Lucifer's Lottery (8 page)

In the tallest minaret, the Archlock Curwen—the Devil’s Supreme Master Builder—watched from the eyelike observation port. He existed as Hell’s most talented Organic Engineer.

He looked up, up, up . . .

This close, the 666-foot figure looked mountainous. Tens of thousands of forced laborers had been required to build it, most of the abomination’s body being forged out of noxious slop by the bare hands of trained Trolls and Imps. The majority of the labor contingent, however, had been comprised of sundry other denizen slaves engaged in the task of hauling the immeasurable amounts of construction material from the Siddom Valley’s famed
Basin Putrudus
, the Inferno’s most immense corpse pit. Technically, the Demonculus was a Golem—the largest ever built—but unlike this lower variant, it was not made of corrupted clay; instead, the appalling wares of the Basin Putrudus were used: peatlike muck commingled with the putrefaction of unnumbered dead bodies—millions, no doubt. The material’s very
vileness
gave the Demonculus its sheer power.
So gorgeous
, Curwen mused. Looking at the motionless creature
now, he thought of a heinous version of the Colossus of Rhodes . . .

The Master Builder was pleased, as he knew Lucifer would soon be as well.

Curwen had died in 1771 when suspicious villagers had raided his subterranean chancel and caught him in an act of blasphemous coition with a conjured demonness. He was buried alive on Good Friday. Yet his unrepentant sorcery—including the untold murder of children, the consumption of virginal blood for ritualism and sport, and the overall pursuit of all things ungodly—left him in great favor upon his death and descent into Hell, such that the ultimate Benefactor here entrusted Curwen to this most unholy of endeavors. Indeed, Lucifer had told him outright in his impossible, shining voice, “My brother Curwanus, you are perhaps the only of the Human Damned I trust; hence, it is into your hands that I place this task, one of the greatest offenses against God ever devised. I have foreseen that you shan’t disappoint me.”

Indeed, I shan’t
, Curwen thought, still staring up at the beatific—and atrocious—thing. Soon, he knew, the lifeless horror that was the Demonculus’s very body would thrum with life . . .

MY life. To forever serve the Lord of Lies
. . .

In his lofty title of Master Builder, Curwen wore the brand of the Archlock on his forehead—the inverted cross blazing within the Sign of the Eye, proof of his Oath of Faith and completion of Metaphysical Conditioning—and a radiant warlock’s surplice of spun lead. This rarest of garments shined much like Lucifer’s voice, and proved still more of his Lord’s trust in him. And being one of status, Curwen knew that the Demonculus was but one of many such new projects serving Satan’s un-divine plan, projects of the most serious import. He’d heard rumors—which were rife in Hell—that something incalculable was brewing
in the Great Emptiness Quarter. Though he hoped that all ungodly pursuits succeeded grandly, his pride made him hope that the Demonculus succeeded above all the others, for there was no true god but Lucifer, the Morning Star, once the Angel of Light but now the Prince of all Darkness.

The creature’s sheer height—that of a seventy-story building—forbade the use of scaffolds, which turned impractical past 300 or so feet. Instead, crew pallets buoyed in the air by noble gas balloons—Balloon Skiffs—sufficed, each overseen by a Conscript and Air Operator. From the skiffs, Imps and Trolls leaned out to manipulate the Demonculus’s flesh, with bare hands and styli administering the final touches to the thing’s pestilent outer skin. Many such artisans fell—indeed, some jumped of their own will—but were replaced by the next cycle.

The Master Builder watched fascinated as the highest such balloon hovered at the Demonculus’s face, a slab of horror with gashes for eyes and mouth.
Soon
, Curwen thought,
unholy life will shine behind those dead eyes, while MY heart beats in its infernal chest
. . .

Hundreds of feet below him, a clamor rose, as did Curwen’s joy. Ushers and Constabularies were unloading prison wagons full of the next round of sacrifants, most of whom appeared to be women and children.

After sundown within the next six days
, the words rolled around his head like dice. Hudson walked down the side road toward the glittering lights and hot-rod-and-motorcycle traffic of the main drag, his return trip from that evening’s church duties. The money hadn’t vanished yet, so by ten
P.M
. he had no choice but to believe that the
entire incident with Deaconess Wilson was not the product of a dream.

That’s a lot of money
, he thought.

Walking along, he wondered briefly about the young guy he’d spoken with earlier—Gerold, in the wheelchair. Hudson had seen that look before during his volunteer duties in hospices and critical-care wards.
The look of death in someone still alive
. One could only do so much, he knew, but at least Hudson felt some relief in the nearly universal notion that true suicidals
never
raised the issue. He felt reasonably sure that Gerold would attend Sunday services and talk to Father Darren afterward.

He damn well better
.

He walked into the Qwik-Mart, a ubiquitous 7-Eleven clone that was stuck between a pizza place and a Thai restaurant. It was here that Hudson’s best friend from childhood worked night shifts—Randal—who’d now risen to manager. One could never see inside due to the literal wallpapering of the front glass with poster-size advertisements: mostly LatinoAmerica! phone cards and the state lottery.
PLAY TO WIN!
one poster assaulted him.
Doesn’t everybody?
Hudson figured.
Does anybody play to LOSE?
But then he caught himself staring.

Lottery
, he thought.
Senary
. Then:
It’s like
. . .
a lottery
, he recalled the naked deaconess.
But how could I win when I never played? I never bought a ticket, never got my numbers
. Hudson didn’t even believe in lotteries, which tended to bilk money out of the poor with false hopes. When he nudged the thought behind him and edged into the store, an irritating cowbell rang.

No customers occupied the disheveled and poorly stocked store. A rat looked up from the hot-dog rotisserie, then darted into the gap between the wall and counter.
I pity the rat that eats one of those hot dogs
, Hudson commiserated.
He frowned around the establishment. No customers, true, and no Randal.

A door clicked, then came the aggressive snap of flip-flops. Hudson’s brow shot up when a skanky young woman in frayed cutoffs and a faded but overflowing bikini top snapped out of the rear hall. Her sloppy breasts were huge, swaying as though the top’s cups were hammocks, and no doubt most of their distention could be attributed to the fact that their scroungy owner had to be eight-plus-months pregnant. The tanned, veiny belly stretched tight as an overblown balloon around a popped-out navel like someone’s pinkie toe.
That’s not a bun in the oven
, Hudson thought.
It’s the whole bakery
. But he saw women such as this all too frequently. A prostitute even lower on the social rungs than the women he’d nearly solicited last night. These drug-addict urchins were the flotsam of the local streets.

“Is, uh, Randal around?”

She frowned back, neglecting to answer. She kept her lips tightly closed, and began looking around the store. Hudson immediately got the impression that she had a mouthful of something and was desperate to find a place to expectorate.

When she found no convenient wastebasket—

splap
. . .

—she bowed her head by a carousel of potato chips and spat on the floor.

Then she winced at Hudson in his neat black attire. “What are you, a priest or somethin’?”

“I’m a . . . seminarist-to-be,” Hudson replied.

She kept wincing.

“Is Randal around?”

“I don’t know the asshole’s name, buddy,” she snapped. She yanked off several bags of chips, attacked a Mrs. Freshley’s snack cake rack, paused, then darted behind the service
counter and grabbed a carton of Marlboros. “The tightwad poo-putt motherfucker’s in back.” Then the cowbell clanged and she flip-flopped briskly out, milk-sodden breasts tossing as if they sought to rock their way out of the top.

The sidewall was hung with black velvet paintings of either Elvis, Jeff Gordon, or Christ. The Jesus paintings were cheapest. Randal appeared next, looking displeased. “Oh, hey, man.”

“Hi, Randal. An . . . acquaintance of yours just made a speedy exit. Probably
not
on her way back to Yale.”

“The dumb ho. Pain in the ass. Gives the worst bj’s in town but at least I talked her down to fifteen.” Randal shook his head—a shaggy head and an atrocious Talibanlike beard. “Guess I get what I pay for.”

“You may have gotten a little
more
than you paid for.” Hudson pointed to the floor where the woman had spat.

Randal’s nostrils flared, like those of an indignant bull. “That
bitch!
She spat my load on the
floor?
”

“And then promptly relieved you of some chips, snack cakes, and one carton of Marlboros.”

“That
bitch!
That thieving pregnant
bitch!
”

“ ‘The wages of sin are death,’ ” Hudson recited. “It’s God’s way of saying ‘what goes around, comes around.’ Think about it.”

“Oh, listen to Mr. Almost-A-Priest over here. Mr.
Celibacy
. I’ve seen you eyeball chicks before.” Randal grinned wickedly. “Didn’t Jesus say that if you look at a chick and think, ‘Wow, I’d love to plug
her
slot,’ that’s the same as
really
doing her?”

“Well, not in language quite so refined,” Hudson laughed, “but, yes, he did.” He was going to further point out his lifelong celibacy but then declined.
Don’t be a hypocrite. Crude as he may be, Randal’s right. Last night I came very close to being a whoremonger
.

“So what is it, next month you’re going to this seminary?”

“Next
week
,” Hudson corrected.

“Fuck, man. Change your mind. You can still do good deeds and shit without becoming a
priest
.”

“Well said, Randal, but, no, I’m not changing my mind. It’s something I’ve been thinking about my whole life pretty much. You’re my best friend, you should
want
me to pursue my dreams.”

“If
never getting laid
is your
dream?
You’re fucked up.”

“Thanks.”

“Besides, look what you’re doing to me. You’ll be leaving me stuck in this criminal armpit town of ours. I’ll be all alone with junkies, bums, whores, psychos. How can you do that to me?”

“You’ll manage. And since I won’t be seeing you again for a while, why don’t you go to church with me this Sunday? It’ll be like old times, when we were kids.”

Randal hesitated. “Naw, not my style. I haven’t been to church in so long, I’d probably get repelled by the cross, like a fuckin’ force field.”

“Have some faith, Randal. You used to.”

“Yeah, before I started working here.” He clattered out a mop and bucket. “Here’s my faith, man. This
mop
.” He ground his teeth. “How do you like that dizzy, knocked-up ho? Walks in here with a bellyful of white trash and rips
me
off? Hocks my jizz on the floor?” He sloshed the mop over the spot. “Got to clean this up before some junkie, bum, ex-con, or all of the above walks in here, sees it, then slips on purpose. Then the redneck scum sues the store for ten million bucks and wins.”

Wow, that’s some heavyweight cynicism
, Hudson thought. He watched Randal haphazardly mop up the expectorant, then roll the bucket back down the hall. “You know, you’ve got to be the only guy in town who
wants
to stay a virgin his whole life.”

“There’s plenty of Catholic clergy in this town, and everywhere, Randal. Sexual abstention is an utmost oblation to God. Christ was chaste, so when a mortal man strives to be chaste, he struggles to
imitate
Christ. God likes that.”

Randal looked off, nebulous. “Speaking of celibacy, wasn’t there some saint a long time ago who actually cut his own johnson off to prove his faith in God?”

Hudson sighed. “Actually
several
saints are rumored to have done that but no one knows for sure.”

Now Randal looked focused. “Okay, so say a saint did it—he cut off his meat missile . . . Aren’t saints supposed to be—shit, what’s the word?
Pristine?
When they die, they don’t rot?”

“There are dozens of cases of dead saints being exhumed and their bodies found in pristine condition, yes.”

Randal stroked his chin, in deep thought. “Okay, so say some saint in the Middle Ages cut off his pud. Well?”

“Well
what?
”

“Well then his pud would be pristine, too, right? It would have to be. So when he dies, he never rots, but neither does his cut-off dick.”

Hudson groaned.

“Serious. If it’s true, then there’s probably some box somewhere that’s got some saint’s dick in it, and it looks like it got cut off a minute ago.”

Hudson shook his head at the whimsy. “Randal, if you used your powers of creative thinking for something practical, you’d be a genius.”

“Yeah.” Randal began to diddle with a clipboard, his ludicrous contemplations already faded. “Anyway, as you can see, my job’s a pile of shit, so how’s
yours
going? The oyster shucking business?”

“They were about to lay me off again so I just put in my notice and they let me go on the spot.”

“Wow, that really
shucks
, man.” Randal laughed. “Get it?”

Hudson groaned. “It’s no big deal because I’m leaving next week anyway.”

Randal poured two coffees, but the brew looked like squid ink. “That pregnant hooker really pisses me off. One of these days I’ll find a
decent
one.”

“Most of those girls are drug addicts,” Hudson affirmed. “When you solicit them for sex, you’re helping them remain in an environment of moral bankruptcy, degradation, and misery.”