The helmet turned to me. I could mostly only see my own reflection. “Stay close to the agent or you will be shot.”

“Got that the first time. So, why do I need the suit?”

“Nerve gas. If you stray off the path, you will be shot.”

The night suddenly seemed extra chilly. “Nerve gas?”

“Nerve gas. If you cross the fence—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, cross the fence, get shot.”

“No. If you cross the fence, the nasty shit that’s buried over there will burn right through your respirator and you’ll be having a seizure in ten seconds and dead in under a minute. My men won’t have to shoot you, but you’ll want them to. Get your suits on and meet me at the truck.” The rubberized man waddled away.

What have I gotten myself into?

Franks tossed me the helmet. “Hope that fits.”

“Up yours, Franks. I hope yours doesn’t.”

Franks nodded. “That would be unfortunate. Nerve gas tickles.”

The fence wasn’t as impressive as I thought it would be. It was made of weathered old wooden posts and three rusting strands of barbwire. It didn’t look like it would stop an aggressive cow, let alone terrorists.

“This section we unofficially call the Scary Zone. Most of the rest of the base doesn’t even know this section exists or what my people do. Some of the things buried here date back to the forties, when we really didn’t know a lot about storing biological agents, and everyone was in a real hurry. Many of the records were lost, so what exactly is here, and where and how it’s stored, is questionable at best. Should be pretty safe now, but one time I saw a coyote cross this fence. He made it a couple hundred yards out into the Scary Zone, started to foam at the mouth, then just fell over, dead. Didn’t so much as twitch,” said the man in the lead, who still hadn’t bothered to—and probably never would—introduce himself. “We run a much tighter ship now. If anything looks even sort of suspicious we lock this place down tight, nobody in or out until we’re sure everything is accounted for. But storing things properly back then was a little more…wild west.”

There was a four-wheeler-sized path between the sagebrush and the fence. The snow had been churned into a sandy mush from many recent sets of footprints. Walking was difficult in the rubber suit. The full-face helmet obscured my peripheral vision. The booties were floppy and clumsy. I would imagine that this thing would be stifling hot most times, but since it was just above freezing with an icy wind, it was nice and toasty. My breathing sounded like Darth Vader. I kept as far away from the barbwire as possible because I really didn’t want to rip my suit.