’s voice came over the speaker.

  The Warden sighed. “What’s the situation?” he asked.

  “We’re trapped in the sheriff’s office.”

  “Define ‘trapped.’”

  “We’re locked in with about a thousand creepers outside.”

  Bowers set the microphone down, leaned against the wall, and stroked his belly a moment. Then snatched it back up and said, “Casualties?”

  “Lost two. Thompson and Stockton.” There was a pause, then: “Craig put Stockton down.”

  The Warden sighed again. “Can you make it through the night?” he asked.

  “If we can make it to the gun store, we’ve got a shot. Its got bars on the windows, but I think I remember the doors being fucked when we drove past. We’ll have to chance it. The doors and windows here are about to go. This place was never meant to be closed.”

  “Copy.”

  “But I don’t see how we’ll get there, and if we do, how we’ll fortify it. The sheriff didn’t leave us shit for munitions. We’ll need what they have at the gun store.”

  “Got it. Just make it through the night, and in the morning, in daylight, check the town and get back.”

  “Sir,” Sam’s voice pleaded over the coms system. “There’s not going to be anything in those houses but creepers. I’m telling you: it’s the whole damned town.”

  “I don’t care,” Bowers growled. “I sent Chris with a list. I want every name and every address on that list checked off. And I want the personal items from my home. Understood?”

  Another pause.

  “Understood?” Bowers asked again.

  “Copy.”

  Warden Bowers rolled his shoulders and thought a moment. “Out of curiosity,” he said. “Why’d you think I sent a rescue mission?”

  There was a flurry of static, then: “…thought I saw headlights a minute ago.”

  Bowers smiled. “That’s why we’re checking the town.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because if they weren’t ours,” he explained, “whose headlights were they?”

  Nineteen

  Maurice pulled the truck back into the lot and poured out. He hit the bed first. Got the thing out and started trying to get it on. There were zippers fucking everywhere, and the fabric didn’t like moving.

  He got the lower half about right, the snow now about an inch thick, then struggled with the upper half. It was bulky as hell, but he figured he’d get used to it.

  The creatures that weren’t already pressed against the sheriff’s office had mostly lost interest. There hadn’t been gunfire from it in… Maurice didn’t know, he had been driving.

  A quick check told him the office was still surrounded, but stragglers were milling around his building, as well. A few had seen him already and were moving at a quickening pace toward him.

  He wouldn’t be any good with the bat in the suit, so he didn’t even try. Instead he unwrapped item number one. The packaging was a bitch. They had sealed each part separately, and then all together. Every time he looked up from the wrapping, the damn things were closer by a few yards. They’d be on him in less than a minute.

  He finally got the tube unwrapped and dropped it in the bed. Took item number two and cut the plastic tie that held them together. Slipped them onto his hands. Slid the last piece across the bed and attached the hose. Turned the knob.

  Then, he took out his Zippo. Pulled off the left glove with his teeth. Flicked the small lighter and set it on the edge of the truck bed. The flame burning casually in the cold. With his ungloved left hand, he reached across and turned the valve on the tube until it was all the way open. Until he could hear gas moving through the hose.

  He put the glove back on. Took the weapon up in both hands – one holding each half – and pointed it at the Zippo. Hit the nozzle with his heavily gloved thumb.

  The gas hissed out and the sound turned to a roar as the propane hit the flame and ignited the tongue on his brand new flame thrower.

  [RL: Seriously, and not to turn anyone off, but I have a massive erection right now.]

  Twenty

  Phil pushed the drunk into Brooks’ large chest and said, “We checked ‘em both. Chris wanted to do a cavity search but I told him we didn’t have time,” dead pan.

  “He’s fucking with you,” Chris explained to Sam, his arm muscles spasming as he pushed the junky. “But we did check them stem to sternum.”

  “Fine,” Sam said, nodded. “We need to move. Gun shop’s our last hope to make it through the night.”

  “Gun shop? I thought they had an arsenal here.”

  Brooks laughed. “Fucking nothing here,” he said.

  “They must have cleaned it out when the morgue went,” Sam told the two. “We barely got shit, and even that isn’t much. But the gun store should be fully loaded, plus they have bars on the windows and most likely a security door we can draw down.”

  “We’re at the sheriff’s office,” Chris reminded them. “Why would a gun store be better protected?”

  “Because people rob gun stores, Chris. The sheriff’s station doesn’t close, and the robbers try to stay away from it.”

  “True that,” Phil said, nodded.

  “Okay,” Chris said, “how in the burning gates of hell do we get there?”

  Sam shrugged. “How much ammo you got?”

  “Jack shit,” Phil told him.

  “Because he wastes it like he’s getting paid to.”

  “Top notch, swinging dick, zombie killer,” Phil explained. “I do my job.”

  [RL: I couldn’t have said it better myself.]

  “You didn’t just kill fucking zombies,” Chris reminded him.

  “Your hands are at it again,” Phil told Chris.

  Chris held them together and they stopped shaking. As bad.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Sam spat. “Neither of you are even involved in the discussion. We’re moving out. We’ll dispense ammunition equally. But if any of us runs out, their ass is forfeit.” He looked at Phil as he said it. Phil shrugged. “So keep a fucking lid on it,” Sam continued. “We don’t even have to make it a mile.”

  Phil squinted over Sam’s shoulder.

  “We get there, we should be able to hold up until morning,” Sam explained.

  Phil took a few steps right, studying the spot next to Sam. His head cocked to the side. Watching.

  “Chris,” Sam asked, “where’s the list Bowers gave you?”

  “In my pocket,” Chris told him.

  “Give it to me.”

  “No.”

  “Hey guys,” Phil said, cocking his head the other way.

  “Give it to me,” Sam repeated.

  “No,” Chris said, recoiled. “Warden said I take care of it personally. Warden’s the man.”

  “Warden’s not here. Give me the fucking list.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Hey guys,” Phil said again, walking slowly towards the window.

  Sam took out his pistol and leveled it at Chris. “Give me the fucking list,” he said again.

  “No.”

  Sam cocked the hammer. Curled his finger over the trigger.

  “What’s the problem?” Brooks asked.

  “Hey guys,” Phil again, pressed against the window now. His nose touching it. His head moving from one angle to
another studying what was beyond the glass. Past the zombies.

  [TK: Love how Phil’s got his face smashed up against the glass trying to look around the creepers on the other side, ¼” away from snapping jaws and frothing blood.]

  [RL: Right. We should have had the glass fog up so there would be little streaks from his nose moving as he keeps turning his head.]

  “Warden gave me direct orders,” Chris said. “You want that list, you’ll have to have him tell me to give it to you.”

  “If the Warden says he keeps it,” Brooks told Sam, “he’s supposed to keep it.”

  “The. Warden. Isn’t. Here,” Sam said slowly. “I’m the man on the ground, on location, and I need that list.”

  “Hey, assholes!” Phil called. “I think you’re gonna wanna see this.”

  Twenty-One

  “Well?” Jessie asked Mercedes.

  “Well, what?” Mercedes said back, standing by the sink in their cell.

  “Are you going to admit I was right?”

  Mercedes sighed and turned to her. “About what?” she asked.

  “About Gibbs.” Jessie touched a brush to her canvas and swirled it, not looking at her cell mate.

  “What? That he’s cute?”

  Jessie nodded. Set the brush down and picked up another.

  “I don’t know if you noticed,” Mercedes told her, “but his friend seems to be a bit into you.”

  Jessie laughed. “You caught that, huh? ‘I can be your hero.’”

  “If anything, I think he’s the cute one. It’s nice to find a guy who’s not a complete fuck stick.”

  “Actually,” Jessie said, “that’s exactly what I’m looking for.” She touched the new brush to the canvas and moved it a bit, then set it back down and took up a third.

  “Ha, ha.”

  “So, it’s perfect. You take Tall Sam what’s-his-name and I’ll take the fallen, wounded hero. Win-win.”