Free Rapacia: The Second Circle of Heck by Dale E. Basye Page B

cigar back between her thin, creased lips and plod toward the Angel Food Court.
    Thirty minutes to fill up my pockets with out-of-fashion markdowns
, Marlo thought. But she had to get—and get a lot—while the getting was good.

10 · LOOK WHO’S STALKiNG
    MILTON AWOKE ON an olive-drab army cot in Lester Lobe’s office. Crowded with stacks of old newspapers, the room looked more like a nest built by some obsessive-compulsive bird than an office.
    “Welcome back, earthling,” Lester joked while rolling a cigarette.
    Milton’s mouth was as dry as a ball of cotton in a bottle of aspirin. “Water,” he rasped.
    Lester put down his cigarette and handed Milton a dented canteen. “This should wet your whistle,” he said.
    Milton gulped down the liquid and, despite his thirst, nearly spit it out across the room. “Ugh,” he gurgled. “What is this junk?”
    Lester smiled a mouthful of brown teeth. “It’s my own special blend,” he explained. “You can’t trust thewater. The government puts all sorts of stuff in it to keep the public passive and easily controlled. So I make my own Turbo Juice. It’s a power drink, with Kombucha mushroom tea, blue-green alga, and NoDoz pills, all mixed up. Keeps me on my toes … and in the head a lot,” he added, gesturing to the toilet in the corner.
    Out of his head, more like
, thought Milton as he tried to wipe the terrible taste off his tongue. He desperately wanted to tell Lester Lobe all about his descent to Heck. He knew that, unlike all the other people he had encountered upon his return, Lester wouldn’t just gaze at him with that pitying blank stare after hearing his tale. And that was part of the problem. For as much as Milton needed to talk to someone about his ordeal before it faded into a half-remembered dream, he was worried that Heck would become just another crackpot myth in Lester’s mad museum. Sandwiched between the miniature crop-circle garden and the fossilized Bigfoot droppings, Heck would become a big joke—and Milton a candidate for a padded cell.
    He looked up at the IF YOU AREN’T PARANOID, YOU AREN’T PAYING ATTENTION clock above Lester’s door-on-cinder-blocks desk.
    “Five o’clock?!” Milton yelped, getting up a bit too fast. He sat back down on the side of the cot, waiting for the wooziness to pass. This was getting ridiculous, he thought. At first it was just dizzy spells. But blackouts? He must be getting more and more out of phase.
    If he didn’t pull himself together soon, his next phase might be his last. He had to do something quick.
    “What’s the rush?” Lester asked.
    Milton staggered to his feet. “I’ve got to get back home. My parents think I’m at my therapist’s.”
    “Well,” Lester replied, “maybe you are.”
    He handed Milton a piece of binder paper with sloppy scribbles and doodles all over it. Milton squinted down at it through his Coke-bottle glasses.
    “What’s this?”
    “It’s a shopping list and some notes I had about how you might get that energy boost you’ve been looking for,” he replied with a lopsided grin.
    Milton studied the list more closely. Jumper cables, meat thermometer, power drill … it was like supplies for one of his old science-fair experiments.
Science fairs
, Milton reflected. So much had happened since those carefree days where the most important thing in the world to him was a blue ribbon and a good grade. The stakes were so much higher now.
    “Thanks,” Milton said as he thrust the list into his pocket and made his way back through the Paranor Mall. He hesitated at the Elvis Abduction Chamber. There was something strangely compelling about the dark booth. Milton picked at a peeling, yellowing picture of Lisa Marie Presley, Michael Jackson, and a chimpanzee dressed as a cowboy lacquered to the booth’s side.
    “I’m not surprised you’re drawn to the Psychomanthium,” Lester Lobe said as he followed Milton into the museum.
    “Why?” Milton said defensively.