Lucifer's Lottery

CHAPTER FIVE

(I)

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 . . .

(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