Hellhole

  A year earlier, some of the douchier boys at school had compiled a ranking of the girls in their class, from hottest to ugliest, and if Max recalled correctly, Lore had ended up somewhere near the bottom. (It had stuck in his mind because she shared a last name with Dennis Nedry, the traitorous computer programmer in Jurassic Park, which was infinitely cool, though at that point he hadn’t been able to put a face to the name.) He thought it was a mean thing to do anyway, especially since he was sure that if there had been a list for the boys, he’d have ended up so far down at the bottom he’d have fallen off, like a grungy barnacle clinging to the underside of a boat.

  But Max didn’t think she was ugly at all. Dark birthmarks peppered her pale face, as if she’d been splattered by a paintbrush. Big brown eyes that looked perpetually sad blinked back at him. She was taller than he was, and a shade on the curvier side—wide hips, chipmunkish cheeks—but her shoulders were broad and her arms looked strong. Strong enough to dislodge a cashew, at least.

  “I’m fine now,” said Max. “Airway cleared. Thanks. For that.”

  She stared at him quizzically, then reached behind the dumpster and pulled out a bike of her own. Max’s insides gave a happy leap. What had Audie always told him? Find something in common to bond over. Establish a connection.

  “You have a bike,” he said unnecessarily.

  She stared at him. “Yep.”

  “I also have a bike.”

  “I can see that.”

  “We are connected, then,” he said. “Through the bikes.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, did you say we went to the same school? Are you sure you don’t go to a . . . special school?”

  “No, same school.” Max pointed at her ponytail. “And I saw you the other day. At the Gas Bag. You came in with your friends.”

  She studied him. “Oh yeah, that was you,” she said, nodding slowly. “You look different without your vest.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. Less concave.”

  Max wasn’t sure whether this was a compliment or an insult, though he suspected the latter. “Are you the one who picked out the Cheetos?”

  “I’m sure not the one who wanted all that soy nonsense.”

  She spoke in the most deadpan voice Max had ever heard. It made him think of a seismometer, the kind of device that measures earthquakes, and how her inflections wouldn’t even register as a tremor.

  “Anyway, they’re not my friends,” Lore added. “We got grouped together for an ethics debate project and were heading over to Krissy’s house to work on it.”

  “Oh,” said Max. “How did it go?”

  “They thought ‘euthanasia’ referred to ‘children in Asia’ and supported it wholeheartedly. How do you think it went?”

  Max responded by continuing to gawk at her, zeroing in on her hair. Messy bangs in irregular lengths swept in front of her eyes, and now that he got a good look at it, the brown ponytail in question didn’t really resemble the tail of a pony or any other member of the equine family. It was more like a volcano. Situated high on the top of her head, it steadily gushed hair out on all sides, so that it fell around her head like one of those circular curtains in a hospital room.

  Thus far in life, Max had had limited experience with the opposite gender, but he was almost positive that your hair looks like either a volcano or one of those circular curtains in a hospital room was not one of the things girls liked to hear. He’d certainly never heard Tom Hanks say it to Meg Ryan.

  “I like your shirt,” he said instead.

  She looked down at the sparkly teapots. “I don’t. My boss made it. She said a bedazzled shirt would project an ‘air of craftiness’ to the customers. I think it projects an air of ‘I’m a fifty-three-year-old hoarder who lives chest-deep in alternating layers of fast-food wrappers and dead cats,’ but what can you do?”

  Max gave a commiserating shrug, as if he encountered this problem all the time. “Nothing,” he agreed. “Once I had a shirt that—”

  “Okay,” she said, crossing her arms, “as much as I love the smell of rotting fish heads and the stirring conversation topic of ‘shirts,’ could you get to the part where you tell me why you need to know about Satan? Because I spent a large portion of my day explaining to a blind old lady the difference between sequins and spangles, and I’d really like to go home.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  She gave him a death glare. “I’m leaving.”

  “Wait, wait!” He moved to block her path. “Okay. Satan.”

  He stopped there because he didn’t know how to start. This would be hard enough to explain to anyone, but this girl was a lot more direct and confident than he’d expected her to be, and he was starting to get a little scared of her.

  He took a deep breath and the word-bile spewed forth. “I was digging over on Ugly Hill the other day and I opened up a hole and something came out of it and his name is Burg and I think he’s the devil and he ate a stick of butter and I have to find a house for him to move into and I’m really up shit creek without a paddle and I need your help or he’s gonna kill my mom or at the very least kill all our houseplants.”

  Lore held up a finger. “Fun fact: I didn’t understand a word you just said.”

  Perhaps that was for the best. Max gushed out the rest of the air in his lungs, composed himself, and started over again with a less alarming approach. He didn’t want to frighten her away. “I would like to know more about devils.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m . . . dabbling in recreational Satanism?”

  This turned out to be the wrong tactic. Her eyes narrowed. “I do not have time for this,” she spat. Her tone was angry, but Max thought it sounded as if her voice had gone up an octave. And she was speaking a lot faster than she had before. “What happened—you got a little crazy with a Ouija board and now you’re looking for tips on the best way to draw a pentagram, best brand of black eyeliner?”

  “No,” Max insisted. “You don’t understand.”

  She put on her bike helmet and snapped the strap shut. “Listen, if sitting around in your bedroom and reciting terrible gothic poetry is what gets you through high school without jumping in front of traffic, fine. But there are actual evil things in this world, and I’m not wasting my time with any of this wannabe satanic bullshit.”

  Max was getting desperate. He didn’t know what else to do, short of throwing her over his shoulder and lugging her back to his house, caveman-style. Girls weren’t usually on board with that, though.

  She started to walk her bike down the alley at a rapid clip. Max followed, trying not to slip in the dumpster juice. “But I’m not a wannabe!” He reached out to grasp her handlebars—

  And she stopped. Her eyes fixed on his hand. The mark on his hand.

  For a split second her eyebrows went up.

  Then she gave her bike a yank, causing the wheel to buck up and hit her in the shin. A blob of blood appeared, but she took no notice, resuming her escape and muttering something that sounded like “I can’t get involved in this.”

  “What was that?”

  “I said leave me alone!”

  She increased her speed, putting more distance between them. She was almost at the end of the alley when Max, desperate, yelled, “COME OVER TO MY HOUSE AND I’LL SHOW YOU AND WE CAN EAT QUICHE.”

  Lore stopped once again, turned around once again, and stared at him, taking in the full extent of his pitifulness. Her teeth bit at her lip as she considered his proposal.

  “Did you say quiche?”

  For the first time in years, Max had a bike buddy.

  He and Audie used to ride down to the lake together when they were younger, but ever since she’d started dating Wall, their bike outings had gone the same way as their firefly hunts. He kept sneaking glances at Lore as they rode. He hadn’t realized how much he missed someone pedaling next to him, sharing that rush of air, hearts pumping at the same velocity—

  “Pole,” she sai
d.

  “Huh?” Max snapped his head forward and swerved just in time to avoid hitting a signpost.

  He pedaled back up to match her speed, wobbling uncontrollably. “Hah!” he barked, masking his embarrassment with volume. “What was that doing there?”

  “Probably as a warning not to hit that pothole.”

  “What pot—”

  The ground finished that thought for him. Max got up and dusted off his pants. “Just a flesh wound!” he announced, pointing at the scrape on his elbow.

  Lore impatiently tapped her fingers on her handlebars. “I’ve known you for about ten minutes and you’ve almost died twice. Think you can get to your house without contracting smallpox?”

  “Actually—” he started, noticing their surroundings. “I need to stop at the grocery store for a minute.”

  She looked at her watch. “Look, this isn’t going to turn into a whole thing, is it? I’ve still got some homework I need to finish before tomorrow—”

  “I know, I know. I’ll be quick. You watch the bikes and I’ll be out in five minutes, promise.” Before she could answer, he propped his bike against the wall of the Food Baron and ran inside.

  He grabbed a cart and loaded it with some lemonade mix, antiseptic spray for the scrape on his arm that in truth hurt like a bitch, a quiche, and some Cheetos for Lore, since she liked them so much . . .

  Max paused in the middle of the snack aisle. He’d been so pleased by his success in getting Lore to come back to the house with him that he’d forgotten the horror that awaited them there. And how hungry it would be.

  He looked to his left, then to his right. There was nobody else in the aisle. He looked up at the ceiling. Burg was right—no cameras.

  Before he’d really even decided to go through with it, his arm shot out, grabbed a package of pizza-flavored Combos, and shoved it into the pocket of his shorts. Without a second’s hesitation he walked a few paces farther and nabbed some Chex Mix, tucking them into his other pocket.

  Oh my God oh my God oh my God, his brain screamed at him, terror gripping his gut. This is even worse than the cat!

  On autopilot now, he whisked around the end of the aisle and into the next one over—the cakey snacks section.

  There they were. The Twinkies. But the box was too big and bulky—he’d never be able to smuggle it out of there unnoticed.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought as he tore into the box and removed the individually wrapped contents, dropping them one by one down his shirt. I’m going to end up on one of those America’s Dumbest Criminal shows, with the laugh track and goofy sound effects—they’re going to call me the Twinkie Bandit—oh my God oh my God—

  He hurriedly tucked his shirt in so the stolen confections wouldn’t fall out, hoping that he was already too much of a fashion disaster for anyone to notice. Huddling up against a paper towel display for a moment to calm himself, Max took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths. He couldn’t look too suspicious or he’d never get away with it—

  “Max?”

  “I’m innocent!” he shouted, spinning around.

  A pair of bugged-out eyes stared back at him. “Innocent of what?”

  Max let out a hysterical giggle. It was only Paul!

  “It’s only Paul!” he shouted, to confirm. “Hey, Paul!”

  “Hey yourself. Did you see our sale on beets? We’re having a sale on beets. Two cans of beets for the price of one can of beets. It’s a beets bonanza.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “I had to say that, it’s store policy. So what are you innocent of?”

  Max giggled again. The crazies had definitely set in. “Er—nothing,” he said, pushing past Paul. “It’s a line from, uh, Monty Python.”

  Paul’s brow furrowed. He probably would have frowned, too, if his massive teeth hadn’t rendered him permanently slack-jawed. “No, it’s not.”

  “Ha, good one!” Max said, hustling to the front of the store. “See you later!”

  He scuttled into the express lane, barely holding on to consciousness as he transferred the non-stolen goods from his cart to the conveyer belt.

  “Hi,” he said to the checkout lady.

  “Hi.” She scanned his items and gave him a tired look. “Anything else?”

  “No!” Max said too loudly and too quickly and too guiltily. “Shipshape! Locked and loaded!”

  He bit his tongue before it could keep shouting more ridiculous combinations of words. The lady raised an eyebrow but finished bagging his items and gave him the total.

  Max practically threw her the money—the change Krissy Swanson had given him, in fact—and snatched the bag off the counter. Only when the sun hit his face outside did he start breathing again, and only in short, panting rasps.

  “Let me guess,” Lore said as he loaded the plastic bag into his bike’s basket. “Asthma attack.”

  “I’m fine,” Max said, still manic as he mounted his bike. “I’m just excited about, uh . . . the savings! Hot, hot deals at everyday low prices!”

  Lore looked at her watch again.

  They were only a couple of blocks away from Max’s house when she spoke. “Hey—” She looked behind them, then back at Max. “What’s going on?”

  “With . . . what?”

  “With the Twinkies your shirt is pooping out.”

  Max braked, almost vaulting himself over the handlebars. Dropping his bike to the ground, he ran back and collected the discarded Twinkies, one of which had exploded and left a splotch of creamy carnage across the road.

  Lore walked up next to him to stare at the mess. “I think that one’s a goner.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shame. Only two days from retirement.”

  He made a desperate face. “There’s a perfectly good explanation for this. I swear.”

  Lore looked at the bulges in his shirt, the Twinkies poking against the fabric like alien babies waiting to erupt.

  Wordlessly, she went back to her bike, hopped up on the seat, and waited for him to join her.

  “Store-bought quiche?” Lore asked, watching Max empty the groceries onto his kitchen table. “You sure went all out.”

  Max cut the pie into slices.

  “Sorry,” said Max. “But look, it’s quiche Lorraine!”

  He held it up at an angle, presenting it like a piece of fine jewelry. Lore stared.

  “Lore-aine,” he clarified. “Like your name. Get it?”

  “I get it.”

  “I’m not sure you do.”

  Lore took a seat at the table. “Look, I enjoy puns as much as the next loser, but can we cut to the chase here?”

  Max did not feel like cutting to the chase. He wanted to stall until roughly the end of time. The craziness he was about to unleash on her was like an escaped grizzly bear—once it was out of the zoo, it couldn’t be put back without a considerable amount of unpleasantness.

  “Sure. But first, quiche,” he said, delaying the inevitable.

  The inevitable, however, had no intention of being delayed. Max heard him before he saw him, as a belch erupted from the doorway.

  A pantless Burg stood there, lifting his shirt to scratch his rotund belly. “Who’s the broad?” he bellowed.

  What followed was odd. To Max, it seemed as if the room had exploded into a million pieces of screaming and chaos, but after a second or so, he realized that that was all in his head. In reality, Burg had continued to stand there and scratch, Lore hadn’t moved a muscle, and Max was still posing with the slice of quiche like Martha Friggin’ Stewart.

  Oh no. No, no, no.

  Max sprang into action. He dropped the quiche, rushed at Burg, and pushed him with all his scrawny might toward the basement. “Rules broken: one, two, and four!”

  “I also shattered a lamp.”

  “One, two, three, and four!”

  They had just reached the top of the basement stairs when Burg said, “Who’s the dame? I don’t even get an introduction?”

  Lore.
If she hadn’t bolted out the back door already, she had to be a nanosecond away from it.

  “Go back downstairs,” Max tried to tell Burg as nicely as he could. “I’ll be right down, and I’ll introduce you. Just let me give her a heads-up.”

  “Fine.”

  “And please put on some pants.”

  “Never.”

  Once Burg descended the staircase, Max sprinted back to the kitchen. Lore was still sitting where she had been a moment before, her jaw hanging open slightly, her eyes round and alert.

  She got up and stood in front of him, her face coming to rest a couple of inches above his.

  “Who . . . was . . . that?” she asked.

  “I told you,” Max whispered, cowering beneath her gaze. “There’s a devil in my basement.”

  Lore worked her tongue around her mouth. Then she abruptly turned and walked out of the kitchen, grabbing the bag of Chex Mix on the way.

  “Where are you going?” Max called after her.

  “To talk to him,” she answered. “Isn’t that why you brought me here?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Alone,” she said, her hand on the basement doorknob.

  “Wait!” Max ran up to her, grabbed her elbow, and snatched the Chex Mix out of her hands. “I can’t let you do that. He’s dangerous. And unpredictable.”

  Lore cocked her head. And just for a moment Max thought he saw a spark in her eye where there hadn’t been one before.

  She snatched the Chex Mix back. “Well, would you look at that? So am I.”

  With that, she walked through the door and closed it behind her.

  Max didn’t know what to do next. He shakily sat down at the kitchen table and waited—for a piercing shriek of terror, for the scent of burning sulfur to waft through the house, for a plume of fire to knock the door off its hinges.

  But none of those things came to pass.

  Five minutes elapsed.

  Halfway through the fifth minute the door clicked open. Lore walked into the kitchen and sat across from Max.