Lucifer's Lottery

temporary anymore, my friend. After eons of research and repeated trials, the De Rais Academy has perfected the process. Theoretically, at least, a permanent Merge can be effected—”

Favius froze. “But, but, sir . . . Such a feat would require an unthinkable transfer of Deathforce—”

“Unthinkable no longer,” the Grand Sergeant intoned. “The technology exists. Exactly what it is . . . I’ve not been apprized, but what does it matter? All that matters is this: it will work. Every Soothsayer in the City has foreseen it.”

The prospect made Favius’s head spin. He was just a simple soldier, not a scientist. Nevertheless, the information granted him goaded a simple deduction. “A permanent Spatial Merge, Grand Sergeant, and then . . .” His jaded eyes returned to the window.

“Yes,” Buyoux croaked.

All this hellish Bloodwater and infernal sewage, not to mention the atrocious creatures within . . . His voice sounded parched when he voiced the observation. “They’re going to transfer six billion gallons of this to the Living World.”

“Indeed, they are, Favius—permanently.” The Grand Sergeant tittered. “Like dumping one’s garbage into the yard of a neighbor—the very idea is thrilling.”

“But a Merge requires a target of equal volume, Grand Sergeant. When the contents of the Reservoir is sent there, something from there must then be brought here.”

“You remember your lessons well, astute killer. It’s an interesting swap, to say the least.” Buyoux pointed to the churning scarlet slop within the massive Reservoir. “We’re exchanging six billion gallons of that with six billion gallons of fresh water—”

“Great Satan!” Favius exclaimed.

“What a slight to God and all that’s holy, yes? There’s never been fresh water in Hell, so Lucifer will simply steal it from God’s green Earth, and with it he will make his own oasis . . .”

Favius reeled at the implication.

Buyoux’s corrupted voice reduced to the slightest whisper yet. “And we will be the first to see it, my friend. And we will even be allowed to drink of it . . .”

This, Favius could not even conceive.

“So be on your guard, warrior. Nothing must go wrong now. The Reservoir is nearly filled.”

Favius’s gaze jerked out. “And, Grand Sergeant! The storm has passed!”

“Just as the Channelers predicted. Good omens abound!” Buyoux returned to the window. During their guarded talk, the Sputum Storm has indeed abated, the green clouds were now black again and dissipating before their eyes. Even the infernal wind had died.

Favius and Buyoux went out on the rampart. The Golems were already at work squeegeeing the noxious rain off the black flooring into the Reservoir. Favius immediately ordered a damage report from his underlings.

“The rampart is secure, Grand Sergeant. We only lost three Golems—”

“And Conscripts?”

“None lost, sir.”

“Splendid!”

“But, sir, if I may ask . . .”

The Grand Sergeant gave a modest nod, but his eyes said quietly.

“When . . . will the Merge take place?” Favius whispered.

“When the Main Sub-Inlets gush no more and the Reservoir is filled to capacity.” And then they both looked out over Hell’s first man- and demon-made lake.

The fluid level had risen so high that only the uppermost fringe of the Inlet could be seen and therefore only a fringe of the atrocious inflow.

But they both knew this: the Vandermast Reservoir would be filled very, very soon.

Favius ordered a work detail of Imps to clean the ill-colored muck from the Grand Sergeant’s armor; in the meantime, the Grand Sergeant himself strolled closer to the rampart’s edge, hands on hips, to marvel at the sight of the pit’s filling.

It was Favius, not Buyoux, who noticed several jagged cracks in the basilisk stonework.

Alarmed, Favius rushed forward. “Grand Sergeant! Step back, sir—the storm seems to have caused some stress fractures in the foundation—”

Buyoux glanced down, shrugging. “Oh, I don’t think that’s anything to worry ab—” But before the dismissal of caution could be finished—

“Grand Sergeant!” Favius bellowed.

—the black stonework beneath Buyoux’s feet gave way, and then an entire wedge of the flooring fell out of the rampart and tumbled into the pit’s roiling scarlet ooze. Grand Sergeant Buyoux had no time to even cry for help as he fell into the ooze, too.

“Man the wall!” Favius commanded at the top of his lungs. “Ropes and ladders! Now!” And then—

SPLASH!

—he dove unhesitantly into the churning, bubbling, and creature-infested Bloodwater, but even before his feet had left the retaining wall, there’d been no sign of Grand Sergeant Buyoux . . .

CHAPTER TEN

(I)

Gerold laughed to himself when, after hours on the lake, he realized he was still wearing his life preserver. With my luck, I’d fall in BEFORE I’ve had my fill of crayfish. He was on his fourth pot now—and that lady was right, they were almost the size of lobsters. Gerold’s last meal was everything he’d hoped for and more.

By nine, the sun began to sink, a spectacular sight from his vantage point in the middle of the lake. The molten orange light slowly turned pink behind the endless range of westerly trees. Gerold stared.

It seemed strange that he would only notice the world’s intense beauty on this final day of his life.

But beauty it was—a delirious, sharp-as-cracked-glass beauty that he’d never been aware of until now. It’s easy to take things for granted until you know you’re about to lose them . . .

The Sterno can was lasting longer than he’d expected. He dropped the trap for another haul—why not?

I’m not exactly in a rush, am I?

He leaned back in his safety chair, half dozing and half staring at dusk’s shifting cornucopia of light playing on the lake’s mirror-still surface . . .

When will I do it? The question kept popping up in the back of his head. I really AM going to kill myself, right? But he knew that he was, he was positive. Even now, with the beautiful evening, the gorgeous lake, the delectable food, and the utter peace and quiet—he still wanted to do it. He yearned for it.

For some reason, he was suddenly thinking about that guy he talked to at the church. What did he say his name was? Hudson? He’d read Gerold like a book—He KNEW I wanted to kill myself. What was it like to be a guy like that, Gerold wondered. The center of his life was his faith—he was even going to become a priest. That was some sacrifice.

And, shit, I promised the guy I’d be in church Sunday, he recalled. Looks like I’ll be breaking that one.

But what Hudson didn’t understand was that things worked different for different people, and so did the world. Gerold wasn’t a bad guy, so would he really go to Hell for offing himself? If there really was a God, Gerold felt sure he would understand.

Life just isn’t for me. It’s that simple. No sour grapes, no regrets. It was great while it lasted but