Lucifer's Lottery

“And now? Until that wondrous time . . .” Howard removes the pulpy plug in the back of the gourd, and the gas of your Ethereal Spirit slips out like air from a popped balloon . . .

PART FOUR

MACHINATION

CHAPTER ELEVEN

(I)

When Favius’s muscle-girded body dove into the pit, he felt as though he’d landed in a morass of scarlet sewage. He’d done this, though, with no hesitation. The Grand Sergeant may well have already sunk to the bottom, or been consumed by some atrocious seaborne monstrosity that the Pipe-way had transferred to the Reservoir, but—

It is my duty to Lucifer to try to save him.

At once the appallingly thick currents turned him this way and that. The chunky Bloodwater remained turbulent from the winds of the passing storm; alternate currents tugged him farther from the force of still more Bloodwater surging through the sub-inlets. His inhumanly strong arms and legs stroked in the hot red slop. Small things nudged at him, scenting his presence and also his fear, but then some larger things nudged him, too, Divell-Eels, probably, and Gut-Fish. Favius thrashed them away, knowing all the while that much bigger creatures would be scenting him as well, things that could swallow him whole. He knew he had precious little time to find the Grand Sergeant and drag him out.

Holding his breath, he thrust himself down . . .

At the time of the Grand Sergeant’s fall, he’d not yet redonned his plate-mail armor—a good thing, for he’d be easier to drag up. But the bad thing was that Favius still wore his armor, and in spite of his superiority of musculature, he needed twice as much strength to navigate in this living stew. During his desperate motions, he managed to slide off his helmet, and unsnap his breast plate, and this helped minutely. Then his hands groped out as he plunged deeper, feeling for anything that might be his commander, but he knew that his energy would dwindle in moments.

Satan, help me, I beg you . . .

It wasn’t death he feared—as one of the Human Damned, he, like the Grand Sergeant, could not die—but to be swallowed by a Gorge-Worm, for instance, or to have a Gigapede slip instantly down his throat and begin to feed would be far worse than even the grisliest physical destruction. Blind in the Bloodwater, Favius howled bubbles when a Spirochete-Fluke wrapped about his face. He tore it off with one hand, then shredded it with several maniacal swipes of his sword.

A lost cause, he knew as his energy waned. His hand kept lashing out, hoping to grab something that might be the Grand Sergeant but all he came up with were fistfuls of waste, rotten flesh scraps, or body parts.

One last plunge downward, then—

—and he grabbed an arm still connected to a body. The arm moved . . .

The prospect of hope doubled Favius’s strength. Yes, a living arm was now in his grasp, and then his columnlike legs kicked, and he was propelled upward—

splash!

Favius broke the surface, hauling in breaths; and moaning in his grasp was Grand Sergeant Buyoux.

May the Prince of Darkness be praised!

The Grand Sergeant was still conscious. He heaved in vile breaths after hacking up much Bloodwater.

“Grand Sergeant! Hold on to me!” Favius yelled over the churning din. “I’m losing my strength—”

Even in his terrified stupor, Buyoux looked astonished at the man who’d saved him. “In the name of all things unholy, Favius! You hurled yourself into the maw of almost certain destruction only in the tiniest chance of saving me—”

Favius’s muscles raged in pain from the exertion of breast-stroking through the thick liquid horror. “Try to kick with me, sir! My strength is ebbing from this current . . .”

They managed to splash a sluggish course back to the wall of the rampart, where a rope ladder awaited them.

“We made it!” Buyoux shouted.

Not quite yet, Favius realized. While they remained in the Bloodwater, they were still easy prey; and what might’ve been worse was the fact that the back current at the wall kept forcing them off. Conscripts above dropped more rope ladders; Flavius lunged—

Got it!

—and grabbed one.

What little strength remained was used to shove Grand Sergeant Buyoux up.

“Grab the rung!”

Buyoux’s enfeebled hands barely managed to do so. “It should be you on this ladder, not I—”

“Climb, Grand Sergeant!”

Favius used his own weight at the bottom to steady the ladder. It was the back current along the wall that made it almost impossible. Meanwhile, one rung at a time, Buyoux clawed his way up—

“You’re the bravest man in Hell, Favius—”

“Climb!”

Feet from the top, several Conscripts grabbed Buyoux and pulled him safely over the wall. The troops cheered—

Favius’s muscles spasmed as he doggedly began to climb the ladder.

“Get him up!” Buyoux bellowed.

Another rung, then another. Then—

snap!

The rung broke. Favius fell back into the Bloodwater.

He began to drift backward in the current.

“No!” Buyoux screamed above.

I’m not going to make it, Favius knew. His strength was gone now—he was helpless to fight his way back against the current, but then—

Silence slammed down over the entire Reservoir. The roar of the Main Sub-Inlets . . . ceased.

And the current died.

“Favius! Swim!”

It must have been by the grace of Satan that Favius was able to find more strength and stroke his way back toward the wall where a dozen rope ladders waited for him.

But even in his terror, he didn’t understand. What’s happening?

“Faster!” Buyoux shouted. “The pumps have been turned off, which can only mean the Reservoir is filled!”

Filled? Favius continued de-energized strokes toward the ladder. The silence stifled him, but now he thought he smelled something very sudden and not characteristic of the heinous Reservoir and its