Blimpo: The Third Circle of Heck by Dale E. Basye Read Free Book Online Page B

shouted as he grabbed Miltonand heaved him and his cart into the tunnel. He quickly upended the cart and spilled out dozens of metal scraps, forming an impromptu barricade behind them.
    “What about
your
cart?” Milton asked.
    “Blast the cart!” Moondog barked. “I can always spend another eternity collecting more junk!”
    The swollen creature scuttled up to the mound of metal and stabbed through the shopping cart’s carriage with its snout.
    “Why does everything always want
me
?” Milton mumbled, backing away with fear and disgust.
    Moondog, with surprising strength, hoisted Milton up, set him into his shopping cart, and pushed him farther into the tunnel.
    Inside, movie projectors cast glimmering, dull 3-D images onto the walls of the tunnel. As Milton raced past them—a passenger in his own cart—he saw a man shaving, a teenage girl waiting by a phone, a fidgety toddler in the backseat of a car, a businessman at the airport, boys loitering outside a convenience store, and dozens of other less-than-memorable memories.
    “The
Killing Time
Zone,” Milton observed. “A place full of moments that were killed …
wasted.”
    The flea-tick flailed its front legs with frustration at the scrap metal and shopping cart barrier. Sweat trickled down Moondog’s face as he pushed onward.
    “You’re really gettin’ the hang of bein’ dead, kid!”he puffed. “This place feels like a collage of time continuums. Boring little scraps of reality left on the cutting-room floor of life.”
    A crash thundered through the tunnel, followed by a dozen or so scrabbling feet. Milton and Moondog charged down the tunnel as the creature, now joined by another, skittered ever closer.
    “Stop!” Milton shrieked. Moondog screeched the cart to a halt. Its front caster wheels dangled off the edge of a precipice.
    “I didn’t see
that
coming!” Moondog gasped.
    Beneath them was a steep drop into what looked like a roller coaster of spooled time-space laid on a shimmering “track” of moments. All of the segments of track had one thing in common: hundreds of people staring at hundreds of television sets.
    Milton turned. His mouth went slack with fear as three flea-ticks forced their bloated, disgusting bodies down the tunnel, taking peevish swipes at one another with their long snouts. The trio of overgrown parasites stopped and judged Milton and Moondog with their emotionless red eyes before rearing back.
    “Get us out of here!” Milton shrieked.
    The three plus-sized parasites sprang forward. Moondog hopped on top of the shopping cart, crowding in next to Milton, then kicked both of them off the edge of the tunnel with his workboot. They plunged down the track of residual, barely solid energy. Miltongripped the side of the cart as his stomach pitched into a somersault.
    The shopping cart plunged down through countless living rooms, dens, and basements—a chain of people lounging on couches staring blankly at flickering screens. The “ride” began with clean-cut families sitting, enrapt, before large boxes broadcasting warped black-and-white images of cowboys and Indians. The shopping cart sped through the shimmering vignettes, each one fading behind Milton and Moondog just as it was experienced. The tracks leveled out, and the shopping cart whizzed past shaggy-haired people mesmerized by colorful images of spaceships and war.
    “Brace yourself,” Moondog cautioned. Up ahead was a series of loop-the-loops. The cart jerked as they entered the tight coils of time. The g-force bent Milton’s neck so that his chin was jammed into the top of his chest. Around him was a repetitive blur of cop shows and sitcoms.
    “Must … be … reruns,” Moondog muttered.
    They shot past the loop-the-loops and ascended steadily along the track, entering each bit of wasted time as if flipping through a stack of moving postcards. Milton looked behind him, past Moondog’s whizzing white mane. The flea-ticks stumbled down the track, their