by Edward Lee
“The women are Bio-Sorceresses, and they will suffice for your groundskeeping staff. Every Privilato gets his own rod of Orgia Extremus Root. The Bio-Sorceresses are occult chemists who pick the root at harvest time, extract the Inhuman Growth Hormones from it, and then further process a priceless Gonadotropic Elixir that not only abolishes sexual refraction between climaxes, but allows for massive orgasms that last for not seconds but the equivalent of a full hour.”
Your demonic mouth hangs open at the information.
“It should go without discourse that Privilatos spend most of their time engaged in one manner or other of licentious congress.”
Hour-long orgasms, you think.
“And for such occasions when you do long for diversity of a nonsexual mode . . . there, in the corner opposite.”
You follow Howard’s finger to said corner, and see a troop of well-weaponed Conscripts surrounding one of those glowing green holes you saw the Privilato disembarking before he took his entourage into the Fetal Aperitifs bar.
“The Conscripts of the famed Diocletian Brigade will serve as your bodyguards when you wish to travel, and for traveling, you have at your constant disposal your very own Nectoport,” Howard says.
For when I want to go out on the town, you think.
You must admit now . . . the possibility is sounding better and better.
“But wouldn’t I need money?”
“Ah. The filthy lucre!” Howard takes you back inside, through one stunning hall after another, and down myriad jeweled corridors. Eventually, he turns into another room.
Jesus!
The room’s ceiling causes you to look involuntarily up.
“The Unholy Coffer-Vault,” Howard says.
The room must be a hundred feet high and hundreds deep. It is filled with pallet after pallet of banded paper money.
“There must be a billion dollars here!”
“Six billion, Mr. Hudson, though not dollars. Hellnotes.” Howard’s focus drifts off. “I once wrote a longish tale entitled ‘Dreams in the Witch-House.’ I thought it was most abysmal, but a friend submitted it and got for me the unheard sum of $140. I’ve often wondered what that would be worth in Hellnotes.”
As usual, you don’t hear Howard; your attention, instead, has been highjacked by the airplane-hangar-size vault of cash.
That’s A LOT of MONEY!
“You also need to be apprized, sir, that once you’ve expended the entirety of this vault, Satan’s Treasurers will simply fill it up again.”
Now you’re getting dizzy looking at all of it . . .
“In spite of all of Hell’s horrors, there’s quite a bit for a wealthy man to do,” Howard goads on. “Especially one who will know wealth for eternity . . .”
“Take me out of here,” you say suddenly. “I’ve got to think . . .”
Howard smiles.
CHAPTER EIGHT
(I)
When Krilid received the coordinates for his next familiarization surveillance, he squinted hard through the accommodating headache. He had headaches all the time simply as an aftereffect from the Head-Bending job the Satanic police had treated him to; the telepathic orders from Ezoriel’s mental antennae array only felt worse. As the illegal Nectoport soared high and fast through clouds like coal dust, the Troll rested his head in his clawed hands and felt it literally throb.
There was no aspirin in Hell.
But he had to hand it to the Contumacy’s skill in stealing and then replicating Lucifer’s leading-edge Sorceries. Krilid need only receive the coordinates and then think once very hard, and he was on his way.
A nebulous intelligence memo had slammed into his head along with the coordinates. When the headache passed, he thought, This might be very interesting . . .
If the intelligence wasn’t counterfeit.
Krilid had revivified the Hand of Glory only when he finally began to descend toward the next assignment. He liked the idea of nobody being able to see him while he could see entire Districts of Hell with any given glance. Now, miles below, he could see the staggering Pol Pot District and its smoking crematories, its killing fields, and its almost endless landscaping of heads on pikes. Didn’t know this burg was so big, he thought, but then his gaze fixed on a break in the District’s layout, an irregularly shaped construction site of some kind. At this altitude, it was tiny of course, but as the cloaked Nectoport slipped lower . . .
I don’t believe what I’m seeing. They really did it.
The thing stood immobile in the middle of the fortified site, a thing taller than any skyscraper in the District. The wedged, neck-less head sat propped upon dark shoulders straining with inanimate muscles. The monster’s arms—which had to be 200 feet long—hung just as muscularly at its sides; and the corded legs shined blackly in the sky’s scarlet light. Krilid took the Nectoport lower, to encroach upon the Demonculus’s face and—
Aw, shit . . .
He nearly vomited at the sight at the pitted muck that had been sculpted to comprise the most revolting and indescribable visage.
Krilid retook to the clouds, his stomach in queasy turmoil. That face’ll take a LOT of getting used to, he reminded himself.
But only if he succeeded, and the odds of that seemed to be shrinking very quickly. But he knew this full well: If the Master Builder brings that thing to life, there’ll be a world of hurt coming down the pike for Ezoriel and the Contumacy . . .
Krilid hovered next, to focus his Monocular, actually laughing to himself now that he was considering his odds of success. I don’t stand a chance in Hell—pun intended. There were Noble Gas Skiffs floating all over the place, full of Conscripts and Warlocks armed to the hilt with every weapon in the Satanic Arsenal. All I have is this Nectoport, a pistol, and a couple of muzzle-loading long rifles, and then he laughed again.
He thought: I’m a pawn in a chess game that Ezoriel KNOWS can’t be won . . .
The field, hundreds of feet below, was impenetrably walled with Hexed Blood-Bricks and full of ranks of more soldiers, not to mention marching formations of Ushers, Golems, and Flamma-Troopers.
All that . . . against little old me . . .
He homed the Monocular in on the Demonculus’s chest, noticing the protective plate bolted into it. Two more Security Balloons floated to either side, to discourage a sneak attack. Krilid just laughed and laughed, knowing that Ezoriel’s plan meant certain death.
Oh, well. What else do I have to do?
A third balloon seemed to be disengaging from the others about the chest plate. Krilid’s eyes narrowed—from that particular Skiff an Imperial Flag was flying from the balloon net. Krilid quickly checked his folder of vellum sheets containing target identification diagrams . . .
The flag’s insignia showed an emblem of a bat with a fanged skull-head, while the bat’s dripping talons grasped hammers, ladders, and shovels.
The Master Builder’s regimental colors! Krilid knew. He focused the Monocular further and saw the crowned, withered-faced Human in the rearmost seat. The shimmering surplice of spun lead told all. It was the Supreme Master Builder himself, the acclaimed Warlock Joseph Curwen . . .
I can’t have this pressure! Krilid’s thoughts exploded. His gnarled hands snapped up his rifle, fixed the Monocular on the barrel; and then he dumped his powder cartridge and rammed a ball. If Ezoriel’s Clairvoyants are so great, how come they didn’t know Curwen would be in the Skiff?
Krilid brought his rifle to bear, cocked the hammer, and lined up his sights right on the Master Builder’s head . . .
He took in one full breath, let half of it out, and began to depress the trigger—
The sudden headache hit him like a ball bat. Holy shit! Krilid dropped the musket and landed flat on his back on the Nectoport deck, cringing from the pain like a dentist’s drill boring straight into unanesthetized nerve pulp, only the pulp wasn’t a tooth, it was his entire brain.
NOT NOW, KRILID, Ezoriel’s static-ridden voice slammed into his head. THE TIM
E IS NOT YET AT HAND . . .
“But I had him right in my sights!” the Troll bellowed, hands clamping his warped skull.
THE PLAN WILL MOST CERTAINLY FAIL UNLESS IT IS EXECUTED ON PRECISE SCHEDULE—
“The evil scumbag was right there! I had a perfect head-shot!”
The Fallen Angel chuckled through more corroded static. YOU’RE A ZEALOUS GODLY SOLDIER, BUT FAR TOO IMPATIENT. YOU MUST WAIT UNTIL YOU ARE GIVEN A DIRECT FIRING ORDER.
“Nobody ever told me that!”
THAT IS BECAUSE WE MUST DISCIPLINE ALL OUR INTELLIGENCE. REVEALING TOO MUCH AT ONCE MIGHT ONLY INCREASE THE CHANCES OF INTERCEPTION. KILLING CURWEN PREMATURELY WOULD RUIN EVERYTHING.
“Now you tell me!” Krilid griped and sat back up when the headache receded.
PATIENCE, KRILID. NOW RETREAT TO SAFE DISTANCE AND EXTINGUISH YOUR HAND OF GLORY. CONSERVE ALL RESOURCES UNTIL THE FINAL MOMENT.
“All right,” Krilid sputtered. “But when is the final moment, Ezoriel?”
No reply was made, as the Fallen Angel’s telepathic signal had already crackled out.
(II)
“You must be a veteran,” said the short, overly tan woman behind the counter. Her voice was as craggy as her face.
Gerold sighed. “Why? Just ’cos I’m in the chair? I could’ve been driving drunk, or fallen off a balcony or something.”
The woman—whose ’70s-styled hair was blazing white—tittered almost like a witch. Her redneck accent replied, “Well, son, first off, you’re young. Second, I can tell by your face you ain’t dumb enough to drive drunk or fall off a dang balcony—”
Wow. I guess that’s a compliment.
“—and third, your buttons are all buttoned up.” She pointed a sun-withered finger. “That tells me you was in the army or marines.”
“You got me,” Gerold admitted. “Army. Got out a year or so ago and put in physical therapy.”
When Gerold had gotten off the Greyhound, he’d taken a cab to Lake Misquamicus, having flipped himself into the cab seat while the cabbie stowed his wheelchair in the trunk. Upon arrival, he wheeled toward the dock, marveling at the sight of the silverish lake. This’ll kick ass! Over the great reflective expanse of water, not one other boat could be seen. Privacy . . . So the Fates had granted his wish after all. He’d be able to kill himself here and no one could interfere.
The bait shop proprietor was probably in her late fifties but looked ten years older from being in the sun for—more than likely—her entire life. She was very slim, tattoo-dotted, and still bore some vestige of bygone good looks even with the wrinkles, sun blemishes, and veininess. A far cry from the young and spritely bikini girl in the ad; however, this woman was wearing a bikini—a raving, metallic candy-apple red—that was absolutely minuscule. She’s almost too old to be wearing it, but . . . more power to her for doing it anyway, Gerold reasoned. Her perfectly straight hair shined perfectly white to the small of her back; the bikini top satcheled a sizable bosom, obviously implants dating back to the ’70s.
“And you’ll be pleased to hear this, hon,” she said, grinning behind the counter. “Here, there’s no charge to veterans for bait!”
“I appreciate it,” Gerold said, managing not to laugh. Now THERE’S a gesture for servicemen. Free worms, chum, and dead shrimp.
“And rod rentals and Jet Skis are half off,” she added. “But I don’t suppose you’d be able to Jet Ski by yourself.” Then her eyes glittered. “But I’d be happy to take you out myself and you can hold on to me.”
“Thanks, but I came here to rent a rowboat and drop a crayfish trap, that’s all.”
“Oh, dandy!” She slapped a frozen bag of shrimp on the counter, then rang up Gerold’s other purchases: a small wire crayfish trap, a Sterno cooker and stand, and a metal pot. “Crawdads in Lake Misquamicus are the best in the state, some of ’em almost big as lobsters.”
“That’s what I’m looking for.”
“How long you wanna rent the boat till, sweetie?”
“Um, well, probably till late if that’s all right.”
“Sure is. Some folks rent a boat and fish all night and through to sunup.”
“Ring me up for that, please,” Gerold said.
“Oh, you don’t gotta pay for the rental till ya come back in.”
Gerold felt a twinge of deceit. He wanted to pay in advance, now, so he wouldn’t be gypping her. After all, he wouldn’t be coming back, would he? Not in the rental boat at any rate.
It would probably be the county sheriff’s department that brought his body back in . . . if they ever found it.
“Aw, just let me pay it all up front, keeps things easier. Oh, and some bottled water and a cooler.”
The woman winked. “Comin’ right up, handsome.” She hitched up her overly burgeoned top and retrieved the items; then he paid up and wheeled himself outside.
A long wooden dock reached out into the silver ripples. At the end, several rowboats rocked in the water; the white-haired woman jumped down into the last one and snapped in a special seat with a back on it.
“What’s that?” Gerold asked.
“A seat for folks so afflicted. Ya can’t row if ya can’t sit up straight, and you can strap yourself in. Makes it safer.”
“Cool,” Gerold approved, not that safety was an issue now.
“Now lemme help ya get in, hon—”
“I got it,” he said and expertly flipped himself out of the chair. His arm muscles bulged when he lunged forward once on his hands, then shimmied himself into the handicapped chair.
“You’re one strong fella!” the lady exclaimed.
Yeah, but only from the waist up.
The woman stowed his cooler and other items, her zero-body-fat physique exemplified each time she bent over. When one of her implants slid up, Gerold marveled at the briefly betrayed tan line: a patch of lambent white blocked off against the iced-tea-colored tan. Within the white patch, the tiniest pink sliver of nipple could be seen. Wow, Gerold mused. Suddenly he found the vision of the lissome older woman densely erotic, and it occurred to him that such a sight—one of his last among the living—was a wonderful thing.
Had she caught him looking? At once her grin seemed sultry, and when she noticed that a wedge of breast had slipped out from the bra, she seemed to take her time correcting it.
“I guess I’m all set,” Gerold said.
“Not just yet,” she corrected, then startled him when she walked right over to him and leaned over. Suddenly her top-straining implants were nearly in his face. “Just lean forward a bit, sweetie.”
Now her barely covered crotch was nearly in his face, but he understood when she put his arms through a life vest and tightened the straps. “Misquamicus ain’t a very big lake, hon, but a good wind can cause a mighty rough chop.”
The ironic fact amused Gerold: She’s putting a life vest on a guy who’s going to commit suicide.
She placed a small object in a side bin. “And here’s an emergency radio just in case. I’ll check in with ya so often, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“You’ll find the best crawdaddin’ right dead center of the lake. It’s deeper and there’s lots of crannies down there where they like to hide.”
“Dead center. Gotcha.”
Her tanned legs flexed when she climbed back on the dock. She put on sunglasses, grinning up to the sky, her perfectly flat stomach beginning to shine with sweat. “Nice slow, sunny day like this? I think I’ll lay out here a while and catch some rays—”
Gerold gulped.
—and then she took off her top, just like that.
Holy moly . . .
She stretched out in a lounge chair facing Gerold’s position in the seat. All at once, the flawless snow-white breasts centered by dark nipples blared at him within the demarcation of tanned skin.
She grinned, Gerold’s own astonished face reflecting in her glasses.
“Uh, oh, sorry,” he murmured after another moment of staring.
/> “Hon? A gal my age’s got no problem bein’ looked at by a nice fella . . .”
Gerold raised his oars, tried not to continue staring, then just thought, To hell with it, and kept looking. “Um, I have a question, though—”
She giggled. “Yes. They’re implants, I gotta admit.”
Gerold laughed. “That wasn’t the question but . . .” He tried to focus his thought. “A minute ago, you said Lake Misquamicus wasn’t a big lake.” He shrugged and glanced behind. “Looks big to me. Real big.”
“Aw, there’s at least a dozen lakes in Florida bigger’n this. The biggest, a’course, is Lake Okeechobee, second biggest in the whole country. You never been there?”
It was impossible not to keep stealing glances. “No, but I’ve heard of it.”
“Over a trillion gallons of water in Okeechobee—”
The statement snapped Gerold’s stare. “A trillion? That’s . . . unimaginable.”
“Lotta water, sure. Hard to even reckon that much water.”
I better start rowing, Gerold told himself. This woman’s hooters are wringing me out. But the sudden question snapped to mind. “Any idea how many gallons in this lake?”
In painstaking slowness, the woman began to rub suntan oil over her belly. “Oh, yeah. Department’a Natural Resources says that Lake Misquamicus contains just about six billion gallons . . .”
(III)
Howard walks you back onto the parapet facing the inner wards and courtyard. Soft, fragrant breezes blow. You take in the scape of the fortress and beyond, more and more awed. This place makes Bill Gates’s house look like an outhouse . . . and it could all be mine . . .
But—
“Wait a minute. What good’s all this money and luxury when I don’t have friends to share it with?”
“Ah, there goes your good side shining through once more,” Howard replies. “But I’ll remind you that you had no abundance of friends in the Living World, and were quite content with that.”
You think about that. You’ve always been a friendly person but you never really needed a lot of friends. Your faith was your ultimate friend, and the opportunity to serve God. “Well, that’s true but looking at this whole thing now, I’d need some friends . . .”
