Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go

by Dale E. Basye

  “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.

  10 · YOU ARE UTTERLY ALONE

  “GET IN ZE line with ze first letter of your last name,” Mr. Dior had told them. But in this new room of damp concrete and lost boys arranged in rows, Milton was, again, perplexed. The signs above the Disorientation Assignment counter read “A–F,” “F–K,” “K–P,” “P–U,” and “U–Z.” Fauster, F…did that mean he was supposed to be in the first or second line? Lapses of logic like this were especially bothersome to Milton whose whole life was arranged just so. He decided to pick the first line, despite knowing deep down he would somehow be wrong.

  “Wrong line,” the decomposing man behind the counter confirmed when Milton finally got to the front.

  “But my last name is Fauster…this line says ‘A to F.’”

  “Yeah,” the grumpy man grumbled through purple, peeling lips, “But your last name isn’t ‘F,’ is it?”

  “No,” Milton admitted, “but it’s rather misleading…”

  “Take it up with Principal Bubb, then. In the meantime, you’ll have to stand in the other line. Here’s something to read while you’re waiting. Next!”

  Milton reluctantly took the pamphlet the man pushed toward him. He got to the very back of the next line, prepared to do what you apparently did in Limbo: wait.

  * * *

  SO YOU’RE DEAD

  A PAMPHLET FROM CHILDREN IN

  NETHERWORLD CONVERSION HELP (CINCH)

  Dying is one of the most important parts of being alive—the last part! Your young mind is more than likely crawling with conflicting thoughts, emotions, and questions.

  First, let’s start with a little story…

  BECKY AND VELMA:

  A TALE OF TWO AFTERLIVES

  This is Becky. She passed on after being in a coma for fifteen months. She doesn’t know what to do. Poor Becky. She looks like she’s freaking out!

  This is Velma. She arrived here after touching a poisonous frog on a camping trip. She is dealing with her new circumstances calmly and with an open mind. Doesn’t she look at home in the hereafter?

  Becky is depressing everyone with her constant crying and negative attitude.

  Velma, on the other hand, is making lots of new friends. How does she do it? Velma doesn’t make any trouble and trusts that the Powers That Be have her best interests in mind. She makes the most of her untimely death. After all, when the afterlife serves you lemons, make lemonade!

  Becky upsets everyone by asking too many questions. Why can’t she just respect authority? Maybe she’d have more friends if she smiled more!

  Look: Velma has been elected student decomposing body president! This girl is going straight to the top!

  Uh-oh. Looks like Becky has to clean the girls’ bathroom with her toothbrush for talking back to her den demon. The only place this girl is going is straight down. I hope she likes it hot!

  Be like Velma and passively accept your afterlife. Why make waves when you can make a splash!? So what’s the moral of this story? Don’t be like Becky!

  THE TRANSITION FROM THE REAL W
ORLD

  TO THE BEYOND IS A MAJOR CHANGE.

  HERE ARE SOME TIPS FOR A SMOOTH MOVE:

  • Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you can be lazy. Sure, you may be six feet underground, but that doesn’t mean you can’t hit the ground running!

  • Once you get settled you’ll start thinking about making new friends. Don’t expect them to be knocking on your crypt to meet you. Go out, mix it up, and start engaging with interesting spirits. Here are some conversation starters to get you going: “Hi! Who were you?” “Wow, you look great! Did you die in your sleep?” “Is it cold/hot here, or is it just me?”

  • As much as you’d like to stay in touch with old family and friends, it’s just not possible. They’re going on with their lives, and you’re not. That’s just how things go.

  GOT QUESTIONS?

  WELL, WE’VE GOT ANSWERS!

  Why do I have to keep going to school? Isn’t it bad enough that I’m dead?

  Wow, sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the coffin! Just because you cease to be doesn’t mean you cease to learn. To prepare you for your adult afterlife, you’ll be attending a variety of classes to help you become a well-rounded entity. Depending on your annual report cards, you could be going up, down, in between, maybe even reincarnated! Who knows? (Well, except the Galactic Order Department, that is!)

  What do I do if I’m not happy in the afterlife?

  Oh, boo-hoo. Looks like someone needs their diaper changed! If you are feeling homesick, get over it. Try joining a club or afterlife organization (like maybe the Whiny Kids Club). It’s a great way to meet and interact with others who share similar interests.

  This isn’t what I expected at all!

  Hey, that isn’t even a proper question! Some recently deceased have expectations about the hereafter before arriving. Some look forward to it and are eager to experience their last adventure. Others may feel it falls short of their expectations. These feelings are typical. Experience them. But don’t wallow. Remember when you were alive and everyone wondered what it was like on this side? Well, as a new resident, at least now you know the answer!