Lucifer's Lottery

workers atop those buildings stained as well. Yet this zone’s most salient feature clearly existed in its composition. The outline of its high buildings, towers, and industrial structures appeared fuzzy, blurred, imprecise. Spongy, Favius thought. The mishmash of colors—all drab reds, greens, and yellows—offered the most bizarre contrast. Then, Favius knew . . .

“Rot-Port?” he asked rather than stated.

“I think so, almost assuredly,” Buyoux said.

“The District where all within is composed of some type of rot. The walls of the skyscrapers and buildings, the streets and sidewalks, even the very bricks themselves are manufactured by using deliberately cultured strains of rot, waste, and mold.”

“You know much, Favius.” The Grand Sergeant seemed pleased. “You’ve performed duties there in the past?”

“No, Grand Sergeant, but I have heard of the place.”

“Splendid. Then what else is Rot-Port known for other than its plaguey composition?”

“I believe, sir, that Rot-Port is the most active harbor in the Mephistopolis, and the largest guarded District along the Gulf of Cagliostro.”

“You’ve learned well,” Buyoux approved, “for that is quite true. It’s the most elaborate Port District in the city.” Now the Grand Sergeant eyed Favius narrowly. “Speculations?”

An excited hush caught in Favius’s armored chest. “It must be the Bloodwater of the Gulf itself that the Engineers mean to fill this Reservoir with . . .”

Buyoux nodded, arms crossed as he looked out. “And it’s no stretch to assume. Rot-Port is guarded nearly as well as Satan Park and the very domain of Lucifer’s new manse. If any District is impervious to insurgent meddling, it is there. Therefore, we may well have the answer . . . or at least half of it.”

Favius understood at once. “Yes, Grand Sergeant. The other half being this: what purpose could there be in tapping six billion gallons of the Gulf and pumping it here?”

Yes. All at once, like a bomb going off, it made perfect sense now, but that only left the even more bizarre question.

“Until that is answered, soldier, we can only tend to our tasks—to the death, if need be—and wait.” Buyoux’s voice ground lower. “At least we’ll have something to ponder until the time comes when our Great Dark Lord deems that we should know.”

Favius felt an ecstatic privilege having the conclusion shared with him. Joy was little felt here—save for the joy of serving Satan—but now he’d been blessed with a joy greater even than that of slaughtering the innocent.

“Our respite is finished now, good servant,” Buyoux said and took back the Glasses.

“Thank you for bestowing me the honor, Grand Sergeant . . .”

“You deserve it.” Again, Buyoux’s voice declined in volume. “There are great wonders afoot, here, there, all about. And we are privileged to be a part of it.”

“Yes, your Wretched Eminence!”

Buyoux seemed to pause, suddenly taken by the Conscript’s adornments on his arms and face. “Tell me, just how many women and children did you kill in Angle-Land?”

Favius paused. “I . . . never kept count, sir. Hundreds, I’m sure.”

“But what of the men?”

“They were hobbled and enslaved, then forced to build fortifications until they dropped.”

“Then why not do the same to the women and children?”

“It was viewed as too great a risk, Grand Sergeant. Better to butcher the women so that their wombs may never bear future enemies, and better to butcher the children so that they may never grow to adulthood to raise a sword against Rome.”

Buyoux’s scabbed brow rose. “My. You are quite a killer . . .” He patted Favius’s armored back. “And soon, by the grace of the Morning Star, you may be killing again.”

Favius snapped to attention. “I live to serve Lucifer!”

Buyoux, hands behind his back, began to walk away. “And, Favius? Mind your tongue.”

“I would halve myself with a halberd before I would betray a confidence, Grand Sergeant!”

Buyoux, still smiling, raised his left forearm. “Until we meet again, hail Satan . . .”

“Hail Satan!”

Favius brimmed in the news of his departing commander. Yes! There IS hope . . . What else might the Grand Sergeant have implied of the future? But as he turned to ponder this question he found himself staring down at the rampart’s stone floor . . .

He stared.

The shining black surface of basalt shined like polished obsidian; and in that reflection he peered at the adornments of his Oath in the Brigade.

The prideful thought slipped into his head: Praise to Lucifer. My adornments look so much better than the Grand Sergeant’s . . .

Indeed. Onto nearly every square inch of Favius’s body had been grafted the severed face of a murder victim, the Human Damned, the face of a species of Demon, a Hybrid, a Troll or Imp—it didn’t matter.

Favius liked his modifications, especially those most recent. Onto each cheek had been grafted the face of a butchered demonic newborn babe.

(III)

Gerold rolled out of the downtown library, into stifling heat.

Jesus . . . Between Florida’s high temperatures and the outrageous humidity, he felt as though he’d just rolled into a pizza oven. He wilted even before he’d made it to the Fourth Street bus stop.

Gerold didn’t walk, he rolled. In a Tracer EX2 wheelchair. The IED near Fallujah had penetrated the floor of his Hummer, just a week before the vehicle had been scheduled for up-armoring. Gerold had killed four insurgents that day with the caliber .50—his first enemy kills, he was pretty sure—and felt awful about it, even knowing that the four would’ve gladly killed him and not felt awful about it. On his way back to the firebase, the bomb had gone off, shattering his spine and shredding his kidneys. He’d never walk again, and would need dialysis for the rest of his life.

Still, he kept the faith, or at least he had until last night.

Shit. Last night. What was I doing? Then: “Shit!”

In a gust of exhaust-stoked heat, the bus roared by when Gerold was but five yards from the bus stop. The driver had pretended not to see him, and he knew why. Because it’s a pain in his ass to lower the wheelchair ramp . . .

Sweat trickled down his forehead as he wheeled north.

Last night. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. The last time he’d been in that bar was three years ago—on a thirty-day leave—and, yes, he’d solicited a prostitute, the very one he’d seen last night wearing the NO GAG REFLEX shirt. The sin made him feel tainted, but he wanted to be with a woman, if only for a few minutes, in case he got killed when he went back to his combat duty station. Last night, though? Why? Why go in there knowing I can’t do anything anymore! It doesn’t make sense! It was almost as if some cruel sliver of his psyche had forced him in there just to make him feel lousy. Impotent. Sterile.

That’s when he had snapped, and determined to go to the library the following day . . .

Gerold had opted for a manual chair rather than a battery-powered one; at least if his legs no longer worked, he’d have strong arms. But . . .

Big deal, he thought now, huffing as he wheeled farther up. The heat was killing him. And though Florida possessed mind-boggling heat, it also possessed mind-bogglingly attractive women. They walked by this way and that, braless breasts bouncing beneath sheer tops, with sleek tan legs, silken hair, and beaming faces. However, this, too, had become an annoyance even worse than the heat because as the women passed they either averted their eyes or merely didn’t see him at all, as though he were utterly invisible. Just more reminders of what he could never have.