The Afterlife Academy (3 page)

T
he boys who had just entered Alton's office wore stark white military-type uniforms, complete with white boots, a white beret, and a white utility belt. Their voices carried high-spirited tones of excitement, and they chatted with one another as though they were up to some wonderful plan.

“Hey, hey! What's up, Al?” one of the boys asked, smacking Alton's back.

“Ronald,” Alton replied, offering a forced smile as he swatted Ronald's hand away from Walter's file. “Where are you off to?”

“We've just been
assigned.
” Ronald rubbed the top of his hand.

“Ah, yes, I was told. And I suppose you need your Access Portals?” Alton scratched his nose. “Oh, joy. A trio of fresh Agents, out to save the world.”

“That's the idea,” Ronald answered.

Alton opened a drawer and removed three tiny objects that looked like miniature white paper clips. “Here you go. We wouldn't want you to forget these and end up stuck on earth, now, would we?”

The boys took the clips from Alton and fastened them to their belts.

“Who's the newbie?” Ronald flicked his chin in a friendly gesture toward Walter.

Alton frowned as one of the other boys successfully swiped the folder from the desk and began to leaf through the pages. “Give that back, Reginald!” His voice rose with agitation.

“ ‘Walter Prairie,' ” Reginald read. “ ‘Died Thursday by…' ” He paused to reread the data. “Whoa, check it out!” He flashed the file to Ronald and the other boy.

“Lightning?” Ronald asked after reading Walter's file. “Is this for real?”

“I was struck by lightning?” Walter scoffed as he leaned over the file and read the blurb. “Died while weeding in his mother's herb garden.” What a sad way to go. Picking strangler weeds out of the chives. Those were the worst. Chives always made Walter's hands smell weird.

“Awesome! My name's Ronald,” Ronald said, extending his hand and staring at Walter with admiration. “And this is Reginald and Riley. We're the Logan brothers.” Walter glanced at all three boys as he shook their hands, noticing the similarities between them. “We're triplets. Fraternal. But we didn't die in a cool way like you.”

“How did
you
die?” Walter asked.

“Smoke inhalation,” Riley muttered. “Lame. We died in our sleep, which is even lamer.”

“That sounds awful.” Dying from suffocation had to be a terrible way to go.

Ronald glanced at the pig clock on the wall. “Yikes, we gotta go.”

“Where are you guys going?” Walter followed Ronald's gaze, wondering how he could tell time on a clock with no hands.

“These boys have been assigned as Afterlife Academy Agents.” Alton twirled his finger in the air. “It's perhaps the most boring way to spend the eternities.”

Ronald looked at Walter, grinning from ear to ear. “It rocks, dude! We've been given important human targets and high-level missions to protect them.” The other two nodded in unison, eyes wide with excitement.

“ ‘Important human targets'?” Walter said. “What are you guys, like guardian angels or something?”

“The correct term is Guardian
Agent.
Or Afterlife Academy Agent. We're not angels yet,” said Riley.

“So you go on missions?”

“Yeah, man.” Ronald playfully socked Walter in the arm. He stuck a hand in one of the compartments of his utility belt and pulled out a small, laminated card. “ ‘Tyrone Underhill,' ” he read. “ ‘Only son of Sheldon Underhill, CEO of Carmichael Armored Vehicles.' ”

Following suit, the other brothers pulled out their own laminated cards.

“Harold Jenkins,” Riley said. “Grandson of the infamous Myra Jenkins of Jenkins, Poindexter, and Puffins criminal-law firm.”

“Max Meridian, oldest son of Bruno Meridian, head accountant for the Pomadoro Syndicate, the most notorious crime family in Michigan,” Reginald finished.

The three brothers exchanged loud high fives.

“Why do you have to protect them?” Walter asked. Important human targets. Secret missions. Utility belts! It was like James Bond.

“Because of who their parents are,” Ronald answered. “It makes them targets for the enemies. You know—demons and their Underworld minions. Wraiths. Shades. Their whole existence is centered on invading earth and wreaking havoc. They hate humans and will do anything in their power to cause chaos. These kids have parents who are involved in some pretty dangerous work. If the demons can in any way gain control over something like a criminal organization, they could do some serious damage. That's why they go after the kids. Kids can be easily turned with a little demonic persuasion. If we don't step in and protect our targets, terrible things could happen.”

Walter swallowed. Demons? Wraiths? He'd never believed in those sorts of things. “How'd you guys get that job?”

“They enrolled in the Afterlife Academy,” Alton said.

“You can do that?” Being an Afterlife Academy Agent sounded frightening and yet, somewhat intriguing. Walter would much rather do what they were doing than be forced to bounce around the clouds like a Care Bear or clean up after Grim Reapers.

“Well.” Alton's voice rose as he stared at the ceiling. “Technically you can, but the Academy has plenty of Agents as it stands. You'll just add to the overcrowding. I suggest you choose a more fitting Category. The Heavenly Choir is in desperate need of a few hearty baritones.”

Walter groaned. He had once been forced by his mother to participate in the school choral production. He didn't exactly have the voice of an angel.

“Don't listen to him!” Ronald interjected, stepping between Walter and Alton. “Anyone who's been struck by lightning is the type of Agent the Academy's looking for.”

Walter pumped his fist. Had he still been alive and showing this much interest in attending school, he felt certain his parents would have choked on their own tongues. He hated school. Despised his teachers. Loathed the principal. But this was different from regular school.

“Where do I sign up? Can I go with you guys?” he asked.

“Ha!” Alton pulled Ronald out of his way to glare at Walter. “We haven't even started your questionnaire, and the Afterlife Academy takes at least four years to complete.
‘Can I go with you guys?' 
” he mimicked.

“Four
years
?” Walter groaned. Maybe he should reconsider this.

“Yeah, but the time flies. And you need the training,” Riley said.

“What sort of training?”

“Shade Spotting and Hand-to-Hand Combat,” Reginald began.

“Thought Whispering and Energy Transfer,” Riley continued.

“Shielding and Animal Communication,” Ronald finished. “There's a lot. But the instructors are awesome, and you'll breeze through the courses in no time. Well, take it easy, Walter, and remember, have fun and soak up as much as you can.” With that, the Logan brothers charged through the second door down the right hallway.

“Ahem.” Alton slid a thick packet of papers across his desk. “It is the most difficult questionnaire of them all to complete, but that was your choice.” Walter picked up the questionnaire and a pencil and glanced at the cover sheet. “It's not all fun and games, you know,” Alton continued, “the Afterlife Academy. In fact, you'll probably drop out in a month.”

Walter ignored him and eagerly began the arduous process of completing the questionnaire.

C
harlie entered his family's study. Within the slightly cramped quarters of the room, Mr. Dewdle had set up a computer desk, a reclining office chair, and a ratty-looking futon. The rest of the office belonged to Charlie's birds. Upon seeing him enter, the canaries and finches tweeted anxiously and pecked at their cages with their beaks. The ancient blue parakeet in the corner of the room cocked its head to the side and gave a rattling squawk. Charlie shushed them by dribbling handfuls of minuscule pellets into their feed bowls.

Charlie sat down at the computer, entered the screen-saver password, and connected to the Internet. Within a few seconds, he had navigated to one of his favorite websites: SpiritSpy.org. The website was run by Wisdom Willows, a giant in the world of paranormal enthusiasts.

Charlie clicked the
Chat with Wisdom
link at the top of the screen and entered his question.

I found a book in a hole. It's written in some foreign language, and when I picked it up, my EMF detector went crazy. Is that normal? How often do books register high readings on EMF detectors?

He hit “send” just as the sound of his mother clinking the silverware at the kitchen table announced dinner. He would have to wait to see if Wisdom Willows would respond.

A
fter nearly two hours of absolute boredom, Walter painfully scribbled the last answer of Alton's two-thousand-question questionnaire. Never in his life had he been so relieved to finish an exam.

“Can I go now?” he asked.

“There's still time to change your mind,” Alton said. “Think about it. You could be singing with the Heavenly Choir. Their concerts are the stuff of legends.” He gazed over Walter's shoulder and his vision blurred.

“Tempting,” Walter said, standing from his chair. “But I think I'll pass.”

Alton clucked his tongue and refocused his eyes. “Suit yourself. It's the second-to-last door before the end.” Alton gestured toward the left side of the left hallway.

The wooden doors that lined the hall looked like they led to classrooms. Each of them was numbered with gold-flaked lettering above the doorframe and had a frosted square window. Walter arrived at his designated door, but a fluttery sensation in his chest caused him to hesitate before turning the knob. It was like the first day of school all over again. Were there things like detention or suspension at the Afterlife Academy? Walter could almost hear his father's timeless advice just behind his ear.

Don't be stupid.

Squeezing the knob in his fingers, Walter gazed back down the hallway and jumped.

Alton was right behind him. “Is it locked?” he asked.

“Uh…I don't think so.”

“Course not. Now go!”

Walter opened the door.

Warm sunlight pressed through the opening as he stepped onto a landing. A row of at least twenty marble steps descended to a grassy arena where hundreds of men and women were engaged in a variety of unusual activities. A group of uniformed cadets wove their way through an obstacle course. They sidestepped and somersaulted past large, monster-shaped targets that appeared out of nowhere, then climbed a rock wall and rappelled down the other side.

Walter grabbed for the handrail to steady his legs as the door behind him latched shut. “What is this place?”

Just beyond the last marble step, a small gathering of children standing with an instructor extended their hands in unison, fingers pointed toward a turquoise sky.

“Remember your training!” the instructor shouted, projecting his voice loud enough that the children could hear him above the bustling sounds of exercises carrying on throughout the arena.

The children nodded. Some of them closed their eyes tight in concentration, while a few others stuck out their tongues. Purple lights suddenly enveloped each of them. The children looked like giant, perfectly round soap bubbles. Walter laughed as the bubbles quivered and, after a few moments, burst.

“Well done!” the instructor praised. “You've successfully conjured your first shield.” He applauded, then noticed Walter gawking at the top of the stairs. “You there. Have you checked in yet?” The man pointed toward a long row of people weaving their way to some distant tables.

Walter fell in line behind a large woman he almost mistook for a man. She was tall and burly, but by no means fat, and wore some sort of sports jersey. She glanced over her shoulder and noticed Walter staring at the numbers on her back.

“Name's Urga,” she grunted. “I played forward in women's rugby for the Melbourne Murderers.” Her voice was laced with a thick Australian accent. “Died in a scrum.”

“Oh.” Walter raised his eyebrows to show interest, but had no clue what a scrum was. “What's going on out here?”

“It's Field Day. Happens once a week. Cadets are given several hours to test out what they've learned in a safe, controlled environment. Should be loads of fun.”

“Did Alton tell you about Field Day?” Walter asked.

“Who? Don't know no Alton.”

“The guy from the Categorizing Office. He wears glasses. Has a pig clock on the wall behind his desk. Kinda mean.”

Urga shrugged and spat a loogie on the sidewalk. “S'pose there's more than one Categorizer in this place. Don't you think?”

Alton's office had been empty when Walter arrived. Certainly it would have been swarming with other dead people if he were the only Categorizer. Urga made sense.

The arena was bigger than any stadium Walter had ever seen. “Where does the Heavenly Choir sing? In those bleachers?” Not that he really cared about that.

“The choir's down another door, but that's for wussies. All of this belongs to the Academy. It's the only Guardian Agent program in the Afterlife.”

Walter's eyes drifted along the slow-moving line of new recruits. Men, women, boys, and girls shuffled a few steps at a time, but Walter couldn't see the end of it.

“Where does this go?” he asked Urga.

“Check-in. They assign us into dormitories, give us uniforms, schedules, you know, all that.”

“Whoa! Is that a tank?” A motorized machine made of see-through metal crawled into view, its tracks chewing up clods of grass and dirt. A woman wearing white fatigues, like everyone else on the lawn, sat with her upper body poking through the open hatch of the tank. After aiming an enormous cannon, she fired a purple missile at a target at least five hundred yards south of the arena. The concussive boom of the cannon sent Walter barreling to the ground with his hands shielding his head.

Urga appeared unfazed.

“That…was…awesome! Do we get to drive those?”

Urga shrugged and turned to face forward. Clearly the question-and-answer portion of their time together had ended.

An hour later, Urga had made fast friends with a portly Viking named Gordon, and the two were discussing the pros and cons of penalty-inducing blocking in “American” football. Walter was pretty sure the Viking was just wearing a costume, but the beard looked real enough.

The wide banquet tables were finally only a few yards away, when a man carrying a clipboard approached Walter.

“You there. Are you Walter Prairie?”

“Uh…yeah. That's me.” Walter stood on his tiptoes to see over the edge of the clipboard, but the man hid it from view.

“You lived at Two Thirty-Seven Poleman Boulevard in Baldwin, Virginia?”

“That
was
my address.” Walter smirked. “Until I…”

“Son of Greg and Darlene Prairie and older brother to—”

“Dude, I said it was me!” What was with the clipboard and the questions?

“This way, sir.” The man held his hand out toward the front of the line.

Sir?
When had he ever been called sir? “Why? Where are we going?”

The man had already pushed off, walking briskly past the row of tables. Walter hopped out of line and hurried to keep up.

“What is this about? I thought I was supposed to check in at that table.” Had the Academy reached its capacity? The thought tied his stomach in knots. They couldn't ask him to leave now. Not after he'd seen people shooting purple light missiles!

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Just come with me, please.”

Reluctantly, Walter continued to follow the man. Eventually, the walkway they were on rounded a corner and ended at an office door, which the man opened. Black and white tiles formed a checkerboard across the floor of the room inside, and dark wooden bookshelves lined the walls. A statue of a full-sized lion crouched in the corner behind an immense oak desk, where a man sat wearing a three-piece suit and holding a gold pocket watch.

“Hello, hello!” the man said, rising from the desk. “Is this him? Is this
the one
?”