Rapacia: The Second Circle of Heck (3 page)

Marlo laughed. Nothing like a fellow misfit to make you feel like you fit in.

Takara squinted at the Picasso. “Why does the boy with the lobster sit on the table without pants?”

Marlo sidled up beside Takara to scrutinize the strange, disappearing painting.

“One of life’s great mysteries,” Marlo mused.

The “boy” or whatever, had a face like a Mr. Mashed Potato Head. Maybe everyone back in Picasso’s time just felt sorry for him and acted like his paintings were really good so he wouldn’t cut off his ear like Van Gogh.

“Hurry!” one of the demons shouted back at them, herding the rest of the group ahead.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your spats on,” Marlo grumbled, rubbing her sore pitchsporked bottom.

“Me too,” Norm said, noticing Marlo’s pain in the butt. “Those stagecoach drivers are a bunch of prod-happy poets, apparently.”

“Mine was a pretty bird,” Takara chirped. “Said his name was Keats. I thought he meant parakeet, and he got really mad.”

“I got tenderized by Lord Byron,” Marlo added.

“Keats hates Byron!” Takara said with wide eyes. “He squawked about how he was a meatheaded melancholic!”

Marlo shuddered. “He’s more than just
meatheaded
now,” she said.

“Mine was a homely lady named George,” Norm offered.

Marlo shook her head as she turned to walk away.
“A
regular dead poets society,” she said before taking one last look at the painting.

There was something about the boy’s overly trusting eyes. And the dorky hair, like his mother had spit on a comb and scraped it straight for a family portrait. The boy reminded her of Milton—her brother, whom she had tricked into shoplifting, sending him straight to Heck after the marshmallow bear blew up. He had managed to escape, but to who knows where? All she knew for certain was that she missed him, dorky hair and all.

Takara stared at the painting as it finally vanished into thin air.

“Lobster boy is gone,” she said in her sweet, doll-like voice. “Like he was never here in the first place.”

Marlo sniffed back a tear as her eyes bored through the green wall to a place lifetimes away.

“Yeah,” she said weakly. “Like he was never here at all.”

3 · BUTTER OFF DEAD

“DAMIAN’S ALIVE?!”
cried Milton Fauster, a haunted, bedraggled boy who had seen more than his eleven years could comfortably contain. Milton stood by the flagpole of Generica Middle School as Hans Jovonovic fidgeted, staring down at his way-too-white Keds.

“Well, in a coma, anyway,” Milton’s once-close friend replied in the same distant, nervous manner that everyone had adopted since Milton’s return from the dead. “Maybe he’ll come back to life like … like you did.”

“Hopefully not, though,” interjected Humberto Stiles, a tall, pimply beanpole in a
NEXT STOP: M.I.T.
sweatshirt. “Considering what a colossal, menacing jerk he was … is …
whatever
.”

“We’re glad
you
came back, though,” Hans added with haste. “Of course.”

Hans shot Humberto a furtive glance before staring glumly at the flagpole, now at half-mast to commemorate the death of Milton’s sister, Marlo.

Hans, Milton, and Humberto were the founders of the Generica Middle School Model Chessetry Club, a club that had held woefully underattended matches using model rockets shaped like chess pieces. Before that, they had been the Middle Earthlings, Warp Factor Three, and even Monty Cylon’s Flying Circuits (which had won
Modern Outcast
magazine’s Geekiest School Club Name of the Year award). But despite all they had been through together, it was obvious that Milton was now a third wheel, and they were all far too old for tricycles.

Strangely, though, Milton didn’t feel all that bad about how awkward things had gotten between him and his friends. Since his “death,” what had once seemed so interesting to him now joined the ranks of Hot Wheels and Lincoln Logs in the landfill of his heart.

Even Milton wasn’t completely sure if what had happened had
really
happened. Had he actually died and gone down to Heck—where the souls of the darned toil for all eternity or until they turn eighteen, whichever comes first—or had it all been nothing but a near-death delusion?

His faithful ferret, Lucky, had thrown up bits of what Milton believed to be the contract for his
everlasting soul. But considering the things that his voracious pet ate on a daily basis, he couldn’t be 100 percent sure. For all Milton knew, his “contract” could have merely been the result of a day’s newspaper nibbling.

So that left Damian: Milton’s brutish earthly nemesis turned slick, savvy and exponentially more dangerous after having descended to the Netherworld. Although in a coma, he was still—at least legally—
alive!
Damian was Milton’s only connection between this world and the next. And maybe, if Heck was real, there was some way Milton could use Damian to make contact with Marlo.

“Where is he?” Milton asked. Hans and Humberto stared mutely at Milton, as they had been doing for the past minute while Milton had been engaged in a private wrestling match with his own thoughts.

“Who?” Humberto asked with fearful caution, as if talking to an armed gunman or a cheerleader.

“Damian!”
Milton shot back.

“Why is it so important for you to see him?” Hans asked.

Returning to the land of the living moments after his own death, Milton had somehow arrived before Damian’s departure. It was as if he had stepped off a metaphysical merry-go-round at the very point he had boarded. The only explanation that made any sense to
Milton was that—having been sentenced to Limbo where time didn’t pass—he had escaped back to the Stage, or Earth,
whatever
, as if nothing had ever happened.

“I just need some …
closure,”
Milton lied. “Because”—he stared up at the blue Kansas state flag fluttering halfway up the pole—“because of Marlo.”

Hans sighed. He had harbored a secret crush on Marlo since fourth grade. Marlo, like most every girl in his life, had made fun of Hans because of his woolly orange hair. But Marlo had always taken the time to come up with unique ways of insulting him, like when she pretended she could talk to God through his flaming bush of red curls. It was those thoughtful little touches that he had found so endearing.

“He’s at Generica General,” Hans replied sadly.

Milton turned to leave.

“But they won’t let you in,” Hans continued. “Not unless you’re part of his awful, messed-up family, that is.”

Milton froze. Although he had spent much of his life ducking down hallways and hiding behind drinking fountains to avoid the sadistic scrutiny of Damian, Milton had to see him now more than anything.

“Do you guys want to come and help me?” Milton asked, turning back toward his once-friends. “You know … to pay your
lack of
respects?” Even though
Milton felt he was on a solitary mission, he could use some company.

Hans and Humberto glanced at each other uneasily for guidance.

“Um, we’ve got a …
social obligation,”
Hans said with a stunning lack of conviction.

Milton glared at the less-than-dynamic duo.

“Fine,” he sighed bitterly. “Then consider this my official resignation from the Model Chessetry Club.”

He walked away.

“Social obligation my once-dead butt,” Milton, the outcast of the outcasts, grumbled with disgust as he crossed Rubicon Street toward the hospital, on a mission he didn’t fully understand. Whether Milton had truly been reborn or had simply lost his marbles while hovering at death’s door, one thing was for sure: he was irrevocably changed, and nothing would ever be the same again.

Generica General Hospital resembled a huge concrete Rubik’s cube too boring to solve. A pair of chuckling security guards strode into the hospital through its automatic sliding-door entrance.

Milton, some twenty feet away, froze in his tracks. He needed to find some way to get inside the hospital, some way to slide past security, like a pig greased in …

Butter
.

Something caught Milton’s eye in the visitors parking lot. A large stick of butter with wheels was double-parked beside two Land Ravagers and a Ford Cilantro. Painted on the side of the automotive depiction of fatty, churned cream was the following:
GOT A FRIEND WHO’S SICK? GIVE ’EM A STICK! THE SYMPATHY EXPRESS GET BUTTER MOBILE
.

The driver was chatting with a bored teenage girl working a coffee cart outside the hospital.

Opportunity is where you find it
, thought Milton as he crept behind the Butter Mobile,
sometimes even in a big stick of butter
.

He stealthily opened the side door, and there, on the seat, was just what he’d suspected: a fiberglass butter costume with a matching cream-yellow leotard.

Milton peered nervously over the stubby hood of the vehicle. There was no way he’d be able to make it across the parking lot dressed as a stick of butter without the driver noticing.

He looked down the driveway leading to the hospital’s back entrance. At the end of the slope was an empty delivery area. Milton snatched the costume and a sympathy balloon, sucked in a deep breath, and wrapped his sweaty palm around the vehicle’s parking brake.

Maybe I’m not such a goody-goody after all
, Milton
reflected, releasing the brake and backing away from the Sympathy Express vehicle as it crept backward down the incline.

He stole toward a patch of nearby hydrangea bushes for cover. The Butter Mobile slowly gained momentum as it rolled down to the delivery entrance.

“My Butter Mobile!” the driver yelped. He dropped his coffee and ran down the parking lot.

Just then, a bread delivery truck entered the rear parking lot.

“Look out!” the Sympathy Express driver shrieked as his wobbling vehicle slammed into the approaching Your Daily Bread van.

The fiberglass butter pierced the van’s side with a horrid, grating squeal. The driver leapt out of the van just as it burst into flames.

“Are you okay?” gasped the Sympathy Express driver as he grabbed the frazzled bread driver by the shoulders and pulled him away from the wreckage.

“I … I think so …,” the man huffed. “Do you think my van will be okay?”

Flames licked the side of the van. Painted depictions of freshly baked loaves bubbled and dripped down the vehicle’s side in molten clumps.

“I think it’s toast,” the Sympathy Express driver sympathized.

The great cube of charred, fiberglass butter melted, ultimately collapsing upon itself.

“Is that real?” the Your Daily Bread driver asked, wiping oily soot away from his eyes.

“The butter?” the Sympathy Express driver replied. “No … it’s fiberglass.”

“Wow. I can’t
believe
that’s not butter,” the man replied in awe.

Meanwhile, Milton climbed into the costume, which was several pats too large for him. Taking advantage of the diversion, he trotted into the hospital. He pulled up the saggy yellow fabric bunching down around his knees and approached the reception desk.

“H-hello,” Milton managed from inside the costume.

The middle-aged nurse smirked. “You’re not the usual guy. What are you, some kind of butter substitute?”

“Um … y-yes,” Milton stammered. “He … he’s having a vehicle malfunction. I’m kind of his apprentice.”

“Oh,” she replied absentmindedly while systematically checking off a stack of forms on her desk. “That’s cute … and a little sad.”

“I’m here to see Damian Ruffino.”

“Hmm,” the nurse murmured while scanning a stack of admissions records. “He’s in
ICU
, so you
can’t see him.”
She looked up over the horn-rimmed glasses teetering on the tip of her long nose and eyed the bobbing get
BUTTER SOON
balloon.

“Aren’t you supposed to have a gift or something? I mean, the balloon on its own is just kind of … well,
pathetic
. Even to a kid in a coma.”

Milton gulped and, after a moment’s hesitation, set the backpack he had been clutching in his left hand onto the counter. He rummaged through it, stopping with surprise, pulling out a small, gift-wrapped package.

“Uh, yes, here it is,” he said, “ready for poor little …
Damián.”

The nurse glanced uneasily from side to side.

“Okay, I shouldn’t really do this. But go on up. Just be quick … and take the stairs, to be on the safe side.”

Milton shuffled off. “Thanks,” he said with a wave just as the nurse’s phone rang.

“Hello, Generica General. What? In the parking lot?”

Milton rushed into the “Staff Only” stairwell. He was panting so hard he sounded like Darth Vader having an asthma attack. The suffocating costume smelled like that Udderly Unbelievably Nothing to Do with Dairy! spread that his mom bought to save money after the family had been hit with a larger-than-expected bill for Marlo’s funeral. Mom and Dad had gone all out, going for the Deluxe Simu-Marble Cryptoleum, even springing for the Gothic lettering and Take-It-for-Granite trim. Marlo would have loved it.
Mario …

Milton’s legs wobbled, and his head started to spin and lurch like a dryer with sneakers in it.

“Oh no,” he murmured as he leaned against the wall, holding the rail with trembling hands. “Not another spell.”

The stairs, the
NO SMOKING
sign, the metal handrail, the buzzing fluorescent light, they all seemed to reel in wavering arcs across his field of vision. It felt like full-body vertigo, like every part of his body wanted to puke but couldn’t.

Milton had some dream or memory—he wasn’t quite sure—that when he had died, he’d lost his sentient body, the energy “glue” that held him together, to something called the Transdimensional Power Grid. And ever since his return to the living, he had been experiencing these weird, sudden “skips” in himself at odd moments, usually when he was stressed out about something, which was practically all the time. From the murk of either memory or madness, he could hear a dead pirate talking about physical and etheric bodies, shifting out of phase…

Finally, the nauseating carnival ride slowed to a stop, and Milton’s reality—if you could call it that—settled into place. He gulped, drew in a deep, stale buttery breath, and stared at the present in his hand, the one that had, inexplicably, been in his backpack. It was so light it was no wonder he hadn’t noticed it in his bag.
It was wrapped in shiny silver paper that warped his reflection. There was a small rocket ship-shaped tag that read simply:
To Milton, From Mom
.

She must have put it in my backpack before school
, thought Milton.
She’s been so strange, ever since …

Milton heard voices from above. He had to hurry before someone kicked his butter back out into the street. He passed by two nurses as he entered the children’s ward on the fourth floor.

“You know they say that wearing a butter costume is actually better for you than wearing a margarine costume,” deadpanned the curly-haired nurse to her friend.

Milton walked down the hall, touching the smooth, cool wall with his fingertips to steady himself. He poked his head into a room. Through the eye slits in his costume, Milton could see a dark lump surrounded by blinking boxes. A symphony of dull beeps, staccato chirps, and labored wheezes swarmed about this claustrophobic, pine-scented tomb. In the middle of it all, conducting this high-tech orchestra, was Damian.