Outpost Season One

by Finnean Nilsen Projects

  He pointed at the painting of Tall Bill, triumphant over the guards. Jessie draped over him.

  “So, why are you trying to hook me up with Mercedes?” he asked.

  “I’m not,” Bill told him. “I just offered up the idea of you maybe being interested in a Nubian Princess, and you defended her honor. Which makes me think that you’re very interested in the gorgeous inmate whose skin happens to resemble your complexion. Only darker.”

  Erin shook his head. “I didn’t ‘defend her honor,’” he said, “I just said that she’s a beautiful woman whether she’s black or white. It makes no difference.”

  Bill smiled at him. “I could ask Jessie if she’s into you. You know, just hint around about it.”

  Erin looked at him balefully. “This is prison, Bill, not fucking high school.”

  Bill laughed. “I’m just saying,” he said.

  Harper, the overweight guard that had originally taken Erin to Pope to be taken to Warden Bowers, approached the door. Waved to another guard. The door started to open. “Warden wants to see you,” Harper told Gibbs.

  “Again?”

  Harper nodded. “Again,” he said.

  Eighteen

  Chris sat down in Watkins’ chair and sighed heavily. Spun it around, snatching up the remote as he did, and flipped on the television. There was nothing on. Literally. Just fuzz. He switched it off and tossed the remote in the trash can.

  [RL: Won’t be needing that anymore.]

  Spun again and looked out the window. It was so bright outside. He got up and crossed the office to the window. Looked out a moment, the female yard spread out below. Pulled the blinds and shut out the sun.

  Went back to the chair and sat down. The room dark and quiet.

  He just needed rest, he told himself. A good night’s sleep. Watkins’ had a couch. If he just curled up on that couch, he’d be fine. Get a good few hours. How long did he have until six? He checked the clock. Not long. But if he could just really sleep, instead of lay on cold concrete, it would help. It had to.

  “It won’t help,” his voice whispered.

  “Shut up,” he told it.

  “It won’t save you.”

  “I said ‘shut up.’”

  “When were you bit?” it asked. “Two days from when? Tick-tock, tick-tock.”

  Chris tried to ignore the voice, but he couldn’t deny the point. When had it been? Almost dark. Two days before.

  But he was fine.

  He had a bit of a cough. His arm was fucked. He was hearing voices. Sweating all the time. Tremors. Muscle spasms. Hallucinating…

  “I’ll be seeing you soon,” the voice whispered.

  [TK: It’s chapters like this that will always make books superior to movies. There just is no way to truly visually display the inner conflict of someone fighting a losing battle for their sanity.]

  [RL: You know that’s a good point. Sometimes it gets lost the differences in mediums. There’s something personal about a book. The way you experience it from the character’s perspective, rather than an outside observer. I think the next chapter with Chris and the voice is really the more stand out one when it comes to the inner fight, and the eventual surrender, and, now that you mention it, it could never truly be done on screen, not with the same psychological effect.]

  [TK: Yeah, every once in a while they get it close, but you can never really show what’s going on in his nugget.]

  Nineteen

  “Have a seat,” Bowers told Mercedes.

  She shifted a bit in her orange prison uniform, and then walked around the Warden – where he was seated on the corner of the long conference table – went to the chair furthest from him, and sat down. The Warden chuckled into his fist, and then spun on the corner so he was half-facing her, only able to look in her eyes by turning his head.

  “Do you have any idea what’s happening?” he asked her.

  She shook her head.

  “Okay,” he said, nodding. “It won’t sound right for me to come out and say it. Sounds crazy. So let me try and start from the beginning:

  “There was a virus,” he began, “called the four-seventeen-B, and it was killing people. A lot of people. The CDC requested entry to Brennick to check on the health of the prisoners. I refused. With me so far?”

  She nodded.

  “Shortly after the last phone call I received from the CDC, everything went offline. TV, phones, internet, everything. I sent a team of men to figure out the problem. They didn’t come back.”

  He paused. “I sent a secondary team out to find the first team,” he explained. “Four men. One came back.”

  Mercedes stared at him.

  “The man who made it back, Chris, told one hell of a story. It seems that after the virus killed these people, they came back. Not necessarily ‘to life.’ They’re… Oh hell,” he huffed, “they’re zombies.”

  Mercedes laughed at him.

  “What?”

  “You’re right. It sounds fucking stupid. You really expected me to believe that?”

  “It’s the truth,” he growled at her.

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  There was a knock at the door. Warden Bowers said, “Perfect timing,” and got up. Crossed to the door and opened it.

  “Mercedes,” Bowers said, “let me introduce Erin Gibbs. He’s a friend of mine.”

  [RL: I know, I know, that kind of thing has been done damn near to death, but it’s still fun.]

  Twenty

  Marshall snapped the head of a creeper dressed in a white lab coat. The body dropped to the cold pavement atop two others. He was getting tired. But, most of all, he hadn’t liked the business from the beginning. Marshall was tough because he had to be. Had to be if he wanted to protect his sisters growing up. He learned to fight to protect people, not bully them.

  Not kill them.

  He heard a bus engine turn over and spun. A boy ran up to him.

  “Jack got it going,” he said, breathless. “We can go!”

  “About damn time,” Marshall said, and kicked a creeper in the gut. Brought his wrench down on its skull as it was bent over. “Let’s go,” he told the boy, and took his hand.

  They ran back to the buses.

  The occupants of Marshall’s bus still inside, cowering. Jack had the door to the first bus open and was ushering people in.

  “You can drive this thing, right?” Marshall asked him.

  Jack nodded quickly. “No big deal,” he said.

  “Alright,” Marshall said. “Now, I’m going to pull around you and take the lead. You just follow me close and keep your eyes on the road. I’m not stopping again.”

  He squinted at Jack.

  “Understood?”

  Jack nodded again.

  “These people are depending on you,” Marshall reminded him. “Their lives are in your hands.”

  “Understood,” Jack said, and climbed into the bus.

  Marshall walked back to his. Stopped at the door and looked at the closest creeper. Long, blonde hair, now matted to her pale, purple skin. Dried blood across her face. Flowing night gown, once white, now bruised with blood and dirt. He watched it, as it came across the street. All the way on the other side of the highway. Drawn by the screams. Looking for food. Searching for prey.

  It was his youngest sister: Samantha.

  [RL: Okay, remember when Sam gave his great big speech about if you’d be able to kill people you knew, people you loved? I’m saying, son, could you?

  And, yes, Tom, I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem for you.]

  [TK: Gone is gone bro.]

  Twenty-One

  “Chow time,” Jessie said when she got to Erin and Tall Bill’s cell. She looked inside, and followed with: “Where’s that hunky cell mate of yours?”

  Bill shrugged. “Warden wanted to talk to him.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Jessie asked, scrunched up her face. “That guy’s popular today. Sadie’s up talking to him right now, too.”

  She sh
rugged. “Anyway,” she said, and slid the tray in, “I got him his bottle back.”

  She passed the bottle of scotch to Tall Bill, who smiled.

  “How’d you manage that?” he asked.

  “Mercedes isn’t the big bad bitch she pretends to be. Besides, she shouldn’t be drinking.”

  Tall Bill eyed her. “Is that so?” he asked.

  Jessie sucked in a breath and covered her mouth. Bill smiled at her and settled onto his bunk. Scotch bottle on the bed next to him. His tray on his lap.

  “How’d that happen?” he asked.

  [RL: That’s a damn good question, ain’t it?]

  Jessie snarled at him, “If you tell anyone what I just told you, I’ll…”

  “What?” Bill asked, acting shocked. “That she shouldn’t be drinking? I know lots of people who shouldn’t drink for lots of different reasons. Like me, I really shouldn’t be drinking, but I’m going to do it anyway.”

  He picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap and took a swig. Held it out to her. “How about you,” he asked, “should you be drinking?”

  She took the bottle. Had a taste. Handed it back.

  “You know what I mean,” she said.

  “I would never break your trust. You own my soul.”

  She laughed. “God,” she said, “you are the lamest guy I’ve ever met, you know that? If we were out in the world, I wouldn’t even let you buy me a drink.”

  Bill looked hurt. “Why?” he asked. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “You’ve got no game,” she told him. “You can’t just spout off shit you saw in movies. Just because it worked for Harrison Ford doesn’t mean it’ll work for you.”

  [RL: I’m pretty sure nothing has worked for Harrison Ford for quite some time.]

  He frowned.

  “Look,” she said, “you’re cute enough, in a puppy dog way, but not in an ‘I want to sleep with him way.’ I’m not saying that to be a bitch, but if you want to get into my panties, you better figure out something better than ‘you own my soul.’”

  “Like what?” He perked up at the mention of her panties. “Like poetry?”

  “Holy fuck,” Jessie said, and shook her head. “I’m a convicted murderer, does it seem like poetry would work on me?”

  “You’re an artist,” he said. “You’re supposed to be a romantic.”

  “Like Gibbs,” she told him. “Act like Gibbs.”

  “But I’m not Gibbs. I’m Tall Bill. I don’t want to act like anyone but Tall Bill.”

  “See,” she said, and pointed at his chest, “that was good. Back bone. That’s more like it.”

  Bill frowned again, totally confused.

  “You know, flirt. Like he does with Mercedes.”

  “You mean like with the poison?”

  “Exactly,” she told him. [RL: Only in prison could threatening to kill someone constitute flirting.] “I mean, I don’t know how you ever got a girl on the outside.”

  “I was always drunk,” he explained. “It made me confident.”

  “Probably made you an asshole, too.”

  He shrugged. “No more than normal,” he said. He thought a moment, and then asked, “What did you say?”

  “When?”

  “A minute ago. About Gibbs flirting with Mercedes.”

  “I said ‘like he does with Mercedes.’ Like with the poison and all of that. How he calls her Miss Mercedes and stuff. He’s always giving her stuff, or getting up closer to her. Like when he pushes you out of the way to come sit there.” She pointed where Bill was sitting now. “To be closer to her.”

  “And that tells you he’s into her, right?”

  “Hell, yes. And she never pulls back. She gives him shit, but never tries to get further away from him.”

  Bill laughed.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just, they’re both in the Warden’s office.” He looked Jessie in the eyes. “I was just thinking if she wasn’t already pregnant, she probably would be soon.”

  Twenty-Two

  Marshall watched her approach. She was moving so slow. Lumbering along. Her hands limp at her sides. Fifty feet away. Just coming off the shoulder.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  He couldn’t kill her, could he? Never. But, how could he leave her like this? Marshall had checked the houses of both his sisters, and they had been empty. Totally devoid of life. Part of him had been glad for it. The lack in closure of never knowing. Leaving some hope there.

  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.

  [TK: The man is back! My hero has returned.]

  [RL: Oh, so now you’re coming out of your shell a bit. He’s your hero, is he?]

  [TK: Hell, yeah, that guy is awesome.]

  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 he
rself 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.