by Edward Lee
Howard shrugs. “I’d like to think that I’m your friend, Mr. Hudson. I’ve delighted in your company, and I truly admire your earthy resoluteness and magnificently refined goodwill.”
The comment makes you look at him. “You’re right, Howard. You are my friend. You’re actually a pretty cool guy.”
“I’m grateful and touched.” And then Howard leans closer. “And not to portray myself too terribly mercenary . . . were you to accept the Senary, you’d easily have the power to relieve me of my laborious onuses at the Hall of Automatic Writers and have me reassigned as, say, your personal archivist and biographer? And during any free time you saw fit to afford me . . .” Howard sighed dreamily. “I could forge on with my serious work.”
“If I accept the Senary, Howard, then I’d do that—”
“Great Pegana!”
“But,” you add with an odd stammer. Something abstract seems to tilt in your psyche. If I accept the Senary, you repeat to yourself in thought.
Would you really do that?
“I-I-I . . . I don’t think I’m going to accept . . .” Yet even as the words leave your lips, you can’t stop thinking about all this luxury, all this money, and of course all these women at your disposal.
“Alas, our time is nearly done,” Howard tells you. He turns his pallid face back to the courtyards. “But I seem to have digressed yet again, with regard to your previous concerns. Besides myself, you would have some direct friends and acquaintances.”
“What?”
“Behold, sir.”
Suddenly you smell a simple, yet delectable aroma:
Burgers on the grill?
And once again your unnatural eyes follow Howard’s gesture where a small congregation mingles. Several men and women chat happily about a barbecue, and sure enough, they are cooking hamburgers and hot dogs.
“Wait a minute,” you object. “How can there be hamburgers and hot dogs in Hell? They must be fucked up, like dick-burgers or some shit, right?”
Howard puts his face in his hands. “Mr. Hudson, please. The profanity. I regret this peculiar acclimation you’re experiencing. Hell’s influences can indeed be quite negative. But ruffian talk bespeaks only ruffians. Men such as ourselves are hardly that.”
“Sorry, I can’t help it for some reason,” you say, still mystified by the instantaneousness with which you cussed.
“But to render an answer, Mr. Hudson, I’ll assure you of the contrary. It’s true, there are no cattle nor swine in Hell, at least none that would taste the same as what you’re accustomed to, yet through the marvel of Hexegenic Engineering, our Archlocks can produce foodstuffs that taste identical to any food on Earth.” Howard’s brow rises. “If one is so privileged.”
“Privileged as in a Privilato, you mean.”
“Quite. But, please. Be more attentive.”
Next, you take closer note of the actual people at the barbecue, and the recognition jolts you.
You know everyone there.
“My father and mother!” you rejoice. “My sister, too!” They had all died years ago but now you deduce the direction of their Afterlife. Manning the grill itself is Randal, who glances upward and waves.
“And Randal! My best friend where I live, but . . . wait. He couldn’t be here. He’s not dead.”
“Regrettably, he is, Mr. Hudson,” Howard tells you. “As I’ve been properly informed by the so-called powers that be. He was killed just hours ago by an unstable intruder at his convenience store, apparently a quite obese homeless loafer.”
Homeless. Obese. The image pops into your gaseous brain. The schizo in the stained sweatpants who threw up in the Qwik-Mart! You consider the situation and nearly chuckle, though there’s nothing funny about it. He must’ve gotten sick of Randal throwing him out of the store, so he . . .
“Evidently this inauspicious derelict got hold of a ball bat and, well, introduced it with some vim and vigor to your friend Randal’s knees, groin, and skull.”
It’s ironic at least. Your monstrous eyes squint harder . . .
There’s a third man there as well.
No, you think dully.
The man’s attire is shocking enough—black shoes, black slacks, and black shirt, and a Roman collar—but when you recognize his face?
“Not Monsignor Halford!” you exclaim.
Howard seems surprised. “Your reaction sounds troubled, Mr. Hudson. I’d think you’d be pleased to find your mentor here.”
“What’s he doing in Hell?” you yell. “He’s a fucking monsignor!”
Howard winces at your next implementation of foul language. “It is with great regret that I must inform you of Monsignor Halford’s recent demise—some manner of coronary attack. As for being here, I hardly need to explain.”
“He’s a priest, for shit’s sake. Why didn’t he go to Heaven?”
Howard’s brows rise in a scolding attitude. “I should think the answer would be clear. Priest or not, he didn’t live his faith as you do. He didn’t practice as he preached, so to speak.”
That’s bullshit, you fume, but then . . . Well, at least he’s here. He’s someone I like and know.
“And the two more . . . provocatively dressed young ladies I’m sure you’ll recognize as well. They were killed last night, in an aspect of mishap I’m told is known as a ‘drive-by.’ ”
You blink, and see them.
The two trashily attractive women turn and wave as well. Tight T-shirts cling to impressive bosoms, and they read: DO ME TILL I PUKE and NO GAG REFLEX.
“The hookers from the bar!” you exclaim.
“Indeed, and, look, here comes one more.”
Across the yard a beautiful girl-next-door type strides toward the congregation, pushing a wheelbarrow full of iced-down bottles of beer.
“Marcie! My very first girlfriend!” you instantly recognize. “We never had sex but . . .”
“Accept the Senary, Mr. Hudson, and you shall be presented with that opportunity forthwith.”
You stare. You’d forgotten all about Marcie. Your first kiss, and in fact the only girl you’d ever made out with. The combination of her beauty, intellect, and demeanor had made her the only person to tempt you not to become a priest.
“We both loved each other but . . . decided we loved God more,” you drone, remembering through a fog of heartbreak. “So we parted. I went to college to prepare for the seminary and she went to a convent . . .”
“Well, the lady’s convent days were short-lived. Convent day, I should rephrase.”
“She quit after only one day?”
“I’m afraid so, whereupon she immediately pursued avenues of life quite sexual. Whenever she was with another man, however, she always pretended he was you . . .”
First you gulp, but then frown. “You’re just saying that, Howard. To get me to accept!”
Howard’s pallid finger rises. “I’ll remind you, Mr. Hudson, that as the Trustee, I am not allowed to lie or to exaggerate. It must be your untainted free will that prompts your ultimate decision.”
You shake your gourd-head and sigh. “So . . . how did Marcie die?”
“I’m told she suffered a calamitous misadventure involving a steamroller, but that’s neither here nor there. What matters is that she’s here, now, in the flesh. She as well as the other Human Damned who mean the most to you.” Howard offers you a stern look. “And you’d be doing them all an immeasurable service by accepting the Senary, Mr. Hudson.”
“How’s that?”
“Because there’s no purpose in Lucifer keeping them here if you chose not to take up residence in the castle. Your friends and family would be redelegated back into Hell’s mainstream, where they wouldn’t fare well at all, I’m afraid.”
Your gaze at him shifts. “So it’s blackmail?”
“Lucifer has no qualms in revealing his motives. He wants something from you very badly, and he will go to great pains to urge you into giving it to him. By offering you the prize of all your dreams and a
ll your fantasies, which you will be able to enjoy forever.”
“Sex, money, and luxury . . .”
“Yes, and let us not forget envy, for you will be envied, by everyone in Hell. The gift Lucifer wishes to bestow upon you—in exchange for the gift you will give to him—represents the distillation of what all Humans desire most.”
Now your eyes drift back to the sky. “I still don’t see what Lucifer gets out of the deal. Another soul? From what I can see, he’s got plenty of those.”
“Plenty, yes, but, lo, not yours. Not the Soul of one who willingly says no to God’s promise of Salvation. For someone so entirely on the plus side of the Fulcrum, to cast God aside in favor of Lucifer—that, Mr. Hudson, is the only satisfaction Lucifer can ever truly enjoy.”
Your vision reels again at the sight of the castle and its spectacular grounds, your friends and family, as well as the sheer carnal pleasures that await.
Carnal pleasure that you’ve never experienced . . .
Like a crack of mental lightning, you know.
You know what you are about to do . . .
CHAPTER NINE
(I)
Master Builder Curwen watched wide-eyed from his observation minaret. Thus far, the Sputum Storm appeared to be confined beyond the official limits of the Mephistopolis, its sickish green clouds leaving no doubt of its existence. From so far away, it looked like a mere phlegm-colored streak along the bottom of the scarlet horizon, but as Hell’s most dangerous type of storm, one could never rest assured. They’d been known to sit still and hang for extended periods, then suddenly move off with no warning at speeds of hundreds of miles per hour. Curwen wasn’t certain, but he believed the storm was sliding over the Outer Sectors, probably the Great Emptiness Quarter.
Pray Satan, let it stay there.
For such a storm to move here, over the Pol Pot District, there was no telling what damage might be inflicted upon the Demonculus.
Below on the field, the ancillary sacrifices continued, to keep the Electrocity Generators roaring and the Hell-Flux well charged. The boiled corpses of sacrifants were wheeled away in barrows by slug-skinned Ushers, only to be replaced by more. A wonderful sight, yes, but then Curwen gazed upward at the colossal form of the Demonculus.
Nothing can jeopardize my creation. Nothing.
Footsteps could be heard winding up the minaret’s spiral steps, and, next, a figure rose into the small open-windowed chamber: the project’s official Psychic Security Minister, a Kathari-grade Diviner.
“Master Builder Curwen,” the man-thing’s voice etched, and then it bowed. “It is my honor to be in your presence.”
Yet not mine to be in yours, Curwen thought. Curwen was Human, and therefore distrustful of all that was not, especially creatures like this, things that could supposedly see the future. Additionally, the Satanic Visionary was hideous to behold: it was bald, emaciated, and brazenly naked. The sucked-in skin and stringlike muscles were repulsive enough, but even more repulsive was the Clairvoyant’s skin tone, a bruising blue beneath which maroon arteries throbbed. Even more unsettling was the psychic being’s eye—not eyes, eye, for it possessed but only one, set hugely in the middle of its gaunt face. An eye the size of an apple. The Diviner’s bald head shined, tracked by various suture scars from multiple telethesic surgeries; its ears were holes, and its genitals . . .
. . . were best left undescribed.
“What tidings do you bring me, Seer?”
The Diviner’s voice keened like nails across slate. “Great Master Builder, I know that the distant Sputum Storm rests gravely on your mind, but it is with the joy of serving the Morning Star that I tell you to put your fears aside. I foresaw this very storm, and I have foreseen, too, that it shall not venture here.”
The aftereffects of hearing the Diviner’s awful voice left Curwen’s skin crawling, yet it was with relief that he sat down in his jeweled seat. “Praise the Dark Lord.”
“Yes.”
“But I pity those now in its midst. Is it the Great Emptiness Quarter?”
The visionary’s bald head nodded. Scarlet veins beat beneath the shining skin.
Curwen began, “I’ve heard—”
“So have we all—that something of grievous import is taking place there, but what it is, I’m not privy to, via my training and indoctrination.” Then the massive eye blinked once, clicking like the snap of a twig.
Curwen squinted out again, in the vicinity of the storm. What a ghastly thing to happen, even in Hell. A deluge of snot . . . But he must not worry over projects not his own.
Only the Demonculus and the success of its animation were his personal concern.
I must succeed.
Curwen’s gaze turned to his guest. “Diviner—”
The cadaverous figure smiled, showing black teeth. “Is there something you wish for me to divine, Master Builder?”
Of course, it could read his mind. But now that the very Human question had occurred to him . . . he was afraid to ask.
The Diviner’s voice screeched as the thing went slowly back down the spiral steps. “The answer to your question . . . is yes—”
The Diviner continued to descend.
“—and of this you can be sure, for I have foreseen it . . .”
Curwen sat semiparalyzed for some time—paralyzed by euphoria. He stared at the Demonculus’s immobile form through the master window, and the question he’d thought but dared not ask was this: Will the Demonculus be successfully animated?
(II)
The wind gusted from multiple directions, each gust resounding like the caterwauls of ravening beasts; and it was a pall of a diseased green that seemed to have lowered in churning layers over the entirety of the Vandermast Reservoir as well as a sizable portion of the Great Emptiness Quarter itself. The Sputum Storm raged, just short of breaking. Since the alert all lower-echelon Conscripts were ordered to tie themselves to the security lugs along the ramparts, while the Golems (much heavier and therefore less likely to be blown over the side) continued their foot patrols, on watch for signs of attack and also physical breeches that the storm might incur upon the black basilisk walls of the perimeter.
Favius watched from his own security barbican along the rampart.
The storm is spectacular but also deadly, he thought. During his entire Damnation, Favius had never seen a genuine Sputum Storm, he’d only heard of them. The black clouds would begin to congeal from the force of the wind, and then turn green in a hue like moldy cheese. His training apprised him the potential of a storm like this—whole Prefects had been destroyed by Sputum Storms, it was said, and in low-lying urban areas, the incessant rain of phlegm would bring mucoid floods that rose stories high and drowned residents in an oatmeal-thick, viscid horror. Favius eyed the grotesque clouds that now moiled above the Reservoir: he thought of an upside-down whirlpool of crud-green sludge. Any minute, he feared, the storm will break and those clouds will POUR . . .
All the while, though, the mammoth Main Sub-Inlets continued to roar as they siphoned still more of the Gulf’s horrific Bloodwater into the pit . . .
For as far as Favius could see, there were only the flat layers of storm clouds pressing down. The wind gusts picked up, and one actually caused the rampart wall to nudge . . .
Favius latched onto an astonishing moment of self-awareness. For the first time in my existence . . . I am afraid . . .
Perhaps a mile in the distance, over a conjoining rampart, the rain began to fall—the rain of phlegm.
Here it comes . . .
The sky, essentially, began to vomit.
The dark green sputum began to fall in sheets. Favius watched the splattering line of phlegm-fall move across the Reservoir’s scarlet surface; it was louder even than the sounds of the sub-inlets filling the pit. When it finally reached the Legionnaire’s own rampart, the 900-pound Golems wobbled in place in the gale force. Several merlons cracked in the macabre wind and fell into the Reservoir. A rising, whistlelike shriek now encompass
ed all.
The rampart walls shook again; Favius thought he even heard the very stone crack.
This storm may destroy the entire site . . .
Favius lurched when the barbican door banged open. He reached instinctively for his sword—
“Lucifer in Hell, Favius!” the sudden voice exploded in complaint.
“Grand Sergeant Buyoux!” Favius exclaimed. “It’s dangerous for you to have come here, sir!” He bulled against the door to reclose it; then he threw across the bars. “You should’ve summoned me, and I would’ve come to you—”
The Grand Sergeant stood dripping residual green muck; his helm and most of his plate-mail smock was en-slimed with it. “Help me off with this, Favius,” the commander groaned, and then the plates clinked. Favius removed the metallic garment and hung it in the stone corner to dry. Buyoux sat exhausted on the bench, now dressed only in a wool tunic emblazoned with the Seal of Grand Duke Cyamal. The Grand Sergeant brought scarred hands to his scar-badged face. “I’ve never witnessed a storm like this—ever.”
“Nor have I, Grand Sergeant. I have concerns about the physical integrity of the site—”
Buyoux laughed mirthlessly. “A Sputum Storm of this magnitude could knock the ramparts down—it could ruin the entire project.” He looked at Favius with his appalling face. “Whatever happened to the luck of the Damned, hmm?”
Favius peered back out across the Reservoir. The rain poured over everything, and then a sudden wind gust blew one of his Golems over the side, into the foaming pool.
“Impressive, yes,” his superior said. “At least the Golems are expendable. If only we can see to it that no men are blown into it as well.”
Now the stone barbican itself began to creak in the wind. “The rain seems to be letting up, Grand Sergeant, but the wind—”
“—is increasing in velocity, yes.” Buyoux rose and looked likewise through the small window. “The Channelers predicted as much; they’ve even predicted a rapid conclusion to the storm but . . . as you can see . . .”
Favius stared. Was it letting up even as they spoke? The sky’s green tinge seemed to be lessening . . . but then the wind shook loose several more merlon abutments and blew them into the Reservoir.
