Lucifer's Lottery

Bapho-Rats.

Krilid loved coming to the Torturaries—they were perfect places for target practice.

Slug-skinned Ushers stalked the grounds to supervise the Torture Attendants, and as for Cage Roasting? Sulphur beds were kept sizzlingly hot by various Crossbreeds forced to constantly pump foot-operated bellows systems. Above each bed hung a cage, quite like an iron maiden, which contained one very unhappy subject. The cages were lowered very slowly, and when the occupant began to burn, the cage was raised, to protract the unassuagible pain. Agonicity terminals were implanted into each subject’s brain, to provide the compound with all the power it needed.

Krilid groaned as he watched the machinelike process below: the systematic raising and lowering of the facility’s hundreds of Roasting Cages. Eventually a captive would be roasted down to a crisped twig but since almost all prisoners here were Human Damned, those twigs never died. They’d be thrown into trenches where they would twitch, shudder, and think for eternity.

Krilid figured he was half a mile up when he sighted his matchlock rifle. The sounds that came from below could’ve been a diabolic song. Screams intensified as cages were lowered, then diminished when they were raised. It was a pipe organ in Hell, with Human throats as the pipes.

BAM!

Gotcha! Krilid rejoiced after the rifle’s delayed discharge. The horrific head of an Usher in the center of the field erupted like a large, ripe fruit. Consternation ensued after that first shot, Conscripts coming to alert in the towers, Torture Attendants being called back to barracks—

BAM!

The head of a Captain of the Guard burst next. Krilid chuckled as he reloaded. Now alarm sirens were sounding. When an Air Viceroy took off on a saddled Gryphon—

BAM!

—Krilid waited till the winged beast had ascended to a sufficient height before he shot its beaked head off. Spiny feathers dispersed, and the Viceroy fell straight down and landed in one of the sulphur beds.

Yeah!

Krilid knew his time was short. Now that the Torturary was under attack, an Archlock would be summoned to determine Krilid’s position. If detected fast enough, Krilid could be blinded or paralyzed via the Psychic Sorcerer’s telepathy, but—

I’ve never killed an Archlock before, he realized.

It was a foolhardy chance he was taking but Krilid felt lucky today. He squinted from the Nectoport’s egress. An Archlock wouldn’t expose himself on the open field but he would have to make a visual assessment of the scenario . . .

Windows, Krilid thought. No Archlock could psychically scan the sky without at least looking out a window.

And Archlocks all gave off auras . . .

Don’t dillydally, Krilid ordered himself, his shooting eye wide open behind the sight.

It was in one of the tiny tower windows that Krilid thought he spotted the tiniest flash of liquid-black light, like a wavering luminous vapor. It was a long shot, but he aimed, squeezed the weapon’s rickety trigger, then bucked backward when the sizable projectile rocketed out of the rifle barrel.

Krilid kept his gnarled fingers crossed. Then—

You gotta be kidding me!

—the prison tower exploded as if demolitioned, not from the impact of the bullet, of course, but from the spontaneous release of cabalistic energy caused by the bullet’s entrance into the Archlock’s skull. Bricks, Conscripts, Ushers, blood, guts, and limbs all flew violently into the air, then rained back down. Bolts of black light like stygian lightning cracked in the wake of the Archlock’s assassination.

Krilid chuckled when he zoomed the Nectoport out of the vicinity. I guess that’s what you call a hole in one.

But his amusement and satisfaction didn’t last long. True, he’d done a good job, but it was only target practice. Very soon, he would be faced with the Real McCoy—and have to score a similar head-shot on Master Builder Joseph Curwen . . .

(III)

Howard turns around, with you on the stick. Suddenly you’re facing all sixty-six of your personal concubines, standing beautiful and nude, in formation, the six Pamela Andersons right up front.

My God, you think. I can’t believe what I’m about to do . . .

“Well, Mr. Hudson?” Howard asks.

You don’t even hesitate now. “I accept the Senary.”

Howard’s pale face seems to flush with relief. “Great Pegana! For a while I truly feared you would turn it down.”

So did I . . . You sigh. “So what happens now?”

“Well, I hope you’ll pardon the cliche, keeping in mind, however, that cliches are actually quite powerful Totems of classicism here.”

“Cliche?”

Howard nods. “You’ll have to sign a formal contract.”

“In blood, I suppose.”

“Yes. Your own.”

Then it strikes you: “I can’t sign a contract! I’m a pumpkin! I’ve got no hands!”

“Not here, Mr. Hudson. Remember, right now you are still in fact an inhabitant of the Living World. Once I displace you back to the Larken House, the Senarial Messenger will have your contract prepared.”

The deaconess, you remember. “So then what? I sign and then kill myself?”

“Goodness no! You still have the rest of your life to enjoy, and you will be able to do so in grand style.”

“I don’t get it,” you tell him.

“Upon putting your commitment into writing, Lucifer will grant a so-called ‘signing bonus,’ in the sum of six million dollars—”

“Six million! In cash?”

“Cash money, sir, this for you to suitably finance yourself until your physical life does, in fact, end. You will die painlessly in your sleep, Mr. Hudson, six days after your sixty-sixth birthday.”

Your demonic eyes bloom. And I’m still young! I’ve still got more than HALF MY LIFE left to live! And with six million bucks to boot!

“There’s only one point I need to make, though, Mr. Hudson, and I cannot overemphasize its pertinency.” Howard looks at you quite seriously. “Once you’ve signed the contract, no amount of repentance can reverse its terms. Once you’ve signed the contract . . . you’ve abandoned God forever.”

The words sink deep.

Howard shrugs. “But with all you’ll be given here, in a lock-solid guarantee? What real man would ever want to repent?”

As you stare once more at all those beautiful women and demons, you can think of nothing—absolutely nothing—to counter what he’s just said. I’ve believed in God my whole life. I’ve done everything in my power for as long as I can remember to SERVE GOD. My faith was so strong that I was going to become a PRIEST. But-but—

“You’ve got a deal, Howard,” you say.

“And so do you, Mr. Hudson. You have Lucifer’s untold gratitude for the victory you’re allowing him to score over God.” Howard takes your Snot-Gourd off the stick. “We’ll all be waiting for you. And I look forward to an eternity of friendship with you.”

“Ditto,” you say.