Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  “What are you doing?” Bryce asked.

  “I made a Misty Kitty.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Um…”

  Bryce squinted down the street. “Did you strap dynamite to that cat?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Phil said, nodding.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” Phil said, pointed at the cat. “Look, creepers are already going for it. I bet I can get six. I bet you five bucks I get six of them with it.”

  Bryce pushed up on him, their bodies now at a ninety degree angle to the animal. He pointed at the cat, too.

  “That,” he said, “is cruelty to animals. That poor cat. You just leave it out there to be bait. And then you’re going to blow it up?”

  “I’m saying, man, look at it.” Phil kept pointing with Bryce. They looked. Three more creepers were after it now. The cat, weighted down, could only drag itself away from them. Total of five creepers now near it. “I bet I can get six,” he repeated.

  “You,” Bryce said, and pointed at Phil, “are a sick fuck.” He punched Phil with his finger with each word. “I bet you were killing people and burying them in your tomato garden before any of this happened.”

  “Fuck you too, buddy.”

  “That cat,” Bryce continued, pointing at the cat again, seven creepers now close, one had it up in its jaw, going for the throat, “has rights.”

  “It’s just a fucking cat, man, loosen up.”

  “Loosen up? I’m not going to…”

  There was a deafening explosion as the dynamite went up, and they both turned and watched the fireball roll hastily into the air. Blood washed out for fifteen feet. Bits of creeper and fabric hung for a second and then dropped to the ground with slapping sounds.

  They both stared. Bryce blinked a few times. Then he said: “That…” his voice breaking, “Was… Awesome!”

  Phil laughed. “I know, right,” he said. “I got seven. You owe me five bucks.”

  Bryce took his wallet out and peeled off a bill. “You know,” he said. “If you hooked it up to a dog, it could carry way more dynamite.”

  Phil recoiled. “A dog?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I bet you could get like fifty pounds on the fucker.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Phil asked him. Shook his head and walked away.

  [TK: Ok, incase this is used against us in a court of law sometime in the future, I take full responsibility for this one. Just to be clear, I’m a dog person. I fucking hate cats. At the time I came up with “Misty Kitty’s” there were three of those bastards living in my house. My wife got one and each of my sons had to have one too. I had my dog. I’d managed to work out a living arrangement with those shit boxes; they would stay away from me, and I would refrain (mostly) from chasing them around screaming like a fucking lunatic as they ran at warp speed through my house in pure terror until they crashed violently into a wall or some piece of furniture. But it was a real challenge to catch them, I would have to chase them into a room then close the door and drag them screeching out from under the bed for every vet appt. I’m the one who should have been screeching after all I was paying for the fucking vet bills. So, that got me thinking, during the zombie apocalypse animals would prove difficult to catch and turn. So how would the zombies catch them? I know, strap them down with C4 with nails and ball bearings stuck to the outside. That should let the creepers catch them. We went through 3 or 4 different names before settling on Misty Kittys. I think it was a good choice.]

  Twenty-One

  “Take a seat,” the warden told Erin.

  The conference room was just one long rectangle, guards with shotguns standing at each corner. Pope closed the door and stood in front of it.

  In the middle of the room, a table ran nearly the entire length. Warden Bowers sat at the head of the table. Around him counterclockwise were one Asian prisoner – tattoos in Chinese or Japanese or some other language Erin couldn’t distinguish running across his entire body, snaking up his neck and wrapping around his skull; three Latino prisoners – tattoos of the Virgin Mary and crosses and crying women with logos of their gangs intermingled; and one Russian – tattoos similar to the Latino’s in Catholic symbols, but filled with steeples and prison wire, a star on each shoulder. Across from those sat three black prisoners – tattoos of raised fists and AK-47s and elaborate graffiti gang signs only visible on their shoulders and arms, the rest hidden under their uniforms – and two white prisoners – tattoos of swastikas and double thunderbolt SS insignia and racial epithets covering every available inch from fingertip to nose. Erin could read all but the Asian’s, and knew he was looking at no less than ten Head’s of State.

  [TK: Can’t imagine a get together like that happens very often.]

  [RL: Except in Chicago, at the Mayor’s mansion.]

  The Warden waved at the foot of the table, where Erin sat.

  “Shot Callers,” Bowers began, addressing the gang leaders, “and Mr. Gibbs. I’m sure you are all wondering why you’re here and not in your cells where you belong. But before we get to the particulars of what I brought you here to discuss, I have some words to deliver and then we’ll watch a short film.”

  [RL: Afterwards there will be a test and then we’ll split up into groups to discuss the social implications of the statement the film made.]

  The Shot Callers exchanged glances. Erin was stumped, too.

  “You are all – save for Mr. Gibbs – the leaders of your respective factions. Therefore, in a very real way, you speak for the prisoners of Brennick. I am the Warden and therefore the sole owner and operator of this institution. But the men I see in this room carry much more respect with the prisoners than I do, and so I am going to make a proposal. Now, for your consideration, is why:”

  He made a wide, sweeping gesture and used it to spin his chair. Behind him – in front once he spun – was a flat screen television. He picked the remote up off the arm of his chair and pressed a button.

  [RL: This fucker has more flat-screens than a Buffalo Wild Wings. I’m just glad I don’t live in his state so I don’t have to pay for them.]

  The television came to life with black and white footage of hundreds of zombies pressing against the fence. Flashes blurred the camera a moment, and then it focused as more flashes could be seen on the outskirts of the frame. Zombies were cut down, blood flying, bones exposed as they fell. The footage continued to role. More continued to press against the fence. More continued to be executed in a methodical and gory fashion.

  The Warden pressed a button on his remote, the television went black, and he spun back around to face them.

  “What,” an Aryan Brotherhood member with swastikas on both sides of his head just behind the temples, said, “in the hell, was that?”

  The Warden smiled. “Zombies,” he said. “And don’t give me those queer looks. I know it sounds stupid. But there’s thousands of them out there. Gibbs,” he called, “you went out yesterday and cleaned up bodies, I’m told.”

  Erin nodded. “I did,” he said.

  “How many?”

  “Hundreds.”

  “Ah, fuck that,” one of the Latinos told the rest. “This mother fucker just saying what the Warden tells him to.”

  Bowers nodded to Pope. The door opened, and Pope disappeared. It didn’t close for a moment, and then Pope was coming back in, pushing a wheel barrel. It had a body in it. A slob of a man in a guard’s uniform. Skin purple now. Tongue lolled out. Leg torn off in shreds. Chunks of flesh missing from his shoulder. Two bullet holes in his forehead and exit wounds in the back the size of grapefruits.

  “This man was part of a detail I sent out to check on the phones,” Bowers explained. “These fuckers ate him and eight more. And then, he turned into one.”

  Erin held a hand up to his chin, and then let his head rest on it as his elbow took the weight and transferred it to the table top.

  “What I’m offering,” the Warden continued, “is
a way for you to get out of lock down. And stay out of lock down.”

  He sighed. Leaned back in his chair, and went on: “The fact of the matter, boys, is that we can’t keep you in and keep them out at the same time. That is a painful admission for me to make. I’m proposing a partnership of sorts. There’s no reason for you to worry about us holding you here anymore. Fact is you can go any time you want. But when you go, those fucking things are waiting for you.”

  He pointed at the carcass.

  “Or, you can stay here. With these thick walls protecting you, and work with me. Those are your options.”

  “So,” a small, skinny black kid said, Erin knew him as Eddie “the Prince” Holmes. He looked like a munchkin. He killed like a Mongolian. “You’re saying I can take my niggas and just walk. Whenever I want?”

  “No,” Bowers corrected, “I’m saying you can walk. If that’s what you want.”

  “And my people have to stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “The fuck is this then?”

  “Someone will take your place,” Bowers told him, and waved to Pope.

  Pope walked up behind Eddie, picked him up by the shoulders, and escorted him out.

  [RL: Bowers is a brutal bastard. Psychologically on par with any murderous dictator, he immediately resorts to murder (as I would characterize it) and the use of examples to reinforce his supreme power.]

  [TK: Positional Power, someone messes with the program, out the gate you go. Instant parole.]

  Twenty-Two

  Chris smashed through the gate with the nose of the bus and accelerated. Cut the wheel and brought the bus onto the street.

  “You there?” he asked Brooks over the bus’ radio.

  “Right behind you,” Brooks told him.

  Chris looked in the rearview mirror and saw the second bus close behind.

  Chris nodded. Used the hand he’d used to operate the radio to rub his arm. Blinked, shook his head, tried to clear away the fog that had rolled into his mind.

  He brought the microphone back to his lips and said, “Okay, we hit Bowers’ house first. Get what we came to get and then haul ass to the house and pick up the survivors.”

  “Copy. You think they’re doing alright?”

  Chris thought a moment. Cut a wide right and turned a corner, ignoring a red light as he passed through the intersection.

  “They’ll be fine,” he told Brooks.

  “Should we check in over the coms?”

  “If you can do that and drive the same time, by all means.”

  Twenty-Three

  “I’m having second thoughts,” Phil told Bryce.

  “About the dog thing?”

  “No, man, fuck. They’re man’s best friend. What kind of sick piece of shit do you think I am? No,” he said again, “about using the dynamite in the first place.”

  They pressed their backs against the trucks. Around them, the street was awash with creepers. The other guards had already retreated to the front porch of Steve’s house. Steve, now in his guard uniform, stood with them, a newly pilfered AK in his hands. Maurice stood between the porch and the truck, his flame thrower lit and waiting.

  “It was pretty loud,” Bryce told him in a hushed voice.

  [RL: I was quiet during the Misty Kitty chapter simply because I felt it stood too well on it’s own, and Tom couldn’t help but gloat. But here I wanted to say that I enjoy the idea of Phil having certain boundaries, and of him kind of growing from this. Sure, he endangers everyone because of his having fun with dynamite, but in the end he’s the one that steps up and saves them all. It says a lot about who he is as a person.]

  “Maybe if we just stay quiet, don’t make any sudden moves…”

  “Craig, come in,” the coms unit blared.

  [RL: Another one of my favorite gags.]

  Phil reached up fast and turned down the volume. Turned his back and whispered, “This is Craig.”

  “Status.”

  “Um, we’ve got a bit of an issue.”

  There was a pause.

  “Like what?” Brooks’ voice came over.

  “Like, I don’t know, I think we woke the neighbors.”

  [RL: Great line. Usually that means that you got shit faced and decided to go out front at two AM and piss on your lawn, while leaving the music on at full throttle, and holding a jug handle of vodka in one hand, and a gallon of OJ in the other – no hand to aim – and screaming at your wife to shut the fuck up about your drinking problem, because she’s fat and won’t let you fuck her anymore.

  In this case, it just means you set off a high explosive and attracted about a thousand zombies. I’m not making any statements on which is preferable, I’m just saying.]

  [TK: That shit was supposed to be private.]

  “How long can you last?”

  Phil looked over his shoulder at the crowd. Then turned back and said, “How long do I got?”

  Twenty-Four

  Warden Bowers watched Eddie Holmes being released from his prison. Part of him was curious as to how far the little man would actually make it. All of the Shot Callers were lined up at the window. Watching. Most of them visibly excited at the prospect of walking out.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Bowers called, and Pope came in with another prisoner. His name was Christopher “Smalls” Brown. At nearly seven feet tall, he filled the entire doorway and completely blocked Pope from sight.

  “Mr. Brown,” Bowers said. “Come take a look.”

  Smalls was hesitant. He was Eddie’s second in command, and had no idea what in the hell was happening. Finally, he approached. Bowers handed him a pair of binoculars. Then took another pair for himself.

  He pointed. “There goes your boss,” Bowers told Smalls. Put the glasses to his eyes.

  Smalls did the same.

  Bowers watched as the front gate opened and Eddie looked back, saw no one would shoot if he ran, and bolted. He ran down the road, Bowers and Smalls following him with their binoculars. He made for the woods.

  “Bad decision,” Bowers said.

  He got within a few yards and then coasted to a stop. Bowers could see why: there was movement in the trees. Eddie cocked his head to one side – a small movement from the distance Bowers was watching from – and then started to back pedal. Turned around and came running back towards the prison. Five forms came out after him. Then twelve. Then it was a sea of them. Flowing down. Swarming up on him and taking him down. Tearing into him. Even from this distance, they could all see clearly as the creepers ripped his insides out and gorged themselves.

  Bowers turned to Pope. “Open fire,” he said.

  Pope whispered into his coms unit and suddenly there was the rolling sound of gunfire as the guards started raining down bullets on the creepers.

  “Now,” Bowers said, and set his binoculars down. “Would anyone else like ‘to walk’?”

  [RL: “I’d like to walk right back to my cell and piss myself, sir, thank you.”]

  Twenty-Five

  Chris took the bus around the corner, slammed on the breaks and said, “Holy shit.”

  The street was filled with creepers. To the point that he couldn’t see down it to the house where they left the survivors. Chris leaned forward and watched a moment, dumbfounded, as the zombies milled about. The closest ones homed in on the sound of the buses as the brakes released pressure and whined.

  “Shit,” Chris said. Picked up the microphone and keyed it. “Brooks, ol’ buddy ol’ pal, what do you think?”

  “I think we’re on our own,” Brooks’ voice crackled over the speakers. “No way we’re getting through that, not with our doors smashed open.”

  Chris looked at the broken door, safety glass still clinging in clumps around the edges. “Warden’ll have our ass, we leave them,” he said into the microphone.

  “Warden can have my ass. Better than feeding it to those fucking things.”

  [RL: That can’t be an easy thing for him
to say, working in a prison and all that.]

  Chris hung up the radio and triggered his com unit. “Phil,” he said, “report.”

  Phil’s voice came back a whisper: “Kinda hard to talk right now, boss.”

  “What the fuck is going on in there?”

  “Trying to stay quiet til’ you boys get back.”

  “We’re back. But there’s no way in a Bumble’s ass-crack we can get through this. Where did they all come from?”

  Bryce’s voice now: “Phil was playing with dynamite.”

  “What?”

  Phil: “I got bored, man, cut me some slack.”

  Chris rubbed his sweating forehead. “Well,” he said into the coms unit, “you’re not gonna be bored when you drag all those people out here to the buses.”

  There was a silence over the coms. Then Phil said: “Like, through the creepers?”

  “Through the creepers.”

  Another pause. “Why don’t you just drive through them?”

  “Because I don’t want to get eaten.”

  More silence. Then: “What if you drive around to the back street, and we’ll cut out the back door?”

  Chris thought about that. “How are we going to get them out the back?” he asked.

  “Simple. You just need a distraction.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Pull the buses around back. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  [RL: Won’t be able to miss it.]

  [TK: Phil just has all kinds of shenanigans he’s been waiting to use, he’s not going to miss an opportunity to try another stunt, even if this one ends badly.]

  [RL: He doesn’t strike me as the type of guy that thinks it through enough to really gauge if it works out badly. I watched an interview with Jeb Corliss one time, and they were asking him what he wanted to do when he quit base jumping. He looked at the interviewer like she was nuts and said (paraphrasing): “What do you mean? Like retirement? There is nothing after this. I’ll jump until I die. And I will die. But there’s nothing after this.” That’s the way I think Phil looks at the zombie attack: his prayers have finally been answered. It’s here. Eventually he’ll die from it, but he’s going to have as much fun as he can before that happens.]