Outpost Season One

Copyright © 2012 Finnean Nilsen Projects llc

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No portion of this work may be reproduced, in print or digitally, without Finnean Nilsen Projects llc expressed consent. This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are creations of the author’s imagination and not based in any way on the living, dead, or otherwise. References to actual films, fiction, or games is done in reference to the genre and do not imply any claims of ownership.

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Table of Contents

Cover

Copyright

Table of Contents

Finnean Nilsen Projects

Pilot Episode

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Episode Two: Out of the Darkness

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Episode Three: The Burning Man

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Episode Four: The Crimson River

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Episode Five: Whispers in the Dark

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Episode Six: With a Vengeance Part One

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seventy

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Episode Six: With a Vengeance Part Two

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Finnean Nilsen Projects

Camp 417: Prequel to the Outpost Series

Outpost Season One

Outpost Season Two

Outpost Season Three

By Bill Pryst

Fist Full of Brunettes: A Multiple-Choice Thriller

By Damien Wright

The Contagion

The Nest

Follow us on Facebook, our blog, or at finnilpro.com

PILOT EPISODE

One

The day started like shit and ended worse.

Sam Watkins washed his hands in the bathroom sink, the water turning pink as he rubbed them together.  Behind him, through the doorway, in the kitchen, the small TV blared:

"…the CDC is recommending all citizens use caution when traveling in commercial aircraft and using public transportation.  Surgical masks are encouraged.  This is not a drill.  Scientists are likening the 417-B outbreak to the Bubonic Plague…"

Sam turned off the faucet, dried his hands, and left the bathroom.  He flicked off the TV as he passed by it, killed his coffee, and looked down the hall to the bedroom.  It was quiet now.  To the right of his front door was the coat rack.  He took his belt off of it, the service pistol cleaned and ready in its holster, and put it on.  Went out, closing the door behind him.

The afternoon was crisp and the air smelled of distant snow.  A breeze – sharp, even if lazy – burned his face.  The long driveway ended in a single oak tree, reaching for the sky with skeleton limbs in the frost.  He squinted down the gravel road, trying to make out the form sitting on a branch.  A crow, he decided, though he couldn’t imagine one out this late in the year.

The car was cold and tired, and it took two tries to wake it.  Once it hummed to life, he cranked the heater and got it moving.  The crow took flight as the car crept forward.  He turned on the radio and looked for a station:

"…information out of China is slow, but the reports we are getting is that it is of biblical proportions…"

"…the Russian Military has been placed on full alert, as a second nuclear submarine is rumored to be missing…"

"…speaking from an undisclosed location, the President had this to say: My Fellow Americans, in this trying, frightening time, I urge you all to stay in your homes, take proper precautions, and do not hesitate to seek immediate medical attention if you begin to show symptoms…"

Sam killed the radio and pulled on to the main road, thinking.  He was sick to death of it all.  Every six months to a year he had to deal with another SARS or Swine Flu or Bird Flu or Whatever-the-Hell Flu and he didn’t believe a fucking word of it anymore. 

He had bigger things to worry about, anyway.

Two

Request denied, Warden Bowers said, stroking his round belly with his fingertips.  On the other end of the phone, a doctor or scientist or something-or-other with a really long title said:

"Warden, the Federal Government has declared a medical emergency.  We must be allowed to inspect your facility and verify the health of the inmates."

Oh no, Bowers sneered, "not a medical emergency.  Is it almost as bad as the Pig Flu? Because I let you assholes run around my prison, drag my people all over hell, and give these animals all kinds of check-ups – that my state had to pay for – because of that fucking thing, and it ended up all anyone needed was chicken soup and a weekend’s rest…"

"I assure you this is nothing like that.  This is serious…"

I’m being serious.  This is a state run facility.  My budget comes from my state.  The federal government - and the CDC - have no jurisdiction to do a damn thing in my institution.  This is a maximum security prison, and every time I let someone in here that isn’t either on my payroll or in chains, I risk my guard’s lives.  And the citizens of this state, for that matter.

"But Warden…"

But nothing.  Bowers sat forward and leaned on his right elbow, pressing the phone hard into his ear.  Said: You want to know the health of my inmates?  They’re alive.  Which is more than I can say for their victims.  I have fifteen hundred men and women – all violent criminals – in this prison.  I’ve got a lady in here that cut her husband’s head off and left it in his girlfriend’s mail box.

"I read about that."

I’m sure it was light reading, Bowers snapped.  Now, here’s the deal I’m making: my inmates haven’t had a chance to catch your new bug, because we’ve been locked down three weeks after a near riot.  There’s no reason to assume they could have come into contact with anyone who might have contracted it…

"Your guards could have contracted it, or their wives, and spread it…"

I admit it’s possible, but highly unlikely.  Still, you haven’t listened to my deal.

He waited, it sounded like the caller was listening, because for once he wasn’t talking.

My guards and their families, you can examine at their homes or in their personal doctor’s offices.  Not at my prison.  My inmates will remain where they belong: in their cells.  If one of them gets the sniffles, my doctors will check them out.  If they need outside assistance, we’ll talk then.  Sound good?

"No, it does not sound good!  I am trying to protect your guards, your community, and this country.  You have no idea the epidemic we’re dealing with.  It is a perfectly reasonable request to ask us to see your guards and inmates!"

The Warden smiled.  Request denied, he said, and hung up.

Three

Doctor Maximilian Van Pelt the Third, Head of the Center for Disease Control’s Command Control and Stability Department for Violent Offenders, sighed and lowered his head.

Why couldn’t that man understand the risks? he wondered. Warden Bowers was a bastard, he decided, nothing more. Of the hundreds of prisons he had contacted, everyone had cooperated – well, all but a hand full, and the others would come around – but not Warden Bowers. He was too stubborn, and too inclined to spit in the eye of the federal government.

Max looked around his office at the scrappily stacked papers. Everything was computerized, yet he preferred the feel of the paper in his hand. Every single sheet represented – not just a single life lost to this disease – but dozens, hundreds, as many as they could fit with size 8 font.

Thousands of people. Millions. If the recent shutdown of all communications with Russia and China were any indication: possibly the entire continent of Eurasia. Billions of lives lost.

More research, he assured himself. We have time if we can find a cure.

He jumped up from his wobbly chair and darted out of his office. Made it ten feet down the hall and stopped.

He could have sworn he heard something. From behind him.

He turned around, but there was nothing there. He shook it off and continued toward the lab.

The halls were all built in straight lines and ninety degree angles. He made a right and a left. Stopped at a door with a sign that said DONATIONS and went in. Closed the door behind him and stopped again, dumbfounded.

Something was wrong. It was all wrong.

Fifty empty beds. Where there should have been fifty bodies donated to science to find the cause of their death. Instead: fifty empty beds.

He backed himself against the door as his gaze flicked from dark corner to dark corner. He could smell something now. Something coppery in the darkness. Blood. A lot of it.

Hello, he tried to call – it came out a whimper. Louder now: Hello?

Shadows on the far wall.

A scream rang out behind him, through door and drywall. From far down the hall. Max turned at the sound, and felt the air shift around him.

Something touched his shoulder. Rough. Something else had his left leg. Then another had the right. He wasn’t on the ground anymore. He felt something sharp enter his stomach and screamed as pain surged through him. A florescent flashed behind him as it burst, and he saw a corpse pull out his intestines and shove them into its mouth.

He screamed again, but it was too late. His last thought, he mumbled aloud: It’s too late. Far too late.

Four

What do you mean ‘late’? Chris Reed asked, running a hand through his short, cropped, blond hair. Like for roll call? Because you know the Warden loves your ass, he wouldn’t punish you.

What are you, Mercedes asked, "in sixth fucking grade? I mean I’m late."

She watched that register on his face. It went from total disbelief to confusion and back, and then snarled up in anger.

Well, he said, what the fuck do you want me to do about it?

She stared at him, hating him almost as much as she had the man that had brought her there.

Well, she mocked him, "I expect you to be a man. You certainly like fucking like one!"

Chris recoiled like he had been slapped by a complete stranger. He looked her up and down, her naked ebony body glistening with sweat in the fluorescents of the ladies shower room. Finally, he laughed and shrugged.

I don’t know what you think’s supposed to happen. I mean, I’m a guard and you’re a convicted killer.

And?

He shook his big, blocky head. And you stabbed a man to death.

He was a pimp, she growled, and he raped me.

"Is it really rape when the girl’s a whore?"

Mercedes swallowed that little thing that made her want to tear him limb from limb. It wouldn’t be right for her, or her baby. She smiled at him, and hissed: Yes.

That’s why it was second degree. He laughed again.

It was getting harder to hold it down.

Don’t worry, he told her, I can get you extra commissary. And when the thing’s born we’ll all look around and go ‘How the fuck did this happen?’ and go about our lives.

And our baby?

Chris glared at her. "Your baby, he said slowly, will go to a good home." He finished buttoning his uniform, and left her there.

She took a long, hot shower. The water dancing along her skin with enough pressure to make it tingle. When she was done, she walked, steaming, to the mirror. Her hand made a brush stroke across it.

Standing behind her was her child’s father.

Five

Sam Watkins turned the radio back on but only got static. He tried every channel, the search program going through every frequency three times before he punched it back off.

Piece of shit, he swore. Craned his neck to make sure the car’s antenna wasn’t frozen over. It was fine. He shrugged. Then something else caught his eye: Birds. Up above and far to the right. Medium to large – maybe crows and hawks – circling a specific spot off the highway.

He slowed, studying them.

Assorted birds of prey: hawks, crows, turkey vultures, all dancing in a circle for a few moments before diving down and disappearing into the brush. Did they come back out?

He pulled to the side and put the car in park.

For a feeding frenzy like this, it had to be big game, but it was past hunting season by a month. He checked his watch, looked off to the distance where Brennick was just a long shadow on the horizon. The highway was completely empty. He hadn’t seen a single car since he left his house.

He took his shotgun and got out.

Six

Erin Gibbs opened his eyes to the jangle of keys.

Cell one, Gibbs, coming out.

He heard the key go in, the lock retract, and the door swung open. Gibbs got out of bed and went out.

Gibbs, Officer Rococoa said, his pale, shaved scalp glowing under the fluorescents.

Roc, Gibbs returned. Tall, lean, clean shaven, his gray skin contrasting the orange of his jumpsuit.

Rococoa nodded to the guard beside him, who kneeled down and started putting the manacles on Gibbs’ ankles and wrists, then joining them all in one set.

Better stay out at least a week this time, Roc told Gibbs. We’re spending so much time together; I’m starting to feel like we’re married.

Gibbs smiled at him. You wish, he said.

The guard, Mark Jenson, finished his work and stood up. All set, he said.

Roc nodded to him. Take the man away.

Erin and the guard turned and started down the hall. They went down the right, staying in their clearly marked lane. Arrows instructed the illiterate on which direction they should turn, when they should walk, and when they should stop.

They passed through the first gate, Rococoa calling after them, "And so the lion returns to the jungle: General Population!"

Seven

What the fuck’s wrong with the TV?

Yeah, why’s the TV not working?

We’ve got rights, you know.

Yeah, the fuck?

Shut up, all of you, Chris roared. You don’t have any rights! If the Warden wants, he’ll lock all your asses back in your cells and keep them there until his Lord and Savior gets back. Is that what you want?

Two hundred felons growled at him.

He turned back to Smith - Just Smith, as he liked to say – and said, Come on, man, these guys are gonna fucking eat us if we don’t get it running soon. And I left the tear gas in my locker.

It’s not me, Smith told him. I’ve done everything. It’s the cable company, I guess, we’re not getting any signal.

Chris returned his attention to the inmates. Cable’s out, boys, he announced.

A collective groan echoed off the concrete walls.

I don’t see why you’re so pissed, Chris said. There’s fifteen hundred people in this here house, and now we’re all gonna miss the season finale. We were gonna Tivo for the other shifts.

There was only one Media Room – which held the television and twenty, heavily censored computers – and they couldn’t let all the men in at once. They split them into shifts based on racial and criminal affiliation. If they put all of them in one place at one time, they’d never be able to control them. Either whites or blacks or Hispanics would walk out, but only one. The women had their own Media Room, and Chris knew it was the same exact situation on their end, even if there were fewer ladies than men at Brennick.

We’ll call the cable company, try to get it worked out.

Chris pulled out his cell phone. Held it up to prove his point, and then squinted at it.

What? Smith asked.

No service.

It’s the walls, Smith explained.

No. Chris shook his head. I always have service, he said. Look. He pointed to the wi-fi detector on the screen. No internet, either.

Cable’s down. Smith shrugged.

Let’s check with the Man.

Eight

Just tell me what happened, Marcia Vasquez told Mercedes.

I got jumped.

By who?

You know the rules, Mercedes told the nurse. I rat her out, she kills me next time.

Marcia sighed and held a cotton swab to an alcohol bottle, tipped it upside down twice and removed it. Touched it to Mercedes’ bruised cheek. It’s just not right, she said.

She’ll get hers’.

Excuse me? Marcia asked, a penciled eyebrow rising up into her tan forehead.

I said: ‘It’s no big deal.’

Of course. Marcia finished cleaning Mercedes’ face, and then sighed again. You’ll mend up just fine. I suggest you stay in your cell, get some rest, and think about telling me who did this.

Mercedes looked at her. Marcia huffed a bit and then rambled off in a frustrated, motherly tone: You all can’t just keep beating, raping, and killing each other. She beats you, you kill her, her friends kill you, your friends kill them, and then I have to have a parade of dead women in here, and I know all their names, and they’re good girls who got caught in a bad world and made bad mistakes, and they’re in here hurting each other for no reason. Just tell me, stop the cycle, and we can go to the Warden and…

Mercedes touched her hand gingerly, stopping her.

We’re still in a bad world, she said. And even you can’t change that.

Nine

Sam got to the edge of the brush and stopped, squinting to see inside. Breath seeped from his lips in ragged clots of steam. His shotgun cradled in his arms. The scavengers above still circling and diving – but individually not coming back up for minutes at a time.

There had to be hundreds of them.

He looked down the road in both directions. Still not a single car had passed.

Took a deep breath, gripped the shotgun tight, and barged into the scrub. It tore at him as he went in, and tried to hold him as he made his way out into the forest beyond. He stopped. Looked around. Trying to get his bearings. He had only gone ten feet, but the forest floor was a different world. Trees stood as dense, monolithic guards in all directions, making his internal compass rotate like an over-wound watch.

The highway’s behind me, he said aloud. It was suddenly nerve-racking not to hear the sound of cars passing on pavement. The birds were a hundred feet in, and fifty to the left.

He started forward, shotgun held loose, safety off. The forest was awash in sounds. Trees cracking. Needles rustling. And birds – so many birds – screeching and tearing at something. He thought he heard fabric separating, the sound ricocheting off the trees and playing along the forest floor.

He kept on. The sounds getting louder. Now he could see the shadows flickering here and there as the birds flew overhead or swooped down. They were to his left now. He adjusted course and homed in. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

He broke into a clearing and blanched. Shook his head to clear it, and fired a shot into the sky. The birds leapt off the body and took to flight, leaving the hollow carcass in the grass.

Sam fumbled with his left hand, his right holding the scatter gun tightly, and took out his phone.

Ten

Chris, Smith, and Dave Sanders stood huddled in the communications office. Chris and Smith had no idea what any of the equipment did, but they were confident Dave knew all.

I don’t know what you guys want me to tell you, Sanders said.

Chris stared at him. Do you know what will happen if these fuckers don’t get to watch Dancing with the Stars? he asked. The word ‘riot’ isn’t violent enough. Jesus, what do you expect them to do for entertainment? Read?

The thought crossed my mind.

Well, uncross it. They’ve been locked down for three weeks, all it’ll take is a nudge and we’ll have a war zone in here.

Dave shrugged, his glasses slipping down to the point of his nose at the movement. He pressed them back in place.

It’s not me, he said. "Everything’s down. I tried to call it in and get someone to take a look at the lines, and the phones aren’t working. None of them. Land line or cell. Internet’s down. TV. The whole nine. And our phones don’t go down. We have a direct line to the governor’s office for emergencies."

Did you try it?

Over Dancing with the Stars? No. You’ll have to take it up with the Warden. But I already know what he’s going to say.

They waited. Dave looked at them, enjoying it.

Yeah?

’I was looking for volunteers anyway.’

Eleven

Erin Gibbs paused at the gate.

One coming through, Jenson called.

There was a clack as the bolt came free and then an electric hum as the motor slid the gate along its track. 

Brody, the gatekeeper, called out from the other side of Plexiglas, his voice projected through a speaker in the wall: How ya doin' Gibbs?

How would you be doing if they threw you in with those animals, Brod?

Maybe I should close the lock back up, send you back to solitary.  Would you like that?

The lock was the gate, there were hundreds of them in Brennick, separating each section of the prison in the very likely case of a riot.

Gibbs shrugged.

Tell you what, the voice scratched out, I'll let you in if you promise to play nice.

Deal.  The next time I take a shank off someone in the middle of the night, I'll give it right back.

Brody glared at him.

And not in his belly this time, Gibbs assured him.

They passed through the lock.  Behind them, the motor started back up and the gate closed.  

Clack.

Twelve

This is a prison, not a retirement home.  I don't give half a shit if they have TV.

Chris started to say something, but Warden Bowers held up a palm.

The phones are a different story.  We need those phones operational.

Chris nodded.

Bowers keyed up his intercom and said, Sharon.  Get a team out of maintenance down to check the fiber optics line.  Every inch.  I want those phones back up and running.  

Yes sir, on it.

Do you feel better? he asked Chris.

What about the cell phones?  Why aren't our cell phones working?

Bowers sighed and punched the intercom.  And have them check the power lines to the cell tower.  Chris was right in the middle of a hot sexting session and we ruined it.

Sharon giggled back: Can do, Warden.

Now, he said, I don't want this to become a union issue, but how about you two get back to - I don't know - guarding prisoners.  Sound good?

They nodded.

Dismissed.

Thirteen

Sam Watkins cursed his phone again and held it up.  The little signal bars were gone, and in their place it said SOS. 

I’m calling the fucking SOS, he grumbled.  If a cell phone can't find its own network, they're designed to operate on any network if only to make emergency calls.  This close to Brennick, he should have been picking up the prison's cell tower.  Sam pocketed his phone and looked down at the body.

It had been a woman.  At some point.  Now it was a hollowed out shell.  Blood was haloed around it in a circumference of about fifteen feet.  The head had been neatly - and quickly - picked clean of eyes, ears, and lips.  She hadn't been dead long by the look of it.  The animals had been very efficient with this corpse.  Far more efficient than Sam thought possible.  It would take a pack of wolves to do this.  With the birds finishing it off.

More like a hundred, he said to no one.

It wasn't just the intestines that had been gnawed at - they were all gone - but the legs, arms, neck - everything was torn and shredded. 

He tried his phone again: Nothing.

Shit.

He looked around him, did three hundred sixty degrees and then made a decision.  The birds couldn't do any more damage than they already had.  The body would keep until he got to the prison, got on the phone and got the right people to the scene. 

Something struck him.  He hadn't even thought about it.  Amazing how quickly instinct and training took over.  He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t find this. Not now. Not ever.

He looked around again, then backed his way out of the clearing.

Fourteen

Jessie looked up from her novel as Mercedes came into their cell.

How’d it… oh, Jessie said. She came up close and looked at the bruises. Not well, I guess.

As well as I could have expected.

Mercedes saw Jessie’s jaw working.

He did this to you? she asked.

Mercedes shook her head. No, she said. Random coincidence.

Don’t be a bitch.

I’m serious. It wasn’t Chris.

Who then? Jessie flicked her head