Brigit's Flame, week 3, June
Title: Hell to Pay
Author: Keppiehed
Rating: R
Warnings: language, adult subject matter
Word Count: 4770 (sorry!)
Prompt: "For where we are is hell." This is a quote by Mephistopheles from Marlowe's play, “Faustus”.
A/N: Thank this week goes out to hbar for her patience in betaing this beast for me! And to anyone who reads all the way through to the end.
Seraphine pulled on the red vest of the Gateway attendant and clipped her nametag to the lapel. She could feel a nip in the air already. Damn. For some reason, they were always busier in the winter months. She didn't know why.
Seraphine wound through the lanes of traffic clogging the runway and pulled open the door to her booth.
“Hey, girl.” Angie was there, which was good. She wasn't too hard to work with. Not like some.
“Hey.” She nodded back and settled into her chair. You'd think they could get something better than these miserable, stiff-backed swivel-chairs to sit in when they had such long hours on the Gateway, but management was cheap as a two-dollar whore. “Busy tonight?”
Angie laughed. “You know it, girl. Every night. I got a line a mile long, seems like. I'll sure be glad when my shift is done. My bucket's half-full, and it ain't even midnight.”
Seraphine glanced down and saw that she was right. Memories glistened with the unmistakable blueish sheen that denoted their emotion. She sighed and picked up her roster. It was full. “Man, what's going on these days? Was it always like this? I can't remember anymore, but it sure doesn't seem like it to me.”
“Yeah. But you know how it is near the holidays.” Angie shrugged. “It's always worse, all these suicides and their drama. You gettin' down about it? Wanna get a drink later?”
“No, no. I don't get off 'til the morning shift starts.” Seraphine clicked her pen and pulled the memlicutor on over her forehead. “I'm fine. I'm just tired of this stupid job, that's all.”
“Aw, it's not too bad. Could be worse. You could always be in Spirit Removal or something. At least in this division you get to sit down,” Angie pointed out.
“Yeah.” Seraphine sighed. There was a tap on her window, and she grimaced. Death waited for no man. She couldn't even finish a Goddamned conversation before they piled up on her. “I'll catch you at break, okay?”
Angie nodded and turned back to her own line.
Seraphine schooled her features into something resembling professionalism and slid the window open. “Passcard?”
“Huh?” The woman who'd just been tapping on the glass for attention a second ago was now mesmerized by the mercury-vapor light overhead. Seraphine gritted her teeth against the rise of irritation that swelled in her gut. It wasn't this lady's fault; everyone was disoriented after their death. “Your passcard,” she tried again patiently. “It's in your hand.”
“Oh.” The woman looked down at her own arm, her gaze tracing the appendage down, as if it didn't belong to her. If she was surprised to be holding a mint-green square of paper in her fingers, she didn't show it. She held it up, like a puppet on a string.
Seraphine examined it. “Rochelle Harper?”
The woman blinked, as if she were waking from a dream.
“It says here that you were in a boating accident. Is that true?” Seraphine stared at the card. “Well, you don't see that every day. Damn, leave it to me to get a Traumatic before coffee.”
Angie turned and frowned at Seraphine's tone.
Seraphine smoothed her face into a reassuring smile. “Uh, I mean, I'm so sorry for your accident, Rochelle. That must have been difficult. I am here to retrieve your last memory, so that you may go on to your next destination free from the pain of your passing.”
“Oh, where am I going? Heaven?” Rochelle perked up. “My mom is there ...”
Seraphine peered at the passcard. “It says here that you are taking the Stairway.” She looked up, impressed. Not many people rated the Stairway. “Okay, so just extend your left hand for the scan, please. Then you may proceed to your destination.”
Rochelle looked nervous. “Is this going to hurt?”
“No.” Seraphine couldn't help being annoyed. As if this could possibly hurt worse than a swing boom to the face. They all asked the same thing, and over the years she seemed to have lost her compassion. She hadn't started out like that, but her nerves had frayed, and she was desperate to inhale. Seraphine jiggled her leg and tried to calm down. “Just please extend your left hand and look into the memlicutor located on my head.”
“The wha-”
Seraphine had already settled the diode against her wrist and clicked the image away before Rochelle could even finish her question. The death memory was the last one people had, and it skimmed right off the top and drained into the bucket. Rochelle's glowed blue, which was fairly normal for fear.
“And one more,” Seraphine said under her breath, so quietly that Angie couldn't hear. She shielded her activity from her co-worker with the width of her body and moved the end of the siphon not into the bucket, but under her nose. It was the work of only a second to click the button again and slip a second memory from the unwary woman.
This one was rose-hued, and Seraphine inhaled it with guilty fervor; Rochelle wouldn't need this one where she was going.
The memories were unclear in the transfer. Seraphine never knew exactly what they were about, but it didn't stop her from savoring every last drag. This one smelt of freedom and hope. Something salty? Seraphine guessed that Rochelle had been sailing, based on her method of dying. It tasted like wind in her hair and sun on her face. She felt invincible, like nothing would ever touch her. She was flying. She was young and free …
“Can I go now?”
The question jarred Seraphine out of her memory-induced state. She let the hose fall back in the bucket. She shouldn't get caught stealing memories. It couldn't happen. It clearly stated in the Handbook that the stealing of memories was strictly forbidden. She didn't know how she'd let herself get to this point, but she knew was that she needed them, no matter the risk.
What had started out as an occasional pick-me-up had turned into a habit that she was unable to break. She thought about it all the time, how her days were meaningless. She was already shaking and waiting for a hit of the sweet freshness of someone else's life before she started her shift. She had nothing in her own time to distract her from that craving. It had been a black hole of bleakness for so long she couldn't even remember her own passing. Had it been years or decades? Seraphine couldn't remember - and didn't want to. She wanted to let her nerves settle into the happiness of Rochelle's last perfect day instead of just marking time in her own. She allowed the waves of peace to wash over her, and this time when she smiled at the waiting woman, she almost meant it.
“Here you go, hon. Take the road with the sign that says 'Stairway to Heaven'. It's in the middle, right there. You can't miss it.” Seraphine gestured past the lanes of foot traffic to one of the center aisles with a sparkling, ascending staircase.
“Thank you,” Rochelle replied.
“Don't forget your passcard. You'll need it at the Pearly Gates. Trust me on that.” Seraphine stamped it and passed it through the window, the tingly feeling of serenity still remaining. “Next!”
A short, balding man approached the counter. Seraphine could tell just by looking that he would be headed to a different place altogether. A quick glance at his card only confirmed it. “Yes, Mr. … Werner. Cyrus? I see you have a reservation booked on the Handcart to Hell.” She held up an open palm to preempt the question that inevitably came with that assignation. “Before you ask, it's like a wheelbarrow. Take the road, clearly labeled, and wait for it. I wouldn't be late if I were you. He doesn't appreciate tardiness, and you're in enough trouble already.” Seraphine dispatched of his last memory, stamped his card and called for her next client.
“Excuse me, Miss?” An elderly woman stepped up to the window and waved her card around. “I seem to have lost my dog! Have you seen Fluffy?”
Seraphine snatched the passcard from the woman's hand and checked her in. “Adaline McDaniels? Your dog is fine. He's still alive. Now, please look into this memlicutor-”
“Alive? What do you mean?” Adaline wailed.
Seraphine sighed. This happened occasionally, especially with the elderly. The didn't even realize they had passed. In that case, she didn't need to take their last memory, as it wasn't a source of distress. Seraphine picked up the phone on her desk. “Frank? I've got a Four-Four-Two. Yes, another one. I know, what're you going to do? Um ...” she glanced at the card, “It looks like the Highway. Yes, to Heaven. Come on! She's a sweet old lady. Thanks, I'll send her right over.” Serpahine replaced the phone in its cradle.
“Adaline? I'm going to send you over to Frank in Recall. He's going to fix you right up. Here, don't forget your card; you'll need this later. You're assigned to the Highway. Make sure you read the signs and don't take the one to Hell or the Danger Zone; those can be confusing. The one you want is the high road, and we provide you with a complimentary Staff of Industry to help you on your way.” Seraphine grabbed a wooden rod from the stack in the corner and swung it through the opening. “There you go, head right over. You'll be fine!”
The glow from the first hit of memory wore off as Seraphine worked through her shift. She dispatched clients to a variety of stations as they streamed through the Gateway: there were several visitors that had to cool their heels in Purgatory, a few had to take the Helltrain, several were reassigned to the Reincarnation Station, one got turned back through the Tunnel of Light as a false alarm (someone was always trying to second-guess their time and die before they had an official passcard) and a couple took the Carriage to Hell (a remnant from the olden days that admins were trying to phase out; the team of four cost a mint to feed).
As her bucket got closer to filling, the edge of Seraphine's temper thinned and grew sharper. It worried her a little, because when she first started skimming memories, it had held her for a week or more, depending on the strength of the remembrance. Then it would only last her a day or two. But never had she needed a breath more than once a night. Her shaking hands didn't lie, though. Seraphine tried to swallow, but her mouth had run dry. She could almost taste the aroma of love in her lungs, feel the arousal of passion in her throat. She never knew what the emotion would be; it was a gamble every time one siphoned from their heart and veins. It was so close, and hers for the taking from any one of the people in front of her. They'd never miss just one of their moments. Seraphine slid her window open and took the passcard from her last client of the night. This would get her through until tomorrow.
The door to the booth swung open, making both women jump. “Hey! You're not allowed in … here ...” The protest died on Angie's lips when she saw who had barged in.
“Seraphine du Lac?”
Seraphine flinched at the sound of her own name. No one wanted to get a visit from him. Although she shouldn't have anything to fear now, he only showed up when things got dicey. She didn't think she could voice her assent, but then, she didn't need to. He already knew her identity. Damn! Her mind started spinning, trying to think of a way to deny whatever he was about to charge her with.
“Come. With me.” He turned and walked out.
Seraphine tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. She stood on shaking legs. She couldn't keep him waiting.
“Do you know why I'm here?” he asked, caressing her cheek with his bony finger.
Seraphine shook her head. “I'm dead already. I don't understand, Grim.”
He continued to trace the outline of her face, the whisper of his touch ghosting over her lips and across her jawline, his fleshless appendage gentler than she might've guessed. “Where do you think you are, exactly?”
Seraphine shrugged. “The Gateway, of course.”
The Grim Reaper cocked his head. He'd given up the outdated robe long ago in exchange for a pinstriped suit - though that didn't detract from his creepiness in the least. “And you never thought about what you were doing here in all this time?”
“Uh, I've been doing my job.” Seraphine tried not to sneer. Grim didn't seem like the type to take shit from anyone.
“Yes, that's right. But haven't you asked yourself why?” Grim let his skeletal hand fall away. “Everyone else goes through the Gateway, don't they? They have a destination. So where is yours, Seraphine?”
Seraphine crossed her arms and tried not to let his words ruffle her. The fact was, she had wondered that herself. She and Angie and the others had talked about it a few times. They had theories, but no one knew for sure. “I'm special,” she said, her tone sounding defensive even to her own ears.
“Yes,” Grim purred. “Aren't we all?”
Seraphine shivered.
“The truth is, you came here so long ago on the knife's edge. You were given a chance to earn your fate, and I have your wage here in my pocket. Before I bestow it, let me tell you something.” Grim leaned leaned in, as if he had a secret.
“What?” Seraphine bluffed. “You don't scare me. I'm already dead.” She hoped he couldn't see her tremble.
“You think we don't know? You think we don't see?” Grim waved his hand at the endless hordes waiting at the Gateway “That one murdered his wife for her insurance policy and got away with it. Well, in his life he did. That one gave to charity anonymously. That one was a Republican. That one was just plain nasty.” Grim shuddered. “We see all. You have taken something precious, and the mark eats on your own soul. You cannot feel happy because you have misappropriated that emotion from others. You cannot feel joy, or love … your soul has gone putrid and has rotted within you. You are a zombie of your own making. And as such, I have your card, Seraphine. Here is your assignation.” He held a green square between his cold fingers.
Seraphine shook her head. “But I'm not ready now! I need more time! I can change, I can ...”
“You have no time.” Grim held out a hand. “I am here to take you to your road. Have courage, and read it for yourself.”
Seraphine looked down, and through her tears she could make out the words: Seraphine du Lac, The Handbasket to Hell.
Shit! She didn't even rate the Handcart? She must have really pissed off whoever handed out the modes of transport. She looked over three lanes of traffic and thought about how cramped it would be in the Handbasket. She was allergic to wicker, so if she didn't get a seat in the macramé one she'd really be screwed.
“Take my hand,” Grim said. “I will help you there.”
“Uh, Grim, do you think they have coffee in Hell?” Seraphine imagined she could take just about anything Satan could dish out, but if she didn't have a good cup of joe, that would be her undoing.
“What?” Grim sounded startled. “Of course. Satan quite enjoys his java. He's got a whole coffee bar down there - rather impressive! I don't believe that it available for malefactor consumption, however.”
“Malefactor?” Seraphine frowned.
“Well, sure. We try and have some respect for you. What, you thought we'd call you yardbirds or something? No, no. It's a new era of reform down there! Malefactors, that's what you are.”
“What the frig is a yardbird? Try to remember that not all of us get your arcane references. Times have changed, Grim. You think it's still the sixties?” Seraphine crossed her arms.
“Kids these days. I'd have thought you'd get it within the context of the conversation. It's the condemned. Just a humorous way of saying it, that's all. We took a poll, and malefactors reacted better to that word. The term 'yardbird' got the least votes, that's all I'm saying. It came in behind 'bondservant' and 'internee'. Just trying to do my part for Hell's morale.”
Grim sure was chatty once he'd served his summons, Seraphine thought sourly. Too bad she was going to put a wrench in his works. She had no intention of becoming a caffeine-free yardbird. There were rumors that some people had managed to evade Death by hiding away in Hell's ductwork for years. There might be a whole community of morally-unstable folks in the heating vents around the place, and maybe she could join them. She just had to get away from Grim, and she stood a good chance at freedom. Or at least an eternity of squirreling away in some antiquated sheet-metal ductwork system. Seraphine made a break for it, running across the lanes of traffic and knocking people down as she fled. She didn't care where she went, as long as she caused enough chaos to distract Grim and get on the path to Heaven.
Her flight was cut short as something tangled around her ankles. Damn! She'd forgotten Grim's bolas! He was deadly accurate with those things. Apparently he'd gotten bored with his scythe a few decades ago.
“I'd expected better from the likes of you, Seraphine,” he chided. “You know you can't escape your passcard.”
Seraphine lay on the ground, a chill of fear finally glazing her heart. “I don't have to make it easy for you.”
Grim sighed. “No, you don't. Come on, then. If you won't go of your own free will ...”
Panic rose in her breast. “Why? Does that make it worse? Is it easier if I go on my own?”
“Too late now.”
Seraphine couldn't even scream as the gag wound itself between her teeth. Ropes materialized, snaking around her limbs and trussing her up until she was bound more securely than any mummy in any of the museums she remembered from her youth. She didn't have so much as an inch of wiggle room as she was picked up and tossed in the handbasket.
Panic assaulted her as she felt the giant purse sway and begin its downward descent. In inhabitants, stacked like cordwood inside, jostled against each other as the handbasket traveled into the bowels of Hell. It wasn't a pleasant ride. Seraphine's stomach flipped as the handbasket lurched, and she began to sweat as the air grew warmer with each minute. Soon it was uncomfortably hot, surrounded as she was by fellow … malefactors … but Seraphine suspected that the temperature was the least of her worries.
The ride wasn't a long one, and it ground to a halt, upending them all in a heap. Seraphine's bonds were released, and she could see why almost immediately. They were on a rocky outcropping of stone, surrounded by lava. Seraphine lay still.
“Rise, children, and greet your new master.”
Seraphine recognized the voice, though she'd never heard it before. The tone made her shiver with something darker than fear. She could feel her own despair in his voice, her own desperation and despondency, and all other bad things starting with D. She turned. Yup. It was the devil, alright. Bastard.
Satan cocked his head as he apprised his new crew. “Well, aren't you a sorry lot? Time was, I would get a truly evil bunch. How I miss the Dark Ages. Have you folks ever even seen a good drawing and quartering?” Satan clucked his tongue, and Seraphine couldn't help rolling her eyes. She hoped Satan would speed up his little reminiscing through the good ol' days. “I thought not. What's the world coming to? I must content myself with white-collar criminals? Fine. You there. You can scrub the toilets. There's an endless line of them over there, next to the urinals. Make sure you get under the seats, as well. Here's your standard-issue tooth brush. And you. You get to sort socks. Yes, forever. And you lucky duck, you would be the perfect person to run on a treadmill. Don't argue with me; I can tell you've never seen a gym before. And who's left? Ah ...”
Seraphine realized he was looking at her. “I'll just help with those socks, shall I?”
“Not so fast.” Satan stroked his goatee. “I have just the place for you. You may have your old job back. It works out, because you are qualified. Good help is so hard to find. Especially in the underworld. Jesus takes all the good ones. What a prick.”
Seraphine blinked. “I don't get it. What's the catch?”
Satan narrowed his eyes. “I don't require that the yardbirds 'get it'. I only require that they 'do it.'”
“Hey, I thought you weren't supposed to call us yardbirds! Grim said-”
Satan grinned. “Grim says a lot of things. Too bad he's not in charge, is he? Who's the boss of Hell?”
Seraphine glared.
“Say it.”
“You are.”
“I can't hear you.”
“You are! You're the boss of Hell, okay?” Seraphine stuck her lip out.
Satan was behind her in a blink, his clawed hands around her throat. A terror Seraphine had never known before burst through her every pore, and her heart jackhammered. “That's right,” he whispered. “And don't you forget it.” He stepped away. “Now, let's see about your placement. Eternity at your old job. That sounds about right. Ready?”
“Eternity?” Seraphine cried, appalled. “But-”
Satan snapped his fingers, and a kiss of molten-hot air brushed her cheeks. Her sentence was about to begin.
*
A tap on the window distracted Seraphine from the daze of perpetual monotony that surrounded her these days. She slid open the glass, and a messenger handed her a plastic bag. “Takeout.”
“Who ordered Chinese again?” Seraphine demanded. “I thought we agreed that three times in a row was enough, guys!”
“Don't look at me!” Hitler said. “You know I hate rice! It was him!”
“What? Is it a crime to want to eat healthy?” Genghis Khan turned from his own window. “So I like eggrolls.”
Seraphine sighed. In her worst nightmares, she couldn't have envisioned having to spend her eternal damnation with the two worst men in history. “We had an agreement, Genghis. For the love of Pete, how many times can you eat General Tsao's in a week?” A bloodstream full of MSG - that was the worst punishment Satan could've bestowed.
“And eggrolls aren't healthy, you Mongol bastard. Everyone knows that,” Hitler pointed out.
“Oh, and I suppose you have a degree in nutrition now, eh, Hitler?” Genghis sneered. “And did you get that right after you went to the School For Being a Gigantic Asshole?”
“I prefer you to call me Fürher. That is my rightful title, and we cannot exist without a proper regime in order. Do not address me as anything less than the Chancellor of the Third Reich deserves. We've been over this before.” Hitler sniffed in disdain.
Genghis let loose with a stream of angry Turkic.
“That's right, yammer on in your backwards tribal language. I can't understand you, I can't understand you!” Hitler chanted, his German accent becoming more pronounced the more agitated he became. “What did I do to deserve being stuck working with a Mongol and a woman? I'm so much better than this. Don't you people know who I am?”
Seraphine rolled her eyes. “We haven't forgotten in the last thirty seconds, jerkface. Screw you, Adolf.”
“I do not appreciate being spoken to in such a manner, especially by a mere woman.”
“I don't have to take this.” But it became clear that, in fact, she did. It was the same thing, day in and day out. Hitler and Genghis Khan couldn't get along, and somehow they all were stuck eating the same bad takeout every day. It was like a nightmare she couldn't wake up from. Seraphine's fingers began to shake as the panic flowed through her system. She tried to slow her breathing. It would be okay. Even if she was shackled to the worst people ever, she still had her memories to take the edge off. She'd just spend eternity high. She'd been trying not to do that - she didn't want to piss off Satan, after all, who knew what else that maniac would do? - but extraordinary times called for extraordinary measures. She couldn't take this any more. Roasting over a fire was nothing compared to this torment. She had to have a hit of memory.
A headache started in her temples, a dull throbbing - possibly from MSG poisoning, in addition to her memory withdrawal - that threatened to drive her mad. Seraphine slammed open her window to shepherd her first person to their destination. “Hello? Is anyone there? Can I help you?” she called, trying to block out the sounds of Hitler's megalomania.
“Why yes, dear, I believe you can. The last thing I remember is being on safari. I was about to pet the loveliest lion … you know, people say that they are wild animals, but they really aren't. They are just as nice as can be, and so majestic. Um, can you tell me where I am? I seem to have taken a wrong turn. This doesn't look like Africa at all!”
Seraphine smiled in relief. “I can help you, ma'am. Just give me your hand.”
“Is this going to hurt?”
Seraphine didn't even feel her usual twinge of annoyance. She was so anxious to inhale that rose-hued memory, she didn't care what inane questions she had to endure. “Mm,” she smiled and clicked through the trauma of the woman's mauling. “And one more ...”
Uh-uh …
Seraphine jumped. She felt an invisible tether on her wrist, and when she looked down, she could see the ghostly shimmer of a cord wrapped around her arm. What was this? She was shackled? Someone was watching her? She looked around, but no one was there. Her thumb depressed the button again, trying for the elusive hit of memory.
We're still watching. Never again …
Seraphine's jaw slackened. She was to endure this torture, ad infinitum, without being able to dull her pain? The full meaning of eternity hit her with the force of a ton of bricks.
“Can I go now?” the woman outside the window asked.
Seraphine nodded, in a daze. “Take the Highway.”
“Thanks.”
“You didn't even offer her a Staff of Industry. Newbies,” Hitler groused.
“Shut up, Hitler!” Seraphine said. “You do things your way, and I'll do them mine. In fact, I think it's best if we didn't talk at all today, okay?” She couldn't comprehend trading barbs with Hitler into perpetuity. It had never sounded so long as it did right now.
“Fine,” Hitler huffed. “It wasn't like I was going to ask you out for schnitzel. You're not my type. I like blonder blondes, if you get my drift.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you right back.”
“Oooh, snap. That was a burn.” Genghis laughed, spraying rice all over his workspace. “Hey, are you going to use your extra plum sauce? Anyone?”
Seraphine stared into the lanes of traffic. It was going to be a long afterlife. Did Satan take time off for good behavior? She could always work up to toilet duty. Seraphine sighed as she contemplated the endless eons of her punishment looming before her without possibility of reprieve. The tragedy of her life was made manifest as soul after soul streamed through her booth, and she was left with a bleak existence to look forward to. The meaning of eternity had never been so clear as it was during punishment, when each minute was an hour, and time had no measure to begin with.
“I changed my mind. You want to go get some schnitzel with me when our shift is over? I can show you where I tattooed my swastika,” Hitler offered.
Seraphine let her head hit the desk. If she wasn't already dead, she'd kill herself. Somewhere, she heard Satan laughing, the prick.
Author: Keppiehed
Rating: R
Warnings: language, adult subject matter
Word Count: 4770 (sorry!)
Prompt: "For where we are is hell." This is a quote by Mephistopheles from Marlowe's play, “Faustus”.
A/N: Thank this week goes out to hbar for her patience in betaing this beast for me! And to anyone who reads all the way through to the end.
Seraphine pulled on the red vest of the Gateway attendant and clipped her nametag to the lapel. She could feel a nip in the air already. Damn. For some reason, they were always busier in the winter months. She didn't know why.
Seraphine wound through the lanes of traffic clogging the runway and pulled open the door to her booth.
“Hey, girl.” Angie was there, which was good. She wasn't too hard to work with. Not like some.
“Hey.” She nodded back and settled into her chair. You'd think they could get something better than these miserable, stiff-backed swivel-chairs to sit in when they had such long hours on the Gateway, but management was cheap as a two-dollar whore. “Busy tonight?”
Angie laughed. “You know it, girl. Every night. I got a line a mile long, seems like. I'll sure be glad when my shift is done. My bucket's half-full, and it ain't even midnight.”
Seraphine glanced down and saw that she was right. Memories glistened with the unmistakable blueish sheen that denoted their emotion. She sighed and picked up her roster. It was full. “Man, what's going on these days? Was it always like this? I can't remember anymore, but it sure doesn't seem like it to me.”
“Yeah. But you know how it is near the holidays.” Angie shrugged. “It's always worse, all these suicides and their drama. You gettin' down about it? Wanna get a drink later?”
“No, no. I don't get off 'til the morning shift starts.” Seraphine clicked her pen and pulled the memlicutor on over her forehead. “I'm fine. I'm just tired of this stupid job, that's all.”
“Aw, it's not too bad. Could be worse. You could always be in Spirit Removal or something. At least in this division you get to sit down,” Angie pointed out.
“Yeah.” Seraphine sighed. There was a tap on her window, and she grimaced. Death waited for no man. She couldn't even finish a Goddamned conversation before they piled up on her. “I'll catch you at break, okay?”
Angie nodded and turned back to her own line.
Seraphine schooled her features into something resembling professionalism and slid the window open. “Passcard?”
“Huh?” The woman who'd just been tapping on the glass for attention a second ago was now mesmerized by the mercury-vapor light overhead. Seraphine gritted her teeth against the rise of irritation that swelled in her gut. It wasn't this lady's fault; everyone was disoriented after their death. “Your passcard,” she tried again patiently. “It's in your hand.”
“Oh.” The woman looked down at her own arm, her gaze tracing the appendage down, as if it didn't belong to her. If she was surprised to be holding a mint-green square of paper in her fingers, she didn't show it. She held it up, like a puppet on a string.
Seraphine examined it. “Rochelle Harper?”
The woman blinked, as if she were waking from a dream.
“It says here that you were in a boating accident. Is that true?” Seraphine stared at the card. “Well, you don't see that every day. Damn, leave it to me to get a Traumatic before coffee.”
Angie turned and frowned at Seraphine's tone.
Seraphine smoothed her face into a reassuring smile. “Uh, I mean, I'm so sorry for your accident, Rochelle. That must have been difficult. I am here to retrieve your last memory, so that you may go on to your next destination free from the pain of your passing.”
“Oh, where am I going? Heaven?” Rochelle perked up. “My mom is there ...”
Seraphine peered at the passcard. “It says here that you are taking the Stairway.” She looked up, impressed. Not many people rated the Stairway. “Okay, so just extend your left hand for the scan, please. Then you may proceed to your destination.”
Rochelle looked nervous. “Is this going to hurt?”
“No.” Seraphine couldn't help being annoyed. As if this could possibly hurt worse than a swing boom to the face. They all asked the same thing, and over the years she seemed to have lost her compassion. She hadn't started out like that, but her nerves had frayed, and she was desperate to inhale. Seraphine jiggled her leg and tried to calm down. “Just please extend your left hand and look into the memlicutor located on my head.”
“The wha-”
Seraphine had already settled the diode against her wrist and clicked the image away before Rochelle could even finish her question. The death memory was the last one people had, and it skimmed right off the top and drained into the bucket. Rochelle's glowed blue, which was fairly normal for fear.
“And one more,” Seraphine said under her breath, so quietly that Angie couldn't hear. She shielded her activity from her co-worker with the width of her body and moved the end of the siphon not into the bucket, but under her nose. It was the work of only a second to click the button again and slip a second memory from the unwary woman.
This one was rose-hued, and Seraphine inhaled it with guilty fervor; Rochelle wouldn't need this one where she was going.
The memories were unclear in the transfer. Seraphine never knew exactly what they were about, but it didn't stop her from savoring every last drag. This one smelt of freedom and hope. Something salty? Seraphine guessed that Rochelle had been sailing, based on her method of dying. It tasted like wind in her hair and sun on her face. She felt invincible, like nothing would ever touch her. She was flying. She was young and free …
“Can I go now?”
The question jarred Seraphine out of her memory-induced state. She let the hose fall back in the bucket. She shouldn't get caught stealing memories. It couldn't happen. It clearly stated in the Handbook that the stealing of memories was strictly forbidden. She didn't know how she'd let herself get to this point, but she knew was that she needed them, no matter the risk.
What had started out as an occasional pick-me-up had turned into a habit that she was unable to break. She thought about it all the time, how her days were meaningless. She was already shaking and waiting for a hit of the sweet freshness of someone else's life before she started her shift. She had nothing in her own time to distract her from that craving. It had been a black hole of bleakness for so long she couldn't even remember her own passing. Had it been years or decades? Seraphine couldn't remember - and didn't want to. She wanted to let her nerves settle into the happiness of Rochelle's last perfect day instead of just marking time in her own. She allowed the waves of peace to wash over her, and this time when she smiled at the waiting woman, she almost meant it.
“Here you go, hon. Take the road with the sign that says 'Stairway to Heaven'. It's in the middle, right there. You can't miss it.” Seraphine gestured past the lanes of foot traffic to one of the center aisles with a sparkling, ascending staircase.
“Thank you,” Rochelle replied.
“Don't forget your passcard. You'll need it at the Pearly Gates. Trust me on that.” Seraphine stamped it and passed it through the window, the tingly feeling of serenity still remaining. “Next!”
A short, balding man approached the counter. Seraphine could tell just by looking that he would be headed to a different place altogether. A quick glance at his card only confirmed it. “Yes, Mr. … Werner. Cyrus? I see you have a reservation booked on the Handcart to Hell.” She held up an open palm to preempt the question that inevitably came with that assignation. “Before you ask, it's like a wheelbarrow. Take the road, clearly labeled, and wait for it. I wouldn't be late if I were you. He doesn't appreciate tardiness, and you're in enough trouble already.” Seraphine dispatched of his last memory, stamped his card and called for her next client.
“Excuse me, Miss?” An elderly woman stepped up to the window and waved her card around. “I seem to have lost my dog! Have you seen Fluffy?”
Seraphine snatched the passcard from the woman's hand and checked her in. “Adaline McDaniels? Your dog is fine. He's still alive. Now, please look into this memlicutor-”
“Alive? What do you mean?” Adaline wailed.
Seraphine sighed. This happened occasionally, especially with the elderly. The didn't even realize they had passed. In that case, she didn't need to take their last memory, as it wasn't a source of distress. Seraphine picked up the phone on her desk. “Frank? I've got a Four-Four-Two. Yes, another one. I know, what're you going to do? Um ...” she glanced at the card, “It looks like the Highway. Yes, to Heaven. Come on! She's a sweet old lady. Thanks, I'll send her right over.” Serpahine replaced the phone in its cradle.
“Adaline? I'm going to send you over to Frank in Recall. He's going to fix you right up. Here, don't forget your card; you'll need this later. You're assigned to the Highway. Make sure you read the signs and don't take the one to Hell or the Danger Zone; those can be confusing. The one you want is the high road, and we provide you with a complimentary Staff of Industry to help you on your way.” Seraphine grabbed a wooden rod from the stack in the corner and swung it through the opening. “There you go, head right over. You'll be fine!”
The glow from the first hit of memory wore off as Seraphine worked through her shift. She dispatched clients to a variety of stations as they streamed through the Gateway: there were several visitors that had to cool their heels in Purgatory, a few had to take the Helltrain, several were reassigned to the Reincarnation Station, one got turned back through the Tunnel of Light as a false alarm (someone was always trying to second-guess their time and die before they had an official passcard) and a couple took the Carriage to Hell (a remnant from the olden days that admins were trying to phase out; the team of four cost a mint to feed).
As her bucket got closer to filling, the edge of Seraphine's temper thinned and grew sharper. It worried her a little, because when she first started skimming memories, it had held her for a week or more, depending on the strength of the remembrance. Then it would only last her a day or two. But never had she needed a breath more than once a night. Her shaking hands didn't lie, though. Seraphine tried to swallow, but her mouth had run dry. She could almost taste the aroma of love in her lungs, feel the arousal of passion in her throat. She never knew what the emotion would be; it was a gamble every time one siphoned from their heart and veins. It was so close, and hers for the taking from any one of the people in front of her. They'd never miss just one of their moments. Seraphine slid her window open and took the passcard from her last client of the night. This would get her through until tomorrow.
The door to the booth swung open, making both women jump. “Hey! You're not allowed in … here ...” The protest died on Angie's lips when she saw who had barged in.
“Seraphine du Lac?”
Seraphine flinched at the sound of her own name. No one wanted to get a visit from him. Although she shouldn't have anything to fear now, he only showed up when things got dicey. She didn't think she could voice her assent, but then, she didn't need to. He already knew her identity. Damn! Her mind started spinning, trying to think of a way to deny whatever he was about to charge her with.
“Come. With me.” He turned and walked out.
Seraphine tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. She stood on shaking legs. She couldn't keep him waiting.
“Do you know why I'm here?” he asked, caressing her cheek with his bony finger.
Seraphine shook her head. “I'm dead already. I don't understand, Grim.”
He continued to trace the outline of her face, the whisper of his touch ghosting over her lips and across her jawline, his fleshless appendage gentler than she might've guessed. “Where do you think you are, exactly?”
Seraphine shrugged. “The Gateway, of course.”
The Grim Reaper cocked his head. He'd given up the outdated robe long ago in exchange for a pinstriped suit - though that didn't detract from his creepiness in the least. “And you never thought about what you were doing here in all this time?”
“Uh, I've been doing my job.” Seraphine tried not to sneer. Grim didn't seem like the type to take shit from anyone.
“Yes, that's right. But haven't you asked yourself why?” Grim let his skeletal hand fall away. “Everyone else goes through the Gateway, don't they? They have a destination. So where is yours, Seraphine?”
Seraphine crossed her arms and tried not to let his words ruffle her. The fact was, she had wondered that herself. She and Angie and the others had talked about it a few times. They had theories, but no one knew for sure. “I'm special,” she said, her tone sounding defensive even to her own ears.
“Yes,” Grim purred. “Aren't we all?”
Seraphine shivered.
“The truth is, you came here so long ago on the knife's edge. You were given a chance to earn your fate, and I have your wage here in my pocket. Before I bestow it, let me tell you something.” Grim leaned leaned in, as if he had a secret.
“What?” Seraphine bluffed. “You don't scare me. I'm already dead.” She hoped he couldn't see her tremble.
“You think we don't know? You think we don't see?” Grim waved his hand at the endless hordes waiting at the Gateway “That one murdered his wife for her insurance policy and got away with it. Well, in his life he did. That one gave to charity anonymously. That one was a Republican. That one was just plain nasty.” Grim shuddered. “We see all. You have taken something precious, and the mark eats on your own soul. You cannot feel happy because you have misappropriated that emotion from others. You cannot feel joy, or love … your soul has gone putrid and has rotted within you. You are a zombie of your own making. And as such, I have your card, Seraphine. Here is your assignation.” He held a green square between his cold fingers.
Seraphine shook her head. “But I'm not ready now! I need more time! I can change, I can ...”
“You have no time.” Grim held out a hand. “I am here to take you to your road. Have courage, and read it for yourself.”
Seraphine looked down, and through her tears she could make out the words: Seraphine du Lac, The Handbasket to Hell.
Shit! She didn't even rate the Handcart? She must have really pissed off whoever handed out the modes of transport. She looked over three lanes of traffic and thought about how cramped it would be in the Handbasket. She was allergic to wicker, so if she didn't get a seat in the macramé one she'd really be screwed.
“Take my hand,” Grim said. “I will help you there.”
“Uh, Grim, do you think they have coffee in Hell?” Seraphine imagined she could take just about anything Satan could dish out, but if she didn't have a good cup of joe, that would be her undoing.
“What?” Grim sounded startled. “Of course. Satan quite enjoys his java. He's got a whole coffee bar down there - rather impressive! I don't believe that it available for malefactor consumption, however.”
“Malefactor?” Seraphine frowned.
“Well, sure. We try and have some respect for you. What, you thought we'd call you yardbirds or something? No, no. It's a new era of reform down there! Malefactors, that's what you are.”
“What the frig is a yardbird? Try to remember that not all of us get your arcane references. Times have changed, Grim. You think it's still the sixties?” Seraphine crossed her arms.
“Kids these days. I'd have thought you'd get it within the context of the conversation. It's the condemned. Just a humorous way of saying it, that's all. We took a poll, and malefactors reacted better to that word. The term 'yardbird' got the least votes, that's all I'm saying. It came in behind 'bondservant' and 'internee'. Just trying to do my part for Hell's morale.”
Grim sure was chatty once he'd served his summons, Seraphine thought sourly. Too bad she was going to put a wrench in his works. She had no intention of becoming a caffeine-free yardbird. There were rumors that some people had managed to evade Death by hiding away in Hell's ductwork for years. There might be a whole community of morally-unstable folks in the heating vents around the place, and maybe she could join them. She just had to get away from Grim, and she stood a good chance at freedom. Or at least an eternity of squirreling away in some antiquated sheet-metal ductwork system. Seraphine made a break for it, running across the lanes of traffic and knocking people down as she fled. She didn't care where she went, as long as she caused enough chaos to distract Grim and get on the path to Heaven.
Her flight was cut short as something tangled around her ankles. Damn! She'd forgotten Grim's bolas! He was deadly accurate with those things. Apparently he'd gotten bored with his scythe a few decades ago.
“I'd expected better from the likes of you, Seraphine,” he chided. “You know you can't escape your passcard.”
Seraphine lay on the ground, a chill of fear finally glazing her heart. “I don't have to make it easy for you.”
Grim sighed. “No, you don't. Come on, then. If you won't go of your own free will ...”
Panic rose in her breast. “Why? Does that make it worse? Is it easier if I go on my own?”
“Too late now.”
Seraphine couldn't even scream as the gag wound itself between her teeth. Ropes materialized, snaking around her limbs and trussing her up until she was bound more securely than any mummy in any of the museums she remembered from her youth. She didn't have so much as an inch of wiggle room as she was picked up and tossed in the handbasket.
Panic assaulted her as she felt the giant purse sway and begin its downward descent. In inhabitants, stacked like cordwood inside, jostled against each other as the handbasket traveled into the bowels of Hell. It wasn't a pleasant ride. Seraphine's stomach flipped as the handbasket lurched, and she began to sweat as the air grew warmer with each minute. Soon it was uncomfortably hot, surrounded as she was by fellow … malefactors … but Seraphine suspected that the temperature was the least of her worries.
The ride wasn't a long one, and it ground to a halt, upending them all in a heap. Seraphine's bonds were released, and she could see why almost immediately. They were on a rocky outcropping of stone, surrounded by lava. Seraphine lay still.
“Rise, children, and greet your new master.”
Seraphine recognized the voice, though she'd never heard it before. The tone made her shiver with something darker than fear. She could feel her own despair in his voice, her own desperation and despondency, and all other bad things starting with D. She turned. Yup. It was the devil, alright. Bastard.
Satan cocked his head as he apprised his new crew. “Well, aren't you a sorry lot? Time was, I would get a truly evil bunch. How I miss the Dark Ages. Have you folks ever even seen a good drawing and quartering?” Satan clucked his tongue, and Seraphine couldn't help rolling her eyes. She hoped Satan would speed up his little reminiscing through the good ol' days. “I thought not. What's the world coming to? I must content myself with white-collar criminals? Fine. You there. You can scrub the toilets. There's an endless line of them over there, next to the urinals. Make sure you get under the seats, as well. Here's your standard-issue tooth brush. And you. You get to sort socks. Yes, forever. And you lucky duck, you would be the perfect person to run on a treadmill. Don't argue with me; I can tell you've never seen a gym before. And who's left? Ah ...”
Seraphine realized he was looking at her. “I'll just help with those socks, shall I?”
“Not so fast.” Satan stroked his goatee. “I have just the place for you. You may have your old job back. It works out, because you are qualified. Good help is so hard to find. Especially in the underworld. Jesus takes all the good ones. What a prick.”
Seraphine blinked. “I don't get it. What's the catch?”
Satan narrowed his eyes. “I don't require that the yardbirds 'get it'. I only require that they 'do it.'”
“Hey, I thought you weren't supposed to call us yardbirds! Grim said-”
Satan grinned. “Grim says a lot of things. Too bad he's not in charge, is he? Who's the boss of Hell?”
Seraphine glared.
“Say it.”
“You are.”
“I can't hear you.”
“You are! You're the boss of Hell, okay?” Seraphine stuck her lip out.
Satan was behind her in a blink, his clawed hands around her throat. A terror Seraphine had never known before burst through her every pore, and her heart jackhammered. “That's right,” he whispered. “And don't you forget it.” He stepped away. “Now, let's see about your placement. Eternity at your old job. That sounds about right. Ready?”
“Eternity?” Seraphine cried, appalled. “But-”
Satan snapped his fingers, and a kiss of molten-hot air brushed her cheeks. Her sentence was about to begin.
*
A tap on the window distracted Seraphine from the daze of perpetual monotony that surrounded her these days. She slid open the glass, and a messenger handed her a plastic bag. “Takeout.”
“Who ordered Chinese again?” Seraphine demanded. “I thought we agreed that three times in a row was enough, guys!”
“Don't look at me!” Hitler said. “You know I hate rice! It was him!”
“What? Is it a crime to want to eat healthy?” Genghis Khan turned from his own window. “So I like eggrolls.”
Seraphine sighed. In her worst nightmares, she couldn't have envisioned having to spend her eternal damnation with the two worst men in history. “We had an agreement, Genghis. For the love of Pete, how many times can you eat General Tsao's in a week?” A bloodstream full of MSG - that was the worst punishment Satan could've bestowed.
“And eggrolls aren't healthy, you Mongol bastard. Everyone knows that,” Hitler pointed out.
“Oh, and I suppose you have a degree in nutrition now, eh, Hitler?” Genghis sneered. “And did you get that right after you went to the School For Being a Gigantic Asshole?”
“I prefer you to call me Fürher. That is my rightful title, and we cannot exist without a proper regime in order. Do not address me as anything less than the Chancellor of the Third Reich deserves. We've been over this before.” Hitler sniffed in disdain.
Genghis let loose with a stream of angry Turkic.
“That's right, yammer on in your backwards tribal language. I can't understand you, I can't understand you!” Hitler chanted, his German accent becoming more pronounced the more agitated he became. “What did I do to deserve being stuck working with a Mongol and a woman? I'm so much better than this. Don't you people know who I am?”
Seraphine rolled her eyes. “We haven't forgotten in the last thirty seconds, jerkface. Screw you, Adolf.”
“I do not appreciate being spoken to in such a manner, especially by a mere woman.”
“I don't have to take this.” But it became clear that, in fact, she did. It was the same thing, day in and day out. Hitler and Genghis Khan couldn't get along, and somehow they all were stuck eating the same bad takeout every day. It was like a nightmare she couldn't wake up from. Seraphine's fingers began to shake as the panic flowed through her system. She tried to slow her breathing. It would be okay. Even if she was shackled to the worst people ever, she still had her memories to take the edge off. She'd just spend eternity high. She'd been trying not to do that - she didn't want to piss off Satan, after all, who knew what else that maniac would do? - but extraordinary times called for extraordinary measures. She couldn't take this any more. Roasting over a fire was nothing compared to this torment. She had to have a hit of memory.
A headache started in her temples, a dull throbbing - possibly from MSG poisoning, in addition to her memory withdrawal - that threatened to drive her mad. Seraphine slammed open her window to shepherd her first person to their destination. “Hello? Is anyone there? Can I help you?” she called, trying to block out the sounds of Hitler's megalomania.
“Why yes, dear, I believe you can. The last thing I remember is being on safari. I was about to pet the loveliest lion … you know, people say that they are wild animals, but they really aren't. They are just as nice as can be, and so majestic. Um, can you tell me where I am? I seem to have taken a wrong turn. This doesn't look like Africa at all!”
Seraphine smiled in relief. “I can help you, ma'am. Just give me your hand.”
“Is this going to hurt?”
Seraphine didn't even feel her usual twinge of annoyance. She was so anxious to inhale that rose-hued memory, she didn't care what inane questions she had to endure. “Mm,” she smiled and clicked through the trauma of the woman's mauling. “And one more ...”
Uh-uh …
Seraphine jumped. She felt an invisible tether on her wrist, and when she looked down, she could see the ghostly shimmer of a cord wrapped around her arm. What was this? She was shackled? Someone was watching her? She looked around, but no one was there. Her thumb depressed the button again, trying for the elusive hit of memory.
We're still watching. Never again …
Seraphine's jaw slackened. She was to endure this torture, ad infinitum, without being able to dull her pain? The full meaning of eternity hit her with the force of a ton of bricks.
“Can I go now?” the woman outside the window asked.
Seraphine nodded, in a daze. “Take the Highway.”
“Thanks.”
“You didn't even offer her a Staff of Industry. Newbies,” Hitler groused.
“Shut up, Hitler!” Seraphine said. “You do things your way, and I'll do them mine. In fact, I think it's best if we didn't talk at all today, okay?” She couldn't comprehend trading barbs with Hitler into perpetuity. It had never sounded so long as it did right now.
“Fine,” Hitler huffed. “It wasn't like I was going to ask you out for schnitzel. You're not my type. I like blonder blondes, if you get my drift.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you right back.”
“Oooh, snap. That was a burn.” Genghis laughed, spraying rice all over his workspace. “Hey, are you going to use your extra plum sauce? Anyone?”
Seraphine stared into the lanes of traffic. It was going to be a long afterlife. Did Satan take time off for good behavior? She could always work up to toilet duty. Seraphine sighed as she contemplated the endless eons of her punishment looming before her without possibility of reprieve. The tragedy of her life was made manifest as soul after soul streamed through her booth, and she was left with a bleak existence to look forward to. The meaning of eternity had never been so clear as it was during punishment, when each minute was an hour, and time had no measure to begin with.
“I changed my mind. You want to go get some schnitzel with me when our shift is over? I can show you where I tattooed my swastika,” Hitler offered.
Seraphine let her head hit the desk. If she wasn't already dead, she'd kill herself. Somewhere, she heard Satan laughing, the prick.