“Nobody?” Dill frowned. “So where do they go?” He coughed. “Assuming I subscribed to the medieval concept of the weighing of the soul after death, I mean. Purely as a scientific enquiry.”
“A purely intellectual question?” Jasfoup smiled.
Harold knew that smile. That was Jasfoup's 'I'm right and you're wrong' smile. He'd been on the losing side of many a theological debate for it was a rare creature that could out-debate a demon on theology. Even angels hadn't the knowledge a demon had, since they weren't allowed to visit earth. Jasfoup had won the argument and he knew it, and Dill knew it. Dill was the theological equivalent of a chicken with its head cut off. It was such a pity. Ten minutes ago he didn't believe in Heaven and his spirit would have walked the earth until it faded to nothing. Now Jasfoup had awakened the belief and damned the poor lad for eternity.
Jasfoup patted the young zombie on the shoulder. “Everybody goes to Hell, old son. They wait for the final trumpet there. Except the Jews, they go to Sheol.”
“The place of waiting. It's a bit like being dragged to your auntie's on a Sunday afternoon, the sort of auntie who doesn't have a telly and disapproves of children.”