Free Awake in Hell by Helen Downing Page B

think I’m going to need my
whole brain to concentrate on this particular task. I look around the cab and
find an old manual. Bunches of pages are missing, and I assume they are very
important pages (because why else would they be missing?) I do find
instructions on how to start the damn thing. Get this, there’s a key, and a
button, and a gear shift in the floor that all have to be put or pushed or
turned the right way in the correct order just to start the motor! Who comes up
with this? After six or seven tries I finally get it started and running. Now I
have to actually get it moving. The pedal that I assume is the “go” pedal,
since it’s on the far right, is surprisingly touchy. The second my toes just
brush up against it I’m jerking forward. Maybe it drives just like a car, only
bigger. That thought, along with the accelerator propels me forward until I get
out of the garage and it’s time to turn onto the street. This giant mountain of
a truck turned against me and started to work in opposition. ‘Okay,’ I think to
myself, ‘So it’s going to be a fight!’ I use all of my strength to keep the
wheels turning in the right direction. The maps on the dash slide off and onto
the floor, but if I know Hell like I think I do, they are probably useless
anyway, so I just start looking for cans on the street. When I see one up ahead
I start to brake.
    Note
to self: braking in a big ass truck is totally different than braking in a
compact car. DUH.
    I
hit the brake and it’s like the pedal is not attached to an actual mechanism
that goes to the wheels and forces them to stop. It’s more like the brake pedal
is the nerd who got invited, accidentally, to a big wheel frat party and finds
itself whispering a suggestion to one of the wheels, who turns and glares at
the brake like he’s the biggest moron at the party, but then eventually sees
the error of his ways and  reconsiders. However, in a feeble attempt to
preserve what little pride the wheel has left, it doesn’t just stop
immediately, it has to do it at its own pace. So that later, when it gets
ribbed by the other wheels it can say it was its own decision to stop, and had
virtually nothing to do with anything the brake said to it at any time.
    Yes,
for you wondering, I had time to come up with that ridiculous metaphor while
waiting for the fucking truck to come to halt.
    Just
as I come to a stop, my heart follows the truck and freezes like ice when I
suddenly see a small blonde head running in front of the garbage truck. I burst
out of the cab and start to walk around the truck so that I can see the
apparent child. Even though I know that death has already happened to everyone
here, I realize that I’m not quite breathing right now. I assume there are two
reasons.
    One,
you don’t get to see many kids down here. There are kids, but they weren’t
children in life. Well, they started out as children, as we all did, but some
folks are not given the option to come here as they were when they passed. Some
people are even just too bad for Hell even. They would get down here and just
see a reflection of the world they left behind. They would see it as a
playground. So, when they emerge from the dark they find themselves literally
playground material. Toddlers. Children in Hell represent the worst of
humanity, and they are downright scary! These are not cute little babes with
big eyes that fill with wonder over a simple balloon. These are small children
who are weakened by their size and their age, whose faculties have been
lessened, deem they should start plotting. Their eyes are filled with contempt.
They remember who they were, and they remember why they’re here. And I can
guarantee to anyone who’s ever sat with friends and complained that their kids
are brats, ungrateful, or don’t listen... there is nothing more terrifying than
a Hell-child. They are kept primarily out of the general population. Very
rarely, we will see one on the street and tend to