Free Undead and Done by MaryJanice Davidson Page B

here . . .” I tried to remember. Failed. There were a lot of people to keep track of. I figured I knew a hundred souls by name at this point. A hundred out of billions.
    â€œThirty-one years,” Cathie said. “On food court duty where she slings Orange Juliuses. Juliuses? That doesn’t sound right. Julius-ii?”
    â€œIt sure doesn’t, the poor dope,” the Ant murmured, because she thought Orange Juliuses tasted like ass, and a job serving them appropriately hellish.
    â€œI need a . . .” And poof! Except without any noise, and now I was holding my Helltablet TM , patent pending. I used to walk around with a magical clipboard, until I remembered it was the twenty-first century. So I converted my clipboard. Like everything here, it was a symbol to help me grasp the abstract. I mean, Hell didn’t really look like the Mall of America. And I wasn’t really holding a tablet. It was just the best way I could wrap my brain around the whole thing.
    My Helltablet TM held any info I needed on anyone here. It was also waterproof. And fireproof. Nobody could read it but me. And I never had to charge it. Or maybe I was constantly charging it—I might be its battery. It always worked, was my point. Plus it perpetuated the illusion that I knew what I was doing. That was always valuable.
    â€œOkay, yeah. We assigned what’s-her-face as her buddy.” Yes! One of the first things we’d implemented: the buddy system. No more did the damned have to suffer an afterlife filled with torture
and
not have any idea what was going on or where they were or where the bathrooms were or if you even needed bathrooms anymore. Now you had a buddy who would show you the ropes during your years of torment. “You know, the girl Lawrence the Vampire helped bring up.”
    â€œCindy—”
    â€œTinsman!” I shouted after sneaking a peek at my Helltablet TM . “The cheerleader turned vampire turned resident of Hell.” And her father was one of the reasons life up top was so chaotic right now. (Argh, it wasn’t “up top.” We weren’t below anything! Was I gonna have to put the MoA on top of a cloud so we all stopped referring to Hell as down below? And why did it bug me so much?)
    â€œOkay, so . . . why her?” When Marc and I both looked at the Ant, she put her hands out in a “whoa, hear me out” gesture. “Whoa, hear me out.” (See?) “I think your parole plan is incredibly innovative.”
    â€œOh.” Um. A compliment from the Ant. I had no idea what to do. Where to look. What to do with my hands. Everything: blank and frozen. Was she mentally preparing herself to lose the bet? Getting in practice? I didn’t think I could handle three of those a day from her. “Thanks.”
    â€œInsane, and bound to cause problems, but it’s a new idea, and in Hell, that’s rare.” Whew! Now we were back on familiarpassive-aggressive territory. “I mean . . . this place has always been in the business of punishing people and keeping them. You’re talking about doing the opposite—no punishment, and letting some of them go. So why Jennifer Palmer? Because if I know why you picked her, we’ll—your committee—we’ll have a better chance of recommending people you think should get out. Time-saver, get it?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œSo why this one?”
    Because we had to start somewhere. And she was one of the first people I got to know here. Her story made me feel bad, which, in
this
place? Was a good trick.
    *   *   *
    â€œIf you didn’t have to be here, where would you go?” *
    â€œI . . . I don’t know.”
    â€œWell, think about it.” I sucked up Julius and waited. I was as patient as a mannequin: unmoving, blank faced, and dressed in trendy clothes. Finally . . .
    â€œI guess I’d go