Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  “Nothing,” Mercedes told him. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The guard shook his head. “I don’t understand why everyone gets nervous when the Warden wants to see them,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  Twelve

  “Why does everything have to be such a pain in the ass?” Bryce asked no one in particular.

  Marshall answered him anyway. “At this point,” he said, “I’m leaning towards operator error.”

  “Very funny.” Bryce kicked the tire. “Or, maybe it’s that I’m trying to put a fucking bus tire on by myself.”

  Marshall shrugged. “I’m awfully tired. Besides, that’s how you learn.”

  Bryce stood and glared at him. “Because changing bus tires is some life experience I need to master?”

  “Maybe,” Marshall said, nodding. “Maybe you need to build some upper body strength. This is God’s way of saying ‘stop being a pussy.’”

  “Screw you,” Bryce said and went back to work trying to line up the bolts.

  From behind him, a survivor came up. Young guy, maybe mid-twenties. Marshall didn’t recognize him. He said, “Can I help with that?”

  “Sure,” Bryce said, and gave him room.

  The kid came in and squinted at the tire. Pulled it back and rolled it off to one side. Reached up and grabbed the bolts and tried to turn them. They didn’t move. He rolled the tire back over and looked at it again. Got down and turned his head sideways, looking through the holes, rolled it left and right.

  “It’s not up high enough,” he said.

  “How’s that?” Bryce asked him. “We took the other tire off this high.”

  “Other tire was flat. This one’s not.”

  “Right,” Marshall said, nodding.

  “You knew that the whole time?”

  Marshall nodded again.

  “And when were you going to share that with me?”

  Marshall shrugged. “It’s nice to be outside without creepers chasing my ass. I figured if I started seeing some, we could have the tire back on and be on the road in five minutes. So, I was just enjoying the sunshine.”

  The kid reached down and took the jack handle. Bryce took a step back, out of his way, but closer to the bus.

  “That’s bullshit,” he said.

  The kid hit the jack. There was a tearing sound as the jack slipped and the bus lurched forward and down. Knocked Bryce to the ground. Landed on his knees. He screamed as the bones were crushed.

  “Shit,” Marshall said, jumping back.

  The kid looked around, frantic. “What did I do?” he asked.

  Bryce screamed again.

  “It was an accident,” the kid told him.

  Marshall came up to Bryce. Bryce let out a half scream as Marshall took his head and snapped it.

  “What the fuck?” The kid recoiled.

  Marshall stood, said, “Get that fucking tire on. You have two minutes.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then,” Marshall told him, “you’re driving.”

  Thirteen

  Chris walked into the conference room without knocking and sat down at the foot of the long table, across from Bowers.

  Around the table sat the three guards that had made it back to the prison in the trucks. Brooks Pilar, a mountain of black muscle who had been Sam’s favorite. Then next to him, Sean McCourt, who claimed to be related to Frank McCourt, whom Chris had never heard of but Sean assured him was extremely famous. And then Harold Jenkins, short, round, and who had somehow made it through the entire trip to town without firing a single shot. Plus Pope, Chris, and Warden Bowers.

  Bowers took a deep breath, looking around the table, and said, “Well, what kind of a cluster fuck is this?”

  Sean said, “Sir?”

  “I sent ten of you out there, and this is what I get back?”

  “Sir,” Chris began, “let me start at the beginning.”

  Bowers nodded.

  Chris took a deep breath. “Watkins’ orders were to secure the sheriff’s office first.”

  Bowers held a hand up, stopping him. “Where is Watkins?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, sir. He ran away.”

  “Define ‘ran away.’”

  Chris threw up his hands. “Like he ran away.”

  “What you mean is: you left him.”

  “Yeah, we left him. He murdered his wife. And shot Bryce.”

  “Where’s Bryce?”

  “Driving one of the buses.”

  “That haven’t gotten back?”

  “Yeah. So he admitted to killing his wife…”

  “He said he knew she was dead,” Sean clarified. “And then shot Bryce.”

  “And then he shot Phil in the back,” Chris said, nodding.

  “But that was after Phil shot him in the chest,” Sean told Bowers.

  “Where the hell is Phil?” Bowers asked, flustered.

  “Phil blew himself up,” Chris told him.

  “Why?”

  “Probably because he was out of cats,” Sean said, dead pan.

  [TK: The best line in the whole series. When the hell are you ever going to read something like that again?]

  “What in the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “You had to be there,” Sean said, and waved him off. “I’ll let Bryce tell you.”

  “Bryce isn’t fucking here!” Bowers boomed.

  Everyone fell silent.

  [RL: The beauty of this is, all of this seemed perfectly acceptable as it was happening. But when they have to actually tell someone who hadn’t experienced it what had happened, it sounded fucking insane.]

  Bowers looked from one to the other. Finally, he said, “So what you’re telling me is: I sent out ten men. Two get killed in the sheriff’s office, where you find two guys…”

  “We found three,” Chris explained, “but Phil shot one of them.”

  Bowers held up his hand again. “Where are the two guys you found in the sheriff’s office?”

  “On one of the buses.”

  Bowers nodded. “Then, when you go to check on survivors, Sam tells you he killed his wife and then shoots Bryce?”

  “No,” Chris said, shaking his head. “We tried to check on his wife and he wouldn’t let us. He said it was pointless because no one was still alive in town. And then Maurice said that he had survived, maybe Sam’s wife had…”

  “Who the hell is Maurice?”

  “The guy that rode back with Brooks,” Chris explained. “He had a fucking flame thrower and a bite suit on, and he saved us when we were trapped in the sheriff’s office.”

  “Ah,” Bowers said, nodding, “the headlights.”

  “Yeah.” Chris nodded quickly. “Then Sam said he knew she was dead, and Bryce said he didn’t and Sam said he did.”

  He stopped. Bowers raised his eyebrows at him. “And then Sam shot him,” Chris finished.

  Bowers rubbed his face. Let his hands drop palms down on the table, and said, “So, then you find all of these survivors…”

  “Yeah. We went to clear the houses like you said. And Phil went in with two silenced pistols…”

  “That you took from the gun store.”

  “After I crashed the truck into it,” Chris said, nodding. “Yeah.”

  “You crashed the truck into the gun store?”

  “Watkins said ‘hit the gun store’ so I did.”

  Bowers sighed. “So Phil goes in,” he supplied, moving his right hand in a circle to get Chris going again.

  “And gets shot by Steve.”

  “Steve?”

  “Morris. The guy from the day shift.”

  Warden Bowers said, “Ah” and leaned back.

  “So Steve shoots Phil. And then when they realize the mix up, he shows Phil all these people he saved. And so we decided to get buses and bring them back.”

  “Where’s Steve?” Bowers asked.

  Chris
shifted in his seat. “His wife shot him,” he said. Threw out his hands and added: “Totally by accident. She doesn’t even know she did it yet. She thought he was a creeper.”

  “Why would she think that?”

  “Because he was all bloody from the explosion and jumping out of the truck,” Chris explained.

  Bowers rubbed his face again. “Holy shit,” he said. “What explosion?”

  “When Phil blew himself up,” Sean cut in. “He made a bomb with a stray cat. And he and Bryce were arguing about it, and then when it went up, they were like best friends after that. But it drew like a million creepers…”

  “Is that an exact number?”

  Sean shrugged. “I’d call it a guestimate.”

  “There was a fuck load of them,” Chris said. “Ask Brooks.”

  Bowers looked at Brooks, who nodded.

  “So,” Sean continued, “Phil took the bite suit from Maurice and put it on, and then dragged a toy wagon filled with dynamite out into the middle of them, and blew it up.”

  “And himself?” Bowers asked.

  “He tried to make it back,” Chris explained. “But he didn’t. I think he was using a chainsaw to try and cut through them. No dice.”

  Bowers leaned back again. Stroked his belly a moment, thinking. Chris watched him, suddenly realizing how incredibly stupid the whole story sounded. But it was exactly how it had happened. He wondered if it was any more asinine than telling someone for the first time there were zombies everywhere trying to eat them.

  He figured they were about even.

  Finally, Warden Bowers shook his head. “That,” he said, “is the most ridiculous, most convoluted fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Brooks, what do I need to know?”

  Brooks shrugged his massive shoulders. Nodded to Chris. “I don’t know what the hell happened with Watkins,” he said, “but Chris took control and got us out of there. Long story short: I’ve had the craziest fucking two days of my life.”

  Bowers nodded.

  “And,” Brooks continued, “if the past two days are any real good guide, it’s only gonna get fucking crazier.”

  [TK: Mr. Brooks, you’ve got that right.]

  Fourteen

  “A Nubian Princess, perhaps?” Tall Bill asked Erin.

  “You know that’s slightly racially insensitive?” Erin replied.

  “What is?”

  “The whole ‘Nubian Princess’ thing. Why don’t you just call her a princess? The fact that she’s black shouldn’t matter.”

  Tall Bill sagged. “You’re not pulling that shit, are you?”

  “What shit?”

  “The terms change every three fucking weeks. First they want you to call them colored, then that’s wrong. Even if they name their most powerful organization the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, if a white guy calls them that, he’s racist.”

  “Look…” Erin said, holding up a hand.

  “Then, we’re supposed to call black people black. Which is cool, it’s the color they are. And then, that’s racist.”

  “You’re not getting it…”

  “And finally, they decide they’re African-Americans – which should be insulting to anyone who’s actually been to Africa.”

  “You’ve been to Africa?” Erin asked, surprised.

  “No,” Tall Bill said, shaking his head. “I watch the news, though. Does anyone really want to be from Africa?”

  “Again, not what I was saying…”

  “And then they go and use the word…”

  Erin was on him in a millisecond. Hand wrapped around his throat. “Don’t,” he said, “Use. That. Word.”

  “Who said I was gonna?” Bill wheezed.

  “What word were you planning on using?”

  Bill’s eyes darted around the cell as he grasped at an alternative. “Brother?” he asked.

  Erin let go of his throat and Tall Bill slumped against the bars. Rubbed the sore spot a moment, eyeing Erin.

  “What’s your problem, anyway?” he asked. “I was trying to compliment her.”

  “That,” Erin said, and nodded at him. “You were trying to compliment her by calling her a ‘Nubian Princess.’ There’s nothing complimentary about telling a black woman she’s black. Or a white woman she’s white. Calling her a ‘Nubian Princess’ is just as racist and wrong as calling a white girl an ‘Arian Princess.’”

  “Is this because you’re half black?” Bill asked.

  “No,” Erin told him. “It’s because I’m half white.”

  Tall Bill thought about that a moment. “You’ll never guess what just happened,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You just beat me in a debate.”

  Erin smiled. “Child’s play,” he said.

  [TK: Bill and Erin’s conversations are awesome, they let us explore some of the un-PC topics that run through our society.]

  Fifteen

  Bowers sighed, trying to let all the pieces fall into place. He was out Sam. Chris was the next in line. But he looked like he couldn’t take much more. It wasn’t just that he needed a shave. It could have been he just needed to sleep. But there was something else. Something… off, that Bowers had never seen before in all the years he had known the young man.

  Brooks was capable, but he wasn’t a leader. Pope could handle it, but he didn’t have the stones for the rough stuff. Couldn’t be trusted to keep the men in line properly.

  “Alright,” he finally said. “Chris moves into Sam’s position. Brooks, you take over as my second. Pope will be your second,” he told Chris. “I’m going to alternate shifts from here out. I’ve got day. Chris is in charge at night. Six PM to six AM. I’ll take the day shift. Six AM to Six PM. Understood?”

  They all nodded.

  “Why am I night shift?” Pope asked.

  “Because I need Chris to have the absolute best administrator he can have until he gets the hang of things,” Bowers told him. Then swept his gaze over the others. “And, because we’ll be letting the prisoners out of lock down tomorrow. Which means I need my brains at night and my brawn during the day.”

  Brooks nodded.

  “Why are we coming out of lock down?” Chris asked. “We don’t have the man power to run this place with them locked up, let alone out.”

  “The Shot Callers are going to control the population,” Pope explained. “The Warden spoke with them earlier. They’re set to take the deal tomorrow morning.”

  “And then we come out of lock down and try to figure out a routine where we all stay alive,” Bowers said.

  “So that’s it, then,” Chris said, nodding slowly. “This is it. We’re stuck in here.”

  “For now,” Bowers told him. “We just have to make the best of it. How many people were in those buses?”

  “Seventy-something,” Chris said.

  “Seventy-eight,” Brooks corrected, “including Bryce and Marshall. It started out seventy-six with Steve. Plus the two from the sheriff’s office. Steve rode with Chris, and Bryce and Marshall each drove a bus.”

  “Fine.” Bowers thought a moment. “That’s a lot of mouths to feed.”

  There was a light knock at the door, Bowers beckoned them in, and Mystique stepped in with Mercedes.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Bowers told them. “Sean, you’re night shift, Harold, day shift. That’s all for now.”

  The guards all stood. Chris crossed around the table to the Warden. “What’s she doing here?” he asked, pointing at Mercedes.

  Warden Bowers looked at him sideways. “I told you, we’re coming out of lock down.”

  “And?”

  “And, she’s going to be my go-between for the female prisoners. Look,” Bowers said, and sighed, “you’re exhausted, son, go get some rest. Take Watkins’ office, rack out. You’re on in a few hours. The prisoners will still be locked down tonight. Tomorrow I’ll walk you through how it’s all going to work.”

  “Tomorrow,”
Chris said, nodding. “Right.”

  Sixteen

  Marshall swung the lug wrench and connected with the temple of a creeper as it lumbered closer to the buses. There was a crack and the thing went down in a heap. Three more coming up now, getting closer.

  “I said two minutes,” he quietly cursed the kid, who had introduced himself as Jack Boyd. Twenty-one and currently employed at the Jiffy-Lube, he was having trouble getting the bus back up. He was a hundred feet away and had no way of hearing Marshall, but Marshall cursed him anyway.

  He kicked out and sent a creeper no taller than three feet reeling back, then brought the lug wrench around and took out the neck of what could have possibly once been the child’s father. The creeper went sideways, twitching.

  The next was almost within range. Marshall paced himself. It could barely see him anyway, he remembered. Took a step sideways and brought his right foot down on the base of the fallen creeper’s skull. Crushing it. Then one forward, bringing the third in range and heaved the wrench up in an uppercut. The heavy tool split the throat open, blood erupting and running down the female creeper’s shirt, soaking her flowered dress.

  Came back around and put the wrench just behind her ear, sending her sprawling.

  The kid was back now, running at him. He waited until it was just a fraction of a second away and then sidestepped. Letting the small creeper run past him, diving. He gave it an extra push as it passed, slamming face first into the concrete barrier. Slid down, a streak of red left in its wake.

  “Ten more minutes,” Marshall whispered. “And my bus is moving. With, or without the others.

  [TK: I think this is a good example of the animal instincts that are in people. When danger approaches the large majority will group together for safety, while a brave few will go out and face the threat to protect the herd. 30ish people stay huddled by the buses while Marshall goes to face the creepers alone.]

  Seventeen

  “I don’t know why you’re pushing this so hard,” Erin told Tall Bill. “It’s obvious Jessie’s into you. She painted that for you.”