Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go (5 page)

8 · CURS AND WEIGH

MILTON'S NORMALLY MOPLIKE
hair was singed at the top, giving him a little charred patch that made him look like a monk who had recently escaped a fire. In fact, all the boys looked as if they'd had flaming, limbo-pole haircuts.

Limbo,
Milton thought. He vaguely remembered a social studies class on Haiti. His teacher, Mrs. Ryswick, had talked about the limbo dance and how its name was derived from the rite's original purpose. One week after the funeral of a loved one, the mourners would dance under the pole to help the soul of the dearly departed escape the state of Limbo.

Milton and the other boys stumbled, smoldering, through a curtain of smoke into a white corridor.

I guess it doesn't work if you're dancing for your own soul,
Milton reflected.

In front of them was a great door ornately carved with slender gods rowing frightened children down a river. It creaked open. Out stepped what seemed like a slender god himself. Draped in a shimmering white tunic, this trim, towering creature was every inch an ancient deity, right from his perfect leather sandals to the tip of his wet dog nose.

“Come with me,” the creature barked at Milton, who unfortunately stood at the front of the line.

Milton forced his legs to obey. He followed the creature through the open door and into a massive round chamber of gleaming white marble and gold. Lining the walls were rows and rows of jars filled with squirming black globs sparsely speckled with bright colors. Nine descending rings led down to a stage of pure, polished gold. On the stage was an elaborate scale with two teetering trays. Beneath it was a squat, froglike creature with glistening translucent skin. Milton could see its many internal organs throbbing like pulsating lumps of meat. It resembled one of the horrible Jell-O atrocities chock-full of unfathomable chunks in the cafeterium, only this one was large, alive, and wearing a headset.

The chamber was breathtaking. What struck Milton most was the silence. It was a silence so quiet it was deafening. He could feel its hush whispering all around him in ancient tongues. Milton was in awe. He was standing in a place beyond good and evil, somewhere sacred and old.

Then the jelly creature ripped a wet, explosive fart. The force of the blast made Milton's ears pop. The smell was like moldy cottage cheese and rotten anchovies wrapped in an old gym sock.

“Aaaaah,” the creature sighed with a smile. “That was so big I should give it a name.”

The dog god covered its nose with its hands. “Ammit, really. Have you no respect?”

“Oh, go chase a stick, Annubis,” Ammit replied while tightening a bolt on the scale.

Milton spoke in groggy tones, as if in a dream. “Where am I? What is this place?”

Annubis smiled, exposing sharp, well-cared-for canine teeth. “You are in the Assessment Chamber, the hallowed halls that hold the Scales of Justice.”

The dog god then knelt behind Milton to sniff his bottom. Milton whipped around clutching the back of his pants.

“What are you doing?” Milton squealed.

Annubis rose. “I was simply trying to get to know you.”

He smoothed his lustrous tunic with ruffled dignity and continued.

“Here is where your soul is weighed on the primordial scales. A sample is then taken and delivered to our forensics unit, where a series of tests are conducted. They sift through your soul's sediment—the by-product of your moral experiences—and discern exactly where you deserve to spend your eternity.”

Annubis took Milton's hand and led him toward the scale. The dog-headed man exuded a strong sense of calm and gentleness.

“The Assessment Chamber is in Limbo,” Annubis continued. “It exists outside the flow of time, where matters can get the attention they so deserve, unfettered by the nagging tug of clocks and calendars.”

“Look, Fido,” Ammit scolded. “We don't have time to give the grand tour to every life-challenged tot that drops in to stink up our chamber. I have it on good authority that there's going to be a terrible roller-coaster accident very soon, so we've got to stay on schedule.”

Milton crinkled his brow. “I thought this place didn't run on schedules?”

Ammit grimaced. “Even so, patience is a virtue, and there ain't any of that down here.”

Ammit's stomach flopped and created waves of rippled gelatin. “Look, you're giving me an ulcer. Step down and have your eternal soul appraised before I bust a giblet.”

Milton and Annubis arrived before the bronze scales. Milton looked around at the thousands of jars lining the walls. The dark, blobby contents seethed like angry lava lamps and knocked against the glass.

“What are those?” Milton asked.

Annubis made a grand, sweeping gesture with his arm. “These are lost souls, their owners unknown.”

Milton scanned the rows of bubbling jars. “How can a soul get…lost?”

Ammit sighed wearily. “The question is, how come more souls
don't
get lost? We run on volume down here. Everything's gotta move, move, move. And sometimes in the process, souls just slip away—especially the light ones—floating around looking for their bodies and causing all sorts of trouble. Those vicious, sooty gobs are especially nasty. Little piranhas, they are. So we keep 'em jarred up tight.”

Milton fidgeted, shifting his slight weight from sneaker to sneaker. “How come they're all so black? Is that normal?”

The gelatinous demon smirked slyly. “Nice try, pipsqueak. You can't put off eternity. Stop stalling and let's start appraising. ANNUBIS!”

The dog god pressed his paw hand lightly against Milton's back. Milton quivered. “What are you going to—”

Annubis patted Milton softly. “Shhhh…it will only hurt more if your mind is busy and agitated. Relax. Concentrate on…
nothing.
”

Milton closed his eyes and, despite the thumping of his heart, tried to empty his thoughts. Annubis rubbed his hands together in tight circles until they radiated warmth. He closed his eyes, panted a bit, and then put one hand on Milton's head, and the other on his upper back. Slowly, Annubis's hot hands slipped into Milton's body. Milton groaned as electric warmth surged outward from Annubis's hands. It was deeply unsettling to have someone routing around inside you.

Annubis rummaged around Milton delicately, his fingers searching for something, like a surgeon hunting for a tumor. Then, the dog god let out a little yelp. “Got it,” he murmured.

It was creepy, Milton thought. It was like having fingers wrap around all of your emotions, all of your memories…everything. Then, with a gentle tug, Annubis withdrew his hands, and Milton screamed.

In Annubis's smooth hands was a long, wriggling blob. It was like a stretched-out jellyfish, constantly shifting its inner goo. Unlike the blobs in the jars, this one was brightly colored, a shimmering rainbow of gorgeous gunk.

But to Milton the blob wasn't beautiful or ugly or anything at all, really. It was as if he had been submerged in a Grand Canyon filled with cold despair and infinite absence. He felt numb, lifeless, yet in unendurable agony. Everything about him that was “Milton” had been ripped away. In Milton's mind, it was the worst feeling, or nonfeeling, that anyone had ever felt—or not—
ever.

Annubis delicately juggled the struggling blob between his two hands like a Slinky, until one hand held a rich clot of swirling colors and the other, a small speck of black. Carefully cradling the goo, he set the brightly colored mass on one tray of the scale and the dark pebble on the other.

Ammit secured Milton's restless, wiggling soul to the tray with a silky net.

“This one's got a lot of spirit,” mumbled Ammit.

“Odd…There's barely anything weighing it down. I've never seen one like this here…”

Just then Ammit's headset chirped. “Hecko, you've reached the Assessment Chamber, this is Ammit speaking, how may I direct your call?”

“Nice of you to finally pick up,” Bea “Elsa” Bubb squawked from the tiny receiver. “I called to see if a certain boy has shown up yet. His name is Milton Fauster. He's a scrawny nuisance who asks too many questions for his own bad.”

Ammit raised a row of ingrown hairs above his eye that must have been eyebrows at some point. “Why, yes, Principal Bubb. He's right here.”

“Excellent,” she said. “There seems to be an…
inconsistency…
in his file. I'm sure it's nothing to be concerned about. After all, it's not like the Galactic Order Department has ever made a
mistake,
and it's
certainly
no error on our part…
ha ha ha…
So until this is all sorted out, we need him under our
thumb,
if you take my meaning.”

Ammit smiled. “Yes, your vileness. Understood. You can count on me.”

“I doubt that,” Bea “Elsa” Bubb answered. “But just make sure you do my bidding and keep this little chat under your jelly, or else there'll be heck to pay. Have a nice day.”

She hung up.

Ammit began adjusting the scales. The tray holding the colorful glob of liquid energy touched the smooth, alabaster table, while the dark speck was teetering in the air. He grimaced.

“Um, Annubis,” Ammit said. “Is that a zombie squirrel in the corner?”

Annubis whipped his head around and sniffed the air hungrily. Ammit pressed his thumb on the scale until the tray holding the black speck touched the table while Milton stared blankly off into space, shivering.

“Wait,” Annubis whimpered. “The chamber is round, there aren't any corners.”

“Oh,” Ammit responded while writing some figures down in his clipboard, “my mistake.”

Ammit removed his swollen jelly thumb from the scale. Next he took a tiny silver spoon with serrated edges and gently scraped the side of Milton's soul, scooping up a small pea-sized glob. Ammit put the glistening bead into a plastic bag, wrote “Milton Fauster” on it with a grease pencil, then added it to dozens of others stacked in the creature's out basket.

“Anyway,” he continued, “looks like we're done here. Go get the next bygone brat.”

Annubis trotted back to the scales and examined the black speck. “But it's so small.”

Ammit squirmed. “Yes, but it must be terribly dense,” the creature said. “He must have committed one last doozy of an offense. That's enough to keep you down here.”

The dog god sniffed Ammit, unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure,” the jelly-like demon countered. “Don't you trust me?” He gestured to his exposed internal organs. “It's not like I could hide anything from you.”

Annubis shrugged his shoulders and sniffed the paralyzed Milton. “Fine, then. Let's give him his soul back, quickly. This is cruel.”

“Okay, goody four-paws. Here you go.”

Ammit handed Annubis back the boy's eternal soul.

Swiftly Annubis took the multicolored goo and gently placed it back inside Milton. Instantly the light blazed back into Milton's formerly dull eyes.

“You'll get your results from the Department of Unendurable Redundancy, Bureaucracy, and Redundancy,” Ammit said hurriedly, “when they're good and ready. But from what I've seen, I wouldn't plan on leaving any time soon.”

As the creature jiggled with laughter, Milton turned to Annubis with desperation.

“I can't stay here,” he said with panic. “It's all a big mistake.”

Ammit rolled his eyes. “Get him out of here,” he gurgled. “We're as clogged and backed up as Principal Bubb's toilet.”

Annubis led Milton toward the door.

“There's got to be some way…,” he murmured.

“Come,” Annubis said softly.

He helped Milton out of the chamber. As they walked through the doorway into a hall congested with confused, frightened boys—all of them looking convinced they were simply having one heck of a nightmare—Annubis leaned down near Milton's ear and whispered. “I can tell you don't belong. I can smell it. I'm a great judge of character. All I can suggest is that you get a copy of your contract and look for any…discrepancies.”

“ANNUBIS!” yelled Ammit. “BAD DOG! Get in here with another boy right now or so help me I'll have you neutered.”

Annubis yelped. He straightened up and achieved his former, imposing self. “Next!”

Milton scanned the hallway, looking lost. “What do I do now?”

Annubis grabbed the hand of a red-haired boy wearing Scooby-Doo pajamas. The boy giggled. “Big doggy!”

“Down the corridor to your right,” Annubis barked. “For your fitting.”

9 · OUT OF FASHION

MILTON POKED HIS
head into a vast tiled room where rows of boys shivered in their underwear. Immediately a small withered demon grabbed his hand and pulled him inside.

“Quick,” it croaked.

For eternity, Milton thought, everyone sure seemed to be in a hurry.

“Give me your clothes,” the demon prodded, “and that backpack.”

Milton gulped. He could feel Lucky squirming, coiling, trying to get comfortable. Irritated, the demon dug its claws into the knapsack. Milton could just barely make out Lucky's telltale hiss.

“Wait,” Milton blurted. “This knapsack is important to me. Full of memories of…
up there.
” He paused. “On second thought, take it. Those memories would only torment me for all eternity.”

“Hmmm,” the demon considered. “Good point. Ha-HA! I command you to keep your sack of excruciating anguish!”

“Oh no,” Milton said flatly. “You tricked me, you devious creature of pure unquenchable evil, you.”

The demon sneered, thoroughly pleased with itself.

Milton breathed a sigh of relief. Outwitting a demon was easier than he had expected. He slipped off his navy blue corduroys and sensible, button-down L.L. Bean shirt. After taking his clothes and depositing them in a large Dumpster, the demon sporked Milton in the bottom, herding him with the other boys into a beige waiting room carpeted with filthy shag.

“What's going on?” Milton asked a skinny Asian boy next to him.

The boy looked at him with shock. “You're not real. This place isn't real. It's all a bad dream. I'm going to wake up any moment.”

Milton nodded and smiled. “Yes, all a dream.”

A bald, round man in a bright pink leisure suit strutted in pushing a wardrobe on wheels. On dozens of hangers hung the same horrible outfit: bright yellow lederhosen.

“Bonjour, mesdemoiselles,”
he said elegantly. “I am Mr. Dior, and it eez my unfortunate duty to ensure that each and every one of you looks simply hideous.”

Milton obediently buckled up his wool lederhosen, secured his plaid cap, tied his checkered kerchief, pulled up his lime green kneesocks, and slipped into his splintery wooden clogs.

The boys stared dumbfounded at each other. The definition of “dreadful” just kept expanding with every passing minute that didn't pass.

“Sacré bleu,”
Mr. Dior deadpanned. “If ze looks could kill, you lot couldn't harm a chronically ill gnat.”

The skinny Asian boy looked at Milton. “That's the last time I have triple-cheese pizza right before bed.”

A bug-eyed demon with a great big camera scurried into the room.

Mr. Dior glided over to the wall and yanked down a paper backdrop from the ceiling. It was a mural of fire, brimstone, and nasty devils flogging tormented men and women. The boys were lined up against it.

“Hmm…,” murmured Mr. Dior. “Something's not quite
exacte.
”

He surveyed the line of grotesquely dressed children and settled on Milton. After a moment of scrutiny, he took off Milton's cap, spat a glob of phlegm in his palm, and rubbed it into Milton's hair until it stuck up in every direction.

“There,” Mr. Dior said while screwing Milton's cap back on. “Simply
affreux.
”

Milton trembled, mortified. To say he had a thing about germs was like saying that Marlo had a thing about taking what wasn't hers. After washing his hands in a public restroom, for example, Milton would use a paper towel to turn on the hand dryer, then get another paper towel to open the door, and then get yet another paper towel to open the lid of the garbage to throw all of his accumulated paper towels away, which made him want to wash his hands again.

Now he had the loogie of some dead Frenchman dripping down his scalp.

“Smile,” the bug-eyed demon ordered and, with an explosive pop of a flashbulb, the image of a dozen or so sniffling boys in scratchy yellow lederhosen was preserved for all eternity, or until they turned eighteen, whichever came first.