Lucifer's Lottery

by Edward Lee

  When the dead Gargoyle’s mouth moved, it was the voice of Grand Sergeant Buyoux that Favius, in turn, heard.

  “Conscript Favius. Why is the entire reservation on emergency alert? Answer quickly.”

  “An anomaly, your Wretched Eminence—a stench, uncharacteristic and quite sudden. I took it unto myself to call my rampart to alert.”

  “Yes, you have. And it seems that every rampart in the enter site has done so as well.”

  Favius began to sweat. Buyoux’s voice was unreadable. “I did not want to take a chance, my Despicable Commander. If I am in error, I will report for punishment at once.”

  A long pause, then a laugh. “Vigilance is everything, Conscript—it’s what wins wars and conquers nations. I commend you for your quick thinking.”

  “Thank you, Grand Sergeant!” Favius shouted in relief.

  “But you’ll be gratified to know that the anomaly you detected is in no manner a threat.”

  “Thank Great Satan, sir!”

  “Yes . . . Call off your alert and have your troops stand down, but first . . . prepare to rejoice and don your Abyss-Glasses. Train them on the great portals of the recently installed Y-connectors of your Main Sub-Inlet.”

  Mystified, Favius did so, focusing the supernatural viewers on the closest of the dual, sixty-six-foot-wide connector portals.

  His massive, sculpted muscles froze.

  There, exuding however traceably at the bottom of the pipe, was a trickle of befouled scarlet liquid. It didn’t take Favius long to calculate what the inbound effluent was:

  Bloodwater, his thoughts whispered. Just the slightest trickle, yes, but it can only mean . . .

  “There, faithful Conscript, is the cause of the strange odor you noticed.” Buyoux’s enthusiasm could be decrypted by his own conscious silence. “And we’ve just received confirmation. They’re priming the pumps in the Rot-Port Harbor, and that stench? It’s the stench of the Gulf itself, channeled all the way out here . . .”

  “Praise Lucifer,” Favius’s eons-roughened voice rattled in disbelief.

  “It’s happening even sooner than we’d prayed for, friend Favius,” his commander rejoiced. “And in short order . . . that paltry trickle of Bloodwater will gush.”

  Tears nearly came to Favius’s soiled eyes. “All glory be to Satan,” he hitched.

  “Stand your troops down, Conscript, and yourself, too. You all deserve a short recess. Good work.”

  “I am honored by your praise, Grand Sergeant!”

  “No, Favius. It is I who am honored to command you.” And then the hectophone’s vicious mouth went limp.

  Favius set the hideous phone back in its cradle, then called off the alert. He smiled—something he rarely did—when he gazed out over the empty Vandermast Reservoir, and then envisioned it full to the brim with six billion gallons of the detestable Gulf of Cagliostro . . .

  (II)

  Archlock Curwen, the Supreme Master Builder, felt a nearly sexual exhilaration as he watched sixty-six Mongrels drop simultaneously into the Central Cauldron. The sulphur-fire beneath the great iron vessel roared; its contents—liver oil from a single Dentata-Serpent—crackled and boiled at a thousand degrees. All those filthy Mongrels dying at the same time, and at temperatures so high, caused the things to scream in unison, and for many of them the pain was so heinous that chunks of their lungs flew out of their mouths with the screams. The rush in the Hell-Flux trebled then, bringing to the air a heady, gaseous brew that enlivened all who inhaled it. Furthermore, it amped up the power in the constantly running Electrocity Generators, whose storage cells were crucial to giving the Demonculus otherworldly life.

  Curwen sighed at the tingle of pleasure.

  He was on rounds now, on the field itself, as the various Occult Engineering crews busied themselves in the gas balloons above. Those Curwen could see from down here were but floating specks, while most couldn’t be seen at all for their sheer altitude.

  Sweet, he thought in his shimmering surplice. This is MY project, entrusted to ME by the Morning Star himself. I will not fail.

  Fanged and leprous-skinned Metastabeasts—a team of six, of course—hauled Curwen’s Hex-Armored carriage about the field. The foul sky’s eternal bloodred light coruscated high above; its dread illumination covered half the entire field in the shadow of the spiring Demonculus. But when another shadow approached, the Conscripts and Ushers of Curwen’s bodyguard regiment parted.

  It was a shadow shaped like a man—but a man with horns—that strode down the divide created by the bodyguards. The field fell silent.

  Aldehzor, Curwen knew at once, Lucifer’s Grand Messenger. It was this shadow-shape’s duty to deliver all-important ciphers from the Morning Star himself. Only a precious few of Hell’s Hierarchals were on the list to receive Aldehzor.

  The carriage door was opened; the semisolid figure came in and sat down. When the door was closed again, the ranks of bodyguards stepped backward, turned, and readied their weapons, forming a wall of monsters to protect the two occupants.

  “Exalted Aldehzor,” Curwen greeted.

  The shadow nodded. “Supreme Master Builder.” The eyeless black face peered upward through a window. “Your progress is exceptional. I’m impressed, and I’m sure our lord will be, too, once I’ve reported back to him.” Aldehzor’s voice existed much as his physical being: indeterminate. He came from a pre-Adamic line known as Incorporeals—he was a living shadow who disguised his movements by slipping into the bodies of passersby, wearing them as camouflage. He was simply a silhouette with no discernible details save for his basic outline—a horned, wedge-shaped head atop a Humanlike body. No eyes could be seen within the wedge. If anything his voice bubbled like the ichors of Hell’s deepest trenches. “And as you might suspect, I have a message for you.”

  Archlock Curwen struggled not to betray his unease. With Aldehzor, messages were either good or bad. Was a terrorist attack imminent? Had a flaw been discovered in the Demonculus’s cabalistic programming?

  Am I being usurped? the Master Builder wondered in restrained dread.

  “I am ready for your message, Aldehzor.”

  “It has been calculated that there exists a minor chance of a power shortage here.”

  Curwen sat stiff. “We’ve always known that. A minor chance.”

  “Any chance is unacceptable,” the hideous voice intoned. “However, in his genius, Lucifer has devised a solution.”

  “Pray tell . . .”

  “Much is astir in the Mephistopolis, Archlock.” The wretched voice burbled on. “Plans and projects that even one as exalted as yourself have no clue . . .”

  Curwen stared. Was the Grand Messenger trying to insult him? To belittle his status? Aldehzor’s jealousy of the exalted Human Damned was well-known. He WISHES he could be me, he felt sure, but wasn’t comfortable voicing it.

  The ink-blot face looked back at him. “Your own constant sacrifices in the Cauldrons won’t be enough. I’m alarmed that your own engineers weren’t able to verify that.” A protracted pause. “However, my own alarm was apparently not perceived by our lord. For some reason he holds you in the highest favor, higher than any of the Human Damned.”

  “Are you trying to intimidate me, Aldehzor?”

  A wet, slopping chuckle. “Certainly not, Supreme Master Builder. I honor you. Surely you’ve heard of a crucial endeavor at the Vandermast Reservoir?”

  “I’ve heard bits and pieces. Some mode of transposition, perhaps even a Spatial Merge, it’s been guessed.”

  “Yes, but a permanent one.”

  Astonishment caused Curwen’s guard to fall. “Permanent, you say? But that is . . . impossible.”

  “Once upon a time, yes—if time existed. The Bio-Wizards at the De Rais Laboratories cracked the code.”

  “But a permanent transposition would require multiple millions of Hellspawn and Humans to die simultaneously.”

  The black shadow nodded. “Sixty-six million, to be exact. And a solution h
as been devised. It’s quite simple, actually. Those millions will die, all in the same instant. This shall bring the amperage of the Hell-Flux to immeasurably high levels. That much occult energy will be more than enough to effect the Merge. And the reserves will be transferred to you and your . . . Demonculus.”

  Curwen felt light-headed. True, the possibility of insufficient power had already been cited, but with this?

  It’s more power than has ever been generated in Hell, in all of its history . . .

  “How,” the Master Builder demanded next. “How can this be, that multiple millions shall die simultaneously?”

  Did the warped shadow actually shrug? “The Municipal Mutilation Squads throughout the entire Mephistopolis will do it—”

  “But that’s not feasible at all! How could they all be calibrated to strike at the same moment?”

  “By psychic command.”

  Curwen stalled.

  “The De Rais Labs have recently invented the process,” the shadow added. “So, in spite of your own miscalculation, you needn’t worry yourself. Indeed, we are in the hands of a great lord, are we not?”

  “We are,” Curwen croaked.

  “You’re a brave one, Supreme Master Builder, and I must say”—Aldehzor’s invisible gaze strayed upward again, at the immense Demonculus—“that you have my utmost admiration.”

  “Why?” Curwen nearly spat.

  “To sacrifice forever your Hell-given Spirit Body in order to become . . . that thing?”

  “You refer to the Demonculus with vehemence, dear Messenger. It is the greatest entity to ever be manufactured here, and it is the Demonculus you’d do better to admire, not I. I am blessed like no other in this opportunity to serve Great Satan. Be he forever praised.” Curwen’s silver teeth flashed bladelike with his smile. “It almost sounds as though you’re afraid of the Demonculus’s success; for when, through me, it rids the Mephistopolis of all opposition . . . whatever shall you do to stay in our lord’s good graces?”

  Aldehzor seemed to hiss.

  Yes. What use will there be for a messenger with no messages to deliver?

  The veiled joust was over—Curwen had won.

  “Be prepared,” came Aldehzor’s whisper like the smoke off a ball of pitch. “What you long for will come soon.”

  Curwen stared the Incorporeal down.

  “In the name of all things unutterable, hail the Prince of Lies,” the Grand Messenger said and got out of the carriage.

  Curse ye, and be gone with you, Curwen thought, and then when he saw another sixty-six Mongrels dropped at once into the Cauldron he nearly swooned as if opiated. Their screams were like the sweetest of songs to his ears.

  (III)

  The hollow sound in your head follows you as the Turnstile’s evil formulae are triggered and you and your guide are pressed yet again through the gauze of distance-collapsing sorcery. When the vertigo passes, you jerk your gaze to Howard.

  “So that’s it? The winners of the Senary get to become Privilatos?”

  “Ah, I see your observations have at last heightened the acuity of your powers of deductive reckoning. I gratefully affirm.”

  You frown.

  “However, our chancing upon Mr. Swikaj and his comely harem came quite by happenstance. We’re on our way to behold further facets of the abyss that should deliver a more formidable impact.”

  Shylock Square is long behind you now, though curious occult graft work is still visible among passersby. One stunning woman in hot pants and a bra of the finest leaden fabric has no face at all but only smooth white skin and a belly button where her nose would be. Her face has been transplanted upon her abdomen, and when that fact finally registers, you notice that she is smiling at you. A buff man, Human save for elaborate horns, walks confidently into an enterprise called CRIPPENDALE’S; he’s wearing a vest of penises, and onto his earlobes have been sewn scrotums. Lastly, a slyly smiling She-Imp passes, her majora replaced by what appears to be a baby’s buttocks.

  “I can perceive that you’re finally acclimating,” Howard remarks. “Your revulsion appears to be growing staid—quite a good sign.”

  Finally you’re able to blurt, “You want me to accept the Senary, which means I’ll become a Privilato after I fucking die. Is that it?”

  “Yes,” Howard says, his already long face lengthening further; his distaste obvious. “However, if I may conjecture, profanity does not suit you at all. It’s quite inappropriate and wholly uncharacteristic of a studious and devout man such as yourself.”

  You fix on what Howard just said. Profanity? Yes, I cussed, didn’t I? I said “fucking die,” instead of die. The speculation unwinds like a coil of string. “I never swear,” you tell your guide. “Sure, a damn or a hell or an ass on occasion, but never . . . the F-word or the S-word.”

  Howard is frowning. “It’s uncomplimentary, sir. It bespeaks ruffianism and roysterishness. Better to maintain an air of the dignified, even in so undignified a habitat as this.”

  Trivial as the matter seems, it bothers you. I must hang out with Randal too much . . .

  “But, yes, you’ve unveiled the intrigue at last,” Howard goes on. “It is indeed the motive of the master of this domain that you accept the Senary and rise to Privilato status upon your earthly demise.” Howard scrutinizes your impossible face. “And now you are weighing that possibility against the possibility of an eternity in Heaven, are you not?”

  You stare. Am I? Yeah . . . of course I am . . .

  “But you needn’t choose just yet. Let’s take in more sights before we arrive at the clincher.”

  “The clincher? I can’t imagine.”

  Does Howard smile? “No, I’m certain beyond all cogitation that you cannot. No one can . . .”

  Your senses reel as you cross a footbridge over a mucus-filled creek. Several destitute Trolls nod as they stand on the rail, fishing. One Troll has eyeballs in his bait can, the other, tongues yanked from their seats.

  But your hideous eyes go wide when you notice several twitchy Human women crossing the footbridge . . .

  “More addicts,” Howard notes, “regrettable, but no more so than the seemingly illimitable Human capacity to ‘chase the dragon,’ as they say. Clearly beyond the bridge there’s a public Flenser’s in business.”

  But you simply continue staring, for these women seem to have had all of the flesh cut from their arms and legs, while their heads and naked torsos remain intact. It is horrendous to behold, yet also, somehow, perversely fascinating.

  “Street parlance refers to such types as ‘Bone-Limbers.’ ”

  The implication collides with your psyche. “Like those people selling their skin for dope. Those two sold the meat on their arms and legs?”

  Howard nods. “Every scrap, and mind you, a skilled Flenser can finish the task in moments—they’re quite deft of knife. And believe me, the potency of the narcotics of Hell are more than formidable. Human males tend to sell nearly every fiber of flesh from head to toe; women, however, are far less likely to follow suit as that instance could make the prospect of prostitution pitiably moot . . .”

  With skeleton arms and skeleton legs, then, the pair of addicts cross the bridge, oblivion in their eyes and ruined smiles.

  Yes, sir, you think. This is one big-time fucked-up place. But there you go again, so errantly thinking in terms adorned with profanity. You wince in your confusion.

  In the distance, hulking Conscripts stand guard around a narrow black building that must be a mile long. MATERNITY BARRACKS, a high sign reads. Even from the distance you can hear the wails of infants . . .

  You open your demonic mouth to speak but pause and don’t bother. You agreed to come here and see.

  And now you will be shown.

  Macabre, cancerous horses whinny as a prison wagon (identical to those you saw at the Punitary) stops before a guarded entrance. Now you stare hard.

  “It’s loaded up with . . . really good-looking women,” you mutter.

 
; “The acme of Human female stock, Mr. Hudson,” Howard augments. “The best in all of Hell—indeed—the proverbial cream of the crop. They’re hunted down with the zeal of children at an Easter egg hunt.”

  Naturally, you don’t understand. So far you’ve seen unbelievable life forms, most hideous but some attractive, and Human women have comprised a fare share of the latter. This wagon, however, beggars superlative description. It is full to bursting with Human women who are among the most attractive you’ve ever seen anywhere.

  “They could be runway models,” you utter.

  “It’s part of the new Luciferic Initiative, and Lucifer—however plodding he can sometimes be—has grown fond of efficiency. Two birds with one stone, so to speak. You see, the inhabitants of these queer barracks make up the very finest, most attractive Human women in all of Hell. And in their stay, they will serve dual purposes.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you drone as you approach, and now you watch the sinisterly helmed Conscripts haul the women out of the wagon. They’re all gagged, shackled, and stark naked. In single file, then, they’re led at trident-point into the barracks.

  “There must be forty or fifty women packed into that wagon,” you exclaim.

  “Sixty-six, to be precise,” Howard redresses. “And there are exactly sixty-six Impoundment Wings in this Maternity Barrack.”

  The number staggers you, but then you ask, “What do you mean, dual purposes?”

  “Pardon me while I get us in-processed,” Howard says aside.

  The two gate guards—a pair of pugnacious, phlegm-eyed creatures in scaled armor—stand at a spiked iron gate.

  “I’m with the Office of the Senary,” Howard relays and holds up his palm. It’s the first time that you’ve noticed it: a luminous six branded into his palm.

  The sentries bow and step back; then the spiked gate rises. But before Howard escorts you in, the chain gang of sixty-six outrageously beautiful woman are led in first. Hopeless eyes stare back at you as they’re hauled onward.

  “Ah, and here comes the most recent Impoundment Block to expire,” Howard points out.

  Another chain gang of women are being led in the opposite direction, preparing to exit. This consignment, however, differs from the first group in two ways.