Lucifer's Lottery (7 page)

Hudson’s eyes inched lower, to her pubis, where his speechless gaze was hijacked by a plenteous triangle of bronze fur.

This deaconess had one full-tilt body
. . .

“I-I-I,” she faltered. The dull blue of her eyes seemed to
implore him. “I’ve been instructed . . . to tell you that you kuh-kuh-can sodomize me if you ssssssso . . . desire, or-or-or I will give you . . . oral . . . ssssssex. It’sssss part of winning the Senary.” She seemed to gag. “It’ssss what they said to say.” Then she turned, quite robotically—showing an awesome rump—and foraged through some old cupboards.

“
They
said?” Hudson questioned. “Who’s
they?
”

“A Class III Machinator and his Spotter,” she told him, still rummaging. “They’re Bio-Wizards. They work in a Channeling Fortress in the Emetic District. They’re mmmmmm-achinating me. That’s why . . . I’m acting errrrrrr-atically. They’re manipulating my . . . will.” Then she bent over, to search a lower cabinet.

Holy moly!
As wrong as all this was—especially for a future seminarist—Hudson couldn’t take his eyes off her physique. When she’d bent, the action only amplified the magnificence of her rump. “What are you looking for?” he finally asked.

“Ah. Here.” She straightened, holding a bottle of Vigo olive oil. She stood awkwardly then, and began smoothing palmfuls of the oil over her body. Hudson stared, stupefied.

What am I going to do?
he thought.
I’ve got a buck-naked deaconess with a body like Raquel Welch in
Fantastic Voyage
lubing herself up with my Vigo. This is insane. SHE’S insane
.

She sat up on the dowdy kitchen table and lay back, continuing to spread the oil. Her skin glimmered almost too intensely to focus on for long. “They t-t-told me you’d like thissssss.”

“Uh, well . . .”

“I-I-I’m chaste, by the way—I have . . . to tell you that, too.” Now her hands were reoiling her breasts and belly. “It’s a prerequisite. Any Senarial Messenger mmmmm-ust be virginal, as well as a guh-guh-guh-godly person.” She pulled her knees back, then splashed some oil between her
spread legs. “You kuh-kuh-can put it right . . . here,” she said, and touched her anus. “Would you like to?”

Hudson stared at the question as much as the gleaming spectacle. Simply
thinking
about doing it seemed more luxurious than anything he’d ever fathomed. But—

I am NOT going to have anal sex with a crazy deaconess!

“Or-or-or . . . here,” she said, now pressing the perfect breasts together, to highlight the slippery valley. “Just nuh-nuh-not my vuh-vuh-vuh-vagina . . . I mmmmmust remain chaste.”

The action of her hands, in tandem with the shining, perfect skin, nearly hypnotized Hudson. It seemed as though she were
wearing
a magnifying glass out in the sun; that’s how brightly she gleamed. His arousal became uncomfortable in his pants.
This woman’s off the deep end. I need to get her out of here
. Yet every time he resolved to tell her to leave, the image of her body grew more intense, silencing him,
commanding
him to watch.

Now her hands massaged the oil into the abundant triangle, which began to shine like spun gold.

This is too much
. . . Hudson thought.

The woman simply lay still, waiting.

“You-you-you-you’re allowed to,” she droned.

Hudson reeled, staring.

“No,” he blurted, cursing himself.
I want to, damn it, but
. . . “You’re going to have to leave, miss. Are you on medication or something? Drugs? I could call a hotline through my church—”

“You’re-you’re-you’re . . . not interested?”

“No.”

“Oh,” she responded. “Okay.” Then she dully put her raiments back on, adjusting the white collar. She shambled to the sink to soap and wash her hands.

For land’s sake. What is going ON?

Hudson watched, mute, as she ground her teeth a few more times, winced, then headed for the door.

“You’re-you’re under no obligation, by the way,” she said, her back to him. “I’m-I’m-I’m ssssss-upposed to tell you that, and muh-muh-make it clear.”

“What is this Senary stuff!” Hudson barked.

“But if you’re . . . interested . . . Fuh-fuh-follow the instructions,” she feebled, and then she walked out of the apartment, leaving Hudson dumbstruck, painfully aroused, and smelling olive oil.

Did any of that really happen?
He stared at the closed door for five full minutes. Perhaps he’d dreamed it; perhaps he was sleeping. He pinched himself hard and frowned.
But if you’re interested
. . .
follow the instructions
.

Only then did he realize he was still holding the envelope she’d initially given him.

He opened it and pulled out, first, a plain sheet of paper on which had been floridly handwritten:

YOU HAVE WON THE SENARY. ALL WILL BE EXPLAINED IF YOU CHOOSE TO PROCEED. SHOULD YOU DECIDE THAT YOU ARE INTERESTED, CARRY ON TO THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS AFTER SUNDOWN WITHIN THE NEXT SIX DAYS.

An unfamiliar address—24651 Central—was written below, which he believed was somewhere in the downtown area. Hudson read what remained.

YOU ARE UNDER NO OBLIGATION TO ACCEPT, AND WHETHER YOU DO OR NOT, YOU MAY KEEP THE REMUNERATION.

Remuner
—

Hudson dug back into the envelope and discovered
another
envelope.

It felt fat.

He tore it open and found—

Holy SHIT
. . .

—$6,000 in crisp and apparently brand-new one-hundred-dollar bills. The bills were oddly bundled, however, in paper-clipped divisions of six.

“You gotta be shitting me!” Gerold muttered when he wheeled up to Worden’s Hardware Store. He’d always liked the place because it reminded him of days past—days when recessions weren’t strangling the economy and changing the way people shopped. Now everything was malls, Internet shopping, and Home Depots the size of naval vessels.
Whatever happened to mom-and-pop shops?
Modernity, that’s what. There was no place for them these days, just as there was no place for small, family-owned hardware stores like Worden’s where the people working there actually knew what they were talking about.

Hence, Gerold’s displeasure, after wheeling three blocks in the sun from the bus stop. The sign was a sign of the times:
SORRY, WORDEN’S IS NO LONGER IN BUSINESS. THANK YOU FOR FIFTY YEARS OF SUPPORT
.

Gerold had specifically come here for something, but now he’d have to bus to Home Depot.
Shit
.

He’d come here to buy about twenty feet of decent gauge rope so that he could hang himself. “Not today,” he mumbled and wheeled off. He wasn’t up for the extra bus to Home Depot right now.
Looks like I’ll have to go to work tomorrow after all
. . .
’cos I won’t be dead yet
.

He’d already figured how he would do it, but it would
have to be late. Gerold’s apartment was on the third floor (the only inexpensive apartment building in town with an elevator). He’d wait till two, three in the morning, tie one end of the rope to the balcony rail, then fling himself off. If anybody even woke up in the apartment below, Gerold felt sure he’d be dead before they could do anything, and he didn’t like those people anyway—a snitty retired couple who always ignored him and frowned when he was doing his laundry. He guessed they thought a paraplegic’s dirty laundry was grosser than theirs.

Maybe when I hang myself, I’ll do it naked, with my catheter bag hanging. When those assholes come out in the morning for their coffee
—
surprise!
The idea made Gerold smile.

Months ago he printed a how-to sheet off the Internet: the precise way to make a hangman’s noose.

The sun’s heat drummed into him, but in the time it would take the next bus to come, he could be home anyway. Several rednecks in a dented hot rod grinned at him when the
WALK
light came on. “It says
walk
, not
roll!
” one of them laughed. Gerold said nothing; he was used to it. His rolling trek continued, down the main road. Eventually, though, he stopped, and he didn’t know what caused him to do so. He sat there for several minutes, staring.

His eyes had fixated on a looming crucifix . . .

The church
, he realized after several more moments. Why had he wheeled a block past his apartment?
Subconscious, probably
. The dying Catholic in him knew the never-changing rule:
If you kill yourself, you go to Hell. No matter what. No exceptions
.

It seemed like a ridiculous rule.

Shit, I don’t even know if I believe in Heaven or Hell
. . . Still, without much forethought, he wheeled toward the high-ceilinged church, the same church he attended every Sunday.
What am I doing? If I don’t believe in Heaven or
Hell, then that means I don’t believe in God, and if I don’t believe in God, why am I rolling this FUCKIN’ chair toward the CHURCH?

A slim, dark-haired man in his midtwenties came out of the rectory/school building. He was toting a garbage bag. “How’s it going? Is there anything I can help you with?”

Gerold felt silly. “Well, um . . .” That’s when he recognized the guy—one of the church assistants. He wore black shoes, black slacks, black shirt, but no white collar. “I’ve seen you plenty of times.”

“Yeah, my name’s Hudson.”

They shook hands. “I’m Gerold.”

“I’ve seen you, too,” Hudson said.

I’m easy to remember. The young guy in the FUCKIN’ chair
. “Oh, and you know, I think I saw you in the bar last night, the Lounge . . .” Gerold’s eyes thinned. “Er, well, maybe it was someone else.”

“I confess,” Hudson said. “It was me. I was . . . having a few beers.”

“Oh, yeah, and the baseball game.” But now it all felt dismal. It reminded him of going there in the first place, and seeing those two hookers.

“You look like something’s on your mind,” Hudson said.

“Yeah, I guess there is.” Then Gerold laughed. “I’m not even sure why I came here.”

“There’s a late service at 7:30, but you’ve still got a few hours to wait.”

“I . . . have a question, I guess.”

“Okay.”

“But . . . you’re not a priest, are you?”

“No, no, but I hope to be some day. I leave for the seminary next week. I just help out around here, Communion prep, Epistle readings”—he held up the big plastic bag—“taking out the garbage. If it’s spiritual counsel you want, I can make an appointment for you with Father Darren.”

The thought chilled Darren. “Oh, no, see, he knows me—”

Hudson laughed. “He’s a
priest
, Gerold. He’s sworn to confidentiality.”

Gerold wasn’t convinced. He didn’t want to be embarrassed or look foolish. “I’d rather ask you ’cos you strike me as a regular guy.”

Hudson chuckled. “Well, I am, I suppose. What’s your question?”

“If,” he began but at once, he didn’t really know what to say. “If you’re sorry for your sins, you’re forgiven, right?”

“Sure. If you’re really sorry.”

“Well . . . is it possible to be sorry for a sin you haven’t committed yet but know you will?”

Hudson paused, and something about his demeanor darkened. “I’m not liking the sound of this, Gerold. Are you talking about suicide?”

Gerold could’ve howled.
How the hell did he know!
“No, man. It’s just a question. I’m curious.”

Hudson’s look indicated that he didn’t believe it. “The answer to your question is
no
. Being truly sorry for a sin is fine, even a potential sin, but only along with an act of repentance. How can a person repent if they’re dead?”

Gerold said nothing.

“Let’s go into the office right now. I’ll hook you up with one of the hotlines.”

“No, no, you’ve got this all wrong,” Gerold lied, sweating hard now. “I’m not going to kill myself—”

“Let me get Father Darren. He’d be happy to talk to you—”

“No, no, please, it’s nothing—”

“Gerold. Swear that you won’t kill yourself, or I’ll call a hotline right now.”

Gerold cringed in the chair.
Me and my big mouth!
“I swear I won’t kill myself.”

“Swear to
God
.”

Gerold sighed. “All right, I swear to God I won’t kill myself—”

“Swear to God on the
Bible
.”

Gerold laughed. “What, you carry a Bible around in your back pocket?”

From his back pocket, Hudson produced a Bible.

“Come on, man,” Gerold groaned.

“Swear on it.”

Gerold put his hand on the Bible. “I swear to God on the
Bible
that I won’t kill myself.”

“Good.” Hudson regained his ease. “If you break that, you’ll be in a world of hurt. God’s a nice guy but he’s also been known for some big-time wrath in the past. Trust me, you don’t want to incur it—”

“I’m not gonna kill myself, man . . .”

“You’re coming to the service tonight?”

“No. Sunday.”

“For sure?”

Jesus!
“Yes. I always do.”

“Good. I’ll make an appointment for you to talk to Father Darren afterward, okay?”

Gerold slumped in place. “Okay.”

Hudson grinned. “Now, if you don’t show up, I’ll find out where you live—it’s in the church records—and I’ll bring half the congregation to your apartment, and there’ll be a big scene, and you’ll really be embarrassed—”

Gerold laughed outright now.

“—so you’ll be there, right?”

“Yes!” Gerold insisted. “I promise!”

“Good.” Hudson winked. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah. Later.” Gerold thought,
What a pain in the ass!
But at least he was laughing as he wheeled back down the block. His shadow followed him along the sidewalk. He didn’t feel very good about lying so outright but what could
he do? Hudson expected him in church Sunday, but he was certain he’d be dead by then.

The Electrocity Generators hummed as the main phalanx of Ushers marched in formation about the security perimeter. The brimstone wall completely encircled the construction site, each joist fitted with a chapel in which Mongrels and the Human Damned were mutilated and sacrificed on a regular basis. The constant torture and screams and death kept the Hell-Flux about the Demonculus
rich
.