“That’s the turning, Interstate 666.”
The green sign made it quite clear. “Interstate 666, Delaware City, Middletown and Hellgate Golf.” John McLanahan swung the family car on to the exit ramp and started to follow the signs for the Hellgate. The whole road was new and showed signs of the hurried construction. The signs though were unambiguous. ‘Military Convoys Have Absolute Right of Way.’
“Are we there yet?” John Junior sounded impatient and fretful.
“Nearly honey. We’ll be seeing Grandma again soon. We’ll make sure she is all right now she’s dead.” Naomi McLanahan and her husband exchanged slightly guilty glances, they were making this visit, one that was using a substantial proportion of their monthly gasoline ration, for reasons that were not quite so altruistic.
Ahead of them, Interstate 666 split, the main lanes curving off towards Hellgate Golf, the rest reverting to the prewar road network. Another preemptory sign, ‘Civilian Traffic, Right Lane. Left Three Lanes, Military Traffic Only.’ McLanahan started to swing right and felt the Toyota Corolla lurch as a ten-wheeled Oshkosh HEMTT roared past. It was followed by more of the same mixed in with tank transporters carrying Abrams tanks and Bradley armored fighting vehicles. The sign about military convoys having absolute right of way wasn’t a joke, if the Toyota had been in the way, it would have been pushed out of it. McLanahan shook slightly, being at war took a lot of getting used to. Iraq and the Persian Gulf wars hadn’t been anything like this.
Ahead, the road rose before falling away to the area surrounding the gate. Cresting the rise, he could see the whole extent of the human side of Base Hellgate-Golf. There would be more the other side of the ellipse but that was hidden behind the black shadow. “See that Junior? That’s the Hellgate. Anybody from your class been through it yet?”
“No.” Junior was staring at the lines of vehicles and helicopters parked outside. Most of them were red-stained and battered, waiting for the repairs that the vicious environment of Hell made essential.
Another sign. ‘Civilian Parking’ and an arrow leading off to the right. Once again McLanahan followed the indicated route to a parking lot. It was much smaller than he had thought, he had been expecting a sea of cars, left while their owners visited newly-deceased loved ones. Then reality set in, there were only a limited number of permits to visit Hell issued to civilians and the McLanahans had been lucky. Most were not. He parked the car and his family got out, looking around as they did so. There was a small shelter nearby, marked “Transit Bus”. It drew them over and they stood in the metal lean-to, welcoming the cover it offered from the drizzling rain. A few minutes later, a dark green bus, looking for all the world like a schoolbus pulled up.
“Transit Bus For Hell.” The Private driving it was bored out of his mind by the constant shuttling. This was not a prized assignment and he’d really upset his Sergeant at some time to get it.
The bus took them to a single-story building marked “Hell Orientation Center”. The McLanahans were conducted into a briefing room, one that had around 20 seats in it. The room filled up quickly, the people eying each other curiously. Then, an Army Officer entered and stood at the podium.
“Welcome to Hell, ladies and gentlemen. A few quick words to advise you of the conditions and regulations concerning your visit. Firstly, this is an operational military base, photography is not permitted while on base grounds. Anybody seen taking pictures will have their camera confiscated.
“Secondly, the atmosphere in Hell is not healthy. It is loaded with dust and that is harmful to your health. You must not, repeat not, take off your breathing mask any time you are in an unfiltered environment. You do, you may be back here sooner than you expect. Some of the troops we sent in right at the start of the war didn’t have breathing masks either and their health is now pretty bad.
“Thirdly, all of you are here to visit recently-deceased relatives. Be aware of this, the people you will be meeting are not humans. Not quite. They look like the people you knew and have the same characters but they are in different bodies, ones adapted to living in Hell. Think of them as flasks into which the people you knew have been transferred. So, just because they can do things here – like walking around outside without masks – don’t think you can.
“Fourthly, military convoys and personnel have absolute priority. If they are coming through, get out of their way because they will not stop.” The Lieutenant looked grim for a second. “You may have heard that we had some protesters here a few days ago. They laid down in the road in from of a tank convoy. By the time the convoy had passed, they were a thousandth of an inch tall and about eighty yards long. Something like a tank convoy can’t stop, understand? OK.
“Fifthly, wandering around is a bad idea. Hell isn’t linear, don’t ask us why, we don’t know. If you really want an answer, we’ll tell you it’s because the polarity is reversed but that’s just saying we don’t know using different words. But, it means this. You walk in a straight line out, turn around and walk in a straight line back, you will not end up in the same place you started out from. On walking distances, its only a small error but in the refugee camps, that will get you lost. And that will displease us.
“Lastly, when the bus comes to pick you up, you leave. You’ll have about an hour or so before that happens. Please don’t make us come in and get you. That’s all. Any questions? No? Excellent. Thank you.” The Lieutenant left quickly, giving the orientation speech wasn’t a prized duty either and he wondered what he had done that had displeased his Captain so badly.
Another bus pulled into the reception building and the visitors were conducted into it. The driver was another morose private expiating some unknown military sin but there was also a professionally cheerful young woman on board. She handed out breathing masks as the visitors entered. Once they were all seated, the bus pulled out as she checked everybody had their masks on properly. “Did you all get your lecture from the Lieutenant?” There was a mumble of agreement. “He is a bit fierce isn’t he? Still, Hell is a hostile environment, but you follow his advice and its safe enough. He probably skidded you past the questions bit so if I can answer anything. My name is Elva by the way, Elva Jones.”
The bus slipped through the Hellgate and the inside darkened as the overcast Earth sky was replaced by the red-gray of Hell. Junior stuck his hand up. “You’re not wearing a mask.”
A chuckle went around the bus at the boy’s presumption. The guide smiled for the same reason. “I don’t have to Johnny. I’m dead you see.”
One of the men up near the front of the bus couldn’t help but ask. “Miss, ummm, how did you…”
“Die? I was an air hostess and my plane crashed. So, when I was rescued, I got this job.” She looked at the man who was about to ask something else. “A DC-2, remember them?” The man nodded and she smiled at him, not many people knew much about old airliners.
“People, we’re now entering the Phelan Plain. This is named after Philip Phelan, a mall security guard who gave his life to rescue a group of schoolgirls from a Baldrick attack. We’re hoping we’ll find him soon so he can come visit us. The Phelan Plain is where everybody stays after they arrive or are rescued, until they find a better place of course. Now. We’re going to the American Arrivals Area, all the people you want to see are there. Just give me your ticket, I’ll tell you where to get off and give you a map.”
“Miss Jones, the Lieutenant said that people are different. Will we be able to recognize…”
“Certainly. If your relative died before middle-age, menopause for women, they’ll look just the way they did when they died. If they died much older, they’ll look the way they did in middle age. To quote the Lieutenant, don’t ask us why, we don’t know. Right, first stop. Mr and Mrs McLanahan and your son? Here you are, just follow the map, it’s only a few yards.”
Elva had been right, the small hut allocated to Rose Matthews, Naomi McLanahan’s mother, was only a few yards away from the bus stop. Privately, McLanahan guessed that wasn’t an accident, that the bus routes were planned to drop each group off close to their destination.
“Oh Naomi, its so good to see you. And you brought little Johnnie too. Come in, why don’t you, it’s a bit small but it’s only temporary. Johnnie, would you like a drink or something to eat? You can come in too John.” John McLanahan reflected that being dead hadn’t affected his mother-in-law at all. Physically though, the change was stunning. When he had last seen her, she had been on a bed in the hospice, breathing through a tube in her nose and fading away as the lung cancer had killed her. Now, she looked like a well-preserved mid-forties, very much like Naomi’s sister rather than her mother. And so, he followed them in and settled down
The problem really was that nobody had actually created a set of etiquette rules for speaking to dead people. The ridiculous mummery that the fake mediums had invented when they ‘spoke to the dead’ were of no help at all and a lot of the normal small-talk subjects just weren’t relevant. So, the conversations staggered along. Eventually, it found an interesting area where Rose Matthews started to tell her guests about the people living around her. Oddly it had been Junior who had sparked it off when he had asked his grandmother if she’d met Jesse James
