Lucifer's Lottery (20 page)

An uproar rises from the street as the Nectoport lowers to the bone-hewn pavement.
It’s landing
, you think. The Privilato stands hands on hips within the Port’s green-glowing oval, looking upon the ritzy crowd of uptown Demons in a way that reminds you of an old picture of Mussolini looking down into the town square from a stone balcony. The crowd in the street hoots and hollers, the
females in particular nearly apoplectic with enthusiasm. “Privilato!” a corroded chorus rises. “Privilato!”

“Oh, dear.” Howard frowns. “He and his entourage are coming out.” And then he takes you back to an alley. “I’m just not attuned to boisterous crowds, never have been. Indeed, New York was stifling enough but this—this
elephantiasis
of nonhumanity exceeds my demarcation of tolerance.”

You barely hear him, squinting at the loud rabble. For some reason you can’t figure, this jeweled man—this
Privilato
—intrigues you. The glowing rim of the Nectoport’s aperture dilates, and before the Privilato can step out—

“Holy smokes,” you mutter.

“All Privilatos, too, enjoy a full-time detachment of bodyguards. Note the Conscripts from the lauded Diocletian Brigade.”

From the Nectoport, two formations of said Conscripts dispatch. Some wield swords, others brandish mallets whose heads are the size of fifty-five-gallon drums. Plated suits of Hexed armor adorn each troop, while their shell-like helms possess only slits to look through. The crowd’s uproar turns chaotic; then a horn blares, and one of the Conscripts raises a large, hollowed-out horn to his mouth like a loudspeaker. “Attention, all elite of Hell. A Privilato wishes to debark. Do not encroach upon the exclusion perimeter.” And then more Conscripts run lengths of barbed chain from the Nectoport’s mouth to the door of one of the shops on the street.

“The Privilato is about to step into your midst! Bow down and pay reverence to our esteemed favorite of Lucifer!” blasts the horn.

Most of the crowd falls to its knees, though many females in the audience can’t control themselves when the Privilato finally emerges onto the street. One shapely She-Demon
in a gown of bone-needle mesh leans over the barbed cordon, reaching out with a manicured hand. “Privilato! I’m honored by your presence! Please! Let me touch you!” But once she inclines herself over the chain—

SWOOSH!

—a great curved sword flashes and cuts her in half at the waist.

But the crowd continues to surge forward. You actually groan to yourself when two more Conscripts unroll a red carpet before the Privilato’s jeweled feet.

Talk about the high life
. . .

“Back! Back!” warns the loudspeaker. “Disperse now and let the Privilato enjoy a refreshment in peace!”

The Privilato comes forth, his robust concubines trailing behind. The crowd roars louder, which only doubles your perplexion. You look at the jeweled man and notice that, save for the jewels, there is nothing extraordinary about him. His long hair sifts around a bland, unenlivened face. His eyes look dull. Nevertheless he offers the crowd a smile and when he waves at them the uproar rises further.

Finally you object: “This guy’s acting like Kid Rock. What’s the big deal?”

Howard doesn’t answer but instead shoulders through the crowd toward the storefront. “You’ll be interested in seeing this, Mr. Hudson. One of Hell’s greatest delicacies. We’ll have to settle for watching through the window, of course.”

Hell’s greatest delicacy?

“Behold the ultimate indulgence, Mr. Hudson. One snifter carries a monetary value of one million Hellnotes,” Howard sputters. “And to think I fed myself for thirty cents a day on Heinz beans and old cheese from the Mayflower Store.”

The sign on the window reads:
FETAL APERTIFS
.

Now the crowd watches in awe as the Privilato approaches, his busty consorts in tow.

“Let me blow you!” comes the crude plea from a vampiric admirer.

The Soubrettes grimace at her, then one—the Vulvatagoyle—expectorates yeast onto the haughty fanged woman.

When one surgically enhanced Imp jumps the cordon and begs to put her hands on the jeweled man—

WHAM!

—a Conscript brings down his mallet and squashes her against the street.

“Back! Back!”

Even Howard seems awed when the glittering Privilato and his entourage pass by and enter the classy shop.

“The guy looks like a long-haired Liberace,” you complain. “Why is he so important? And what the hell is a Fetal Aperitif?”

“Something I’ve never partaken in—I’m not
privileged
enough, though I did have cotton candy once at Coney Island.” Then Howard smiles at you in the oddest manner. “Mongrel fetuses exist as quite a resource in Hell, Mr. Hudson. Akin to ore, akin to cash crops.”

The notion—the mere way he said it—makes you queasy.

“Economic diversification, by any other classification.”

“Baby farms?” you practically gag.

“Yes! Well put, sir, well put. Like choice grapes selected for the finest wineries, choice
fetuses
are harvested for this four-star aperitif bar.” Howard’s finger directs your gaze to the rearmost anteroom of the establishment, where you see a great tub made from wooden slats.

No no no no no
, you think.

Worker Demons empty bushel baskets full of fetuses into the tub . . .

“I was always amused by the French cliché,” Howard goes on. “The idea that our shifty enemies in the Indian Wars would pile grapes into tubs and crush them barefoot . . .”

When the tub has been filled with squirming newborn Demons, a nine-foot-tall Golem steps in and begins to ponderously walk on them. Eventually the contents of the tub are crushed, and a tap drains the precious liquid into kegs that are then rolled aside to ferment.

Howard looks forlorn. “It’s supposedly delectable, not that I’ll ever receive the opportunity to sample it, not on my pitiful stipend. Lucifer has seen to it that the poverty which mocked me in life will continue to do so in death . . .”

Inside, the Privilato eyes trays of bizarre food placed before him by licentious servers. Wicked versions of shrimp and lobster (lobsters, of course, with horns), braised roasts of shimmering meat, steaming vegetables in arcane sauces. In spite of its alienness, it all looks delicious.

“You see, Mr. Hudson, the
elite
in Hell gorge on delicacies the likes of which would sink the banquets of Lucullus to tameness, and the wine? Splendid enough to green Bacchus with envy.”

You watch now as the Privilato raises a tiny glass of the evil wine and shoots it back neat. The occult rush sets a wide smile on his face, and he looks past the table, right through the window . . .

At you.

The Privilato nods.

You’re sure that if you actually had hands you would grab Howard by the collar and shake him. “Why are you showing me this stuff? And what’s the big deal with that guy in there? He’s got the best-looking girls in Hell for groupies, he flies around in a
Nectoport
, and he gets to drink wine that costs a million bucks a glass. Why?”

“Because,” Howard answers, “and I’ll iterate, the gentleman’s name is Dowski Swikaj, formerly a friar from Guzow, Poland.”

“Yeah?” you yell. “So what!”

“In the frightful year of 1342 AD, Mr. Swikaj won the Senary . . .”

The great, even gouge in the Hellscape that was the Vander-mast Reservoir gave rise to the most abominable stenches, though one well-accustomed to the most evil odors—as Conscript Favius—grew used to them. Stomach-prolapsing smells were as commonplace here as screams. Yet fastidious and well-trained infernal soldiers such as Favius learned to use the sense of smell to their advantage. For instance, when something smelled suddenly
different
. . .

Something could be wrong.

Favius called the rampart under his command to its highest alert state, which entailed observation teams of lower-ranked Conscripts readying weapons, while the Golem Squads went from static to marching patrols. The thuds of the unliving things’ clay feet resounded like thunder; and, meanwhile, Favius’s nostrils flared as the cryptic new odor heightened in potency.
What in Satan’s name is happening?
he thought, his halberd ready in one massive hand, the sword ready in the other. Within minutes, he could see all the nearest ramparts of the reservation coming to alert as well.

It was a vicious stench that suddenly whelmed the place.
An insurgent gas attack?
he wondered. This would not kill Human Damned Conscripts such as himself, nor Golems, of course, but everything else? Yes.

However . . .

No insurgent sightings had been reported, and this far out in the Hellscape?
Their supply lines would become exhausted before they’d even traversed one one-hundredths of the distance from the city to the Reservoir
. . .

What, then?

When the hectophone at the sentry post began to glow, Favius knew who it was.

“Conscript First Class Favius reporting, Grand Sergeant, at your command!” he answered the severed Gargoyle head that had been modified for this purpose. The thing’s frozen-open maw sufficed for the earpiece; its ear was what Favius spoke into. Occultized Electrocity signals served as the frequency through which such long-distance communication was achieved.

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 . . .

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.