Rapacia: The Second Circle of Heck Read Online Free Page B

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.
    A plastic tube snaked out of his mouth, winding its way to a mechanical bellows that sucked and puffed in a slow, steady rhythm.
    Milton gently closed the