Almost Hell

673 Pages·2016·2.21 MB·English

by  Lowther Eric

Almost Hell

by
Eric R. Lowther

Published by Library of the Living Dead

Almost Hell

A Library of the Living Dead book
Published by arrangement with the author ISBN-10: 1461159490

ISBN-13: 978-1461159490

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the
product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 Eric R. Lowther and Library of the Living Dead Press. All
Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Laura Conkle

Put-Together by Dan Galli

Edited by Felicia A. Tiller
Formatted for Kindle by Owen CLB

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and
publisher.
Dedicated to the Memory of Marion Joseph Lowther Sr.

They say there are no heroes left in this world.
Only now do I understand just how true that sentiment is.
Prologue

The Buffer Zone

Maury glanced around at the four severe-looking men surrounding him. "You
guys do this a lot, Lieutenant Colson?" Maury asked. He grimaced at his own
voice, so loud in the small chamber.

"As little as possible," the big man with the lieutenant's insignia answered. "First
time inside?" The young technician was sweating bullets, his breath noisy bursts
through his nostrils.

"Yes sir," Maury said.

It'd been easier in the first years after Area 187 had been created, when
Homeland Security and the Feds ran it all. That was before Homeland decided it
was more cost-effective to farm out the maintenance tasks of the facilities and
perimeters to private contractors. At least they'd listened to reason and had been
convinced against privatizing the security forces.

Colson pulled a clipboard off the wall and scanned a few documents. "You've
completed your perimeter training. Where's your checklist?" he asked, his eyes
narrowing. Maury's grew wide for a moment before he patted a few pockets and
came out with a folded piece of paper.

"I have it here, sir. Sorry." Colson snatched it from his fingers and looked it over.

"You sure you have everything?" he asked as he looked over the list. "I don't
want to do this again cause you forgot pliers."

"The company has toolkits for each job. We're required to carry two when there's
only one technician going out," Maury said. He looked at the other three men but
they had already pulled their form-fitting hoods over their faces, making them
unreadable.

"Okay then, let's review. No noise. Once we walk out you're a church mouse and
keep your tool noise to a minimum. You work quietly and you work quickly. The
time allowed for a sensor relay replacement and diagnostic for this sector is 38
minutes, minus travel. It will take us 12 minutes to reach the work site and 12
minutes back. I want to be back in this room in less than one hour, got it?"

Maury nodded, the full realization of the work ahead settling as comfortably as a
rusty hacksaw. He was going into Area 187. This wasn't in the technical college's
brochure. "What if we... what if they come around?"

"Contact isn't your job," Colson said with a hint of menace. "Focus on your job;
we'll worry about everything else. The faster you do it, the less we'll have to
worry about it. Just shut up, move when we move and you'll do just fine."

Maury nodded again and took a shuddering breath. Colson looked at him
dubiously then slid his own hood into place. Sempertech was a union shop, the
easy work of maintaining the facility buildings and equipment snatched up by
seniority. That left the dangerous work of maintaining the sensor networks and
physical defenses to men with the lowest seniority, consequently the men with
the least experience not only in their jobs but in working within the Area's buffer
zone.

"Communications check," Colson announced. Each man put a hand to the small
control unit strapped to their tactical harness as the control room cycled through
a series of tones. Each tone carried its own meaning, such as "stop", "go",
"right", "left", "contact" and a host of other commands and information.
Maury looked around slowly as the unfamiliar tones sounded in his own
earpiece. Anyone going into the Area received extensive training and the signal
tones were a big part of it. That was another problem with being forced to use
the lowest seniority; just when you had a tech that had really absorbed the
system he bid out to a better job.

"Test back-up voice," Colson said into the small microphone on his collar.
Maury jerked as Colson's voice bit into his ear. Colson grimaced at him then
reached down to Maury's radio and turned the volume down. "Voice is a last
resort, kid."

"Yes, sir." He was trembling now, a fact that hadn't escaped Colson.

"Look, kid, I haven't lost a tech yet. You'll be fine. It's just another job." Colson
spun Maury roughly and started tugging on his straps and equipment. After
several adjustments, he spun him back. "Your straps were loose. Loose makes
noise - and handles. Lock and load, gentlemen."

Maury had expected to hear the crack and snap of metal as the men charged their
weapons. Instead the metallic sounds were softer than two dimes clinking
together, the well-oiled, composite materials deadening most of the noise.

"Control," Colson said into the air, "ready for odor neutralization."

"Standby for odor neutralization," a woman's voice said into the room. Colson
looked pointedly at Maury's head and nodded. Maury, confused, touched the top
of his head then realized he was the only man in the room without his hood on.
He pulled it out of his back pocket quickly and struggled it down over his ears,
rolling it until the Kevlar-laced material completely covered his head and neck.
Just as the young technician adjusted the hood for his eyes and mouth, small jets
in the ceiling spewed a fine, powdery mist down onto them. Maury hacked and
wheezed for several moments, eyes and nose running into the itchy, reinforced
fabric of his hood.

"Guess I should have reminded you to hold your breath, huh?" Colson said,
smiling. "You'll be okay in a second." The other men chuckled lowly as Maury
tried to wipe the tears from his eyes.

"What the hell's in that stuff?" Maury asked, punctuating the question with a
sneeze.

"Can't pronounce it, I just know it works. Your scent will be deadened for about
an hour, as long as you don't start sweating like a whore in church," Colson
advised.

"What happens if I do?" Maury asked when his breath finally coming back.

"The more you sweat, the harder you breathe and the more likely we are to make
contact. And what's the first rule of Area 187?" he asked.

"Don't make contact," Maury said robotically. That rule had been drilled into
him every day for the last two weeks during his training.

"Well, at least you made it to class that day," Colson said. "Control, final sit-
rep?" he asked into his mike.

"All quiet on the southern front, Lieutenant. We haven't had a sensor hit all
night. Current time is 01:45, current temperature is 48 degrees. Skies are clear
and the moon is full. Satellite reports show no major activity in your area of
operation, video surveillance negative. Sensor report for grid location 36 at 30
and 2 is still a blank page. We're hoping you can fix that for us. Video
surveillance unaffected, we should have visual on you for the duration. We are
ready and waiting for your mark."

Colson took a quick glance at his team, his gaze lingering for a moment longer
on Maury. "Don't fuck this up." He waited for Maury's uncertain nod then
brought up his HK and flicked off the safety. "Mark." A moment later the large
door before them slid soundlessly into the wall, giving Maury his first look at the
mile-and-a-half buffer zone behind the wall that separated Area 187 from the
rest of the world.

Arc sodium lights turned the night to day as far out as he could see. The zone
had been deforested as much as was possible, the monthly chemical drops
ensuring nothing green could sprout to provide concealment. Vast networks of
pressure plates, sensors, video cameras and other electronic monitoring systems
had been deployed in the zone over the years. More than three thousand men had
lost their lives in the 18 months it had taken in the initial push to establish the
monitoring network and fortification lines that walled the plague off from the
rest of humanity. Even today the zone could be counted on to kill at least a dozen
or so a year, by official numbers, from work groups like this one tasked with
maintaining it.

They moved at a fast walk over the gray-green stubble. Running reduced the
ability to fight and think to near zero, and considering their enemy couldn't move
faster than a walk themselves it was practically unnecessary in all but a swarm
situation or to get to a better firing position. Union rules forbid Maury from
going into the Area armed, though few technicians ventured out without at least
a personal firearm. Maury had decided not to arm himself though. He had no
experience and worried that he would be found with the weapon and disciplined;
best to leave the guns to the soldiers. He kept his eyes locked squarely on
Colson's thick neck ahead of him as the group made their way smoothly and
silently across the day-lit sparseness.

They made the steel pole at just over the ten minute mark. A high-pitched tone
sounded through their ear pieces as Colson brought the group to a halt. Using
hand signals, he positioned his men at the compass points around the base of the
pole and took the northern point himself, facing into the great unknown of Area
187. Without looking behind him, Colson tripped the "go" tone to Maury's
earpiece. The technician hesitated for a moment, swallowed hard then threw his
climbing belt around the pole.

Maury scaled the tower, his childhood fear of heights falling to the onslaught of
adrenalin. He'd been a high school kid in Palisades, California when the outbreak
hit, making jokes about redneck zombies roaming the hills of West Virginia
eating their cousins instead of having sex with them. Now, he hung twenty-five
feet over that very ground suspended by only a strip of ballistic nylon.

Maury rolled up his hood, pulled the cover off the sensor relay module and
turned on the small penlight attached to the band around his head. He poked
around the masses of thin wires with a rubber-coated screwdriver then moved his
face closer to peer at a particular clump of wires bound with electrical tape; the
thick, red power wire had a charred spot just beyond the tape causing a short to
the sensor relay and denying it reports from its clusters for a half-mile around.
Someone had thrown this non-regulation repair together, obviously some time
ago by the faded appearance of the tape.

He prodded a bit more and found the long-ago tech had wired the sensor relay
directly into the main power line that fed the powerful light a few feet above
him. The amperage coming through the pole's electrical service had been far too
strong for the delicate wire, causing it to burn like a candle wick. Further
probing showed the reason for the jury-rigged repair; a crispy, blackened spot on
the relay's motherboard where the live wire should have been soldered. He
pulled his radio and stared at the multi-colored buttons. Each was assigned a
tone. Pressing two or more at the same time produced a combined tone, further
widening the menu of commands and responses. The problem was remembering
them all. Maury pulled the hard plastic card from his coveralls and read through
the options, trying to find the proper code for a scrub. He found it and pushed the
orange, red and black buttons together. The result was an uncomfortable tone of
medium pitch, like three dogs barking in unison. Almost immediately he heard
another tone. A quick check of the card and watching for which colors lit up on
his radio found he was being asked for a status report.