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By Root 748 0

skulked the ledges and sills of leaning skyscrapers and pointed pinnacles rising to titan heights. Between the drab buildings of the Ghettoblocks stretched cables from which the Damned unwisely hanged themselves, only to learn that the death they longed for would never come, leaving them to hang by their necks, alive, for time immemorial. Gryphons and Wolf-Bats, some the size of airships, glided serenely through the soiled air. Favius zoomed in on a middle school’s playground, where sinister and often-fanged teachers fired young students back and forth on catapults, punishment for earning superior grades. On a foul street corner—the Filth District?—several slug-colored Ushers torqued the arms and legs off a Hybrid man for evidently double-parking his steam-car; and on another corner, a pack of Broodren were raping a half-bred Succubus while simultaneously disemboweling her by a hook shoved down her throat.

“It’s-it’s . . . beautiful,” Favius whispered in awe.

“Yes, it is,” his superior replied in similar awe. “Look to the North Quadrant. There’s something there you’ll find very interesting . . .”

Favius followed the instruction, then paused, locked in a rigor of shock and wonderment.

“It’s the Pol Pot District, and as you can see, fine Conscript, good things are all about.”

Favius could barely maintain his train of thought. There, spiring from the middle of the smoke-hazed District known for beautification via staked heads and “cubing” the Human Damned in massive industrial compactors, was a great statue-like obscenity higher than any building in the vicinity. An enormous, horned thing standing perfectly still.

Parched, Favius uttered, “Antichrist Almighty . . . A Demonculus . . .”

“So it is. The myths are true. While we’ve been guarding this wasted post for centuries, the De Rais Academy has built that. I can scarcely believe they did it. We all thought it was impossible . . .”

“The sorcerial technologies must have multiplied by leaps and bounds,” Favius, in his awe, postulated.

“And why not? It does in the Living World. Stands to reason the same should be true here.” Buyoux’s blemished lips turned to a sharper smile. “Who knows when they’ll be able to bring it to life, but when they do? Our troubles with the Contumacy will be finished in short order.”

“I pray Satan . . .”

The Grand Sergeant pointed down off the rampart. “Now, follow the Pipeway, and maximize your magnification . . .”

Favius did so, training the supernatural binoculars on the massive pipeline sixty-six yards in diameter.

“A hundred miles, a thousand,” Buyoux uttered, “no one really knows. But pay heed. What is your interpretation, Conscript?”

Favius followed the perfectly straight line of the Pipeway from its connection here at the Reservoir all the way across the black, blasted plain of the Great Emptiness Quarter. It took minutes to follow the Pipeway’s complete terminus at the Mephistopolis, and there, where it seemed to officially end, he noticed the features of the Sector District it disappeared into . . .

Gushing smokestacks pumping endless soot into the air, squat buildings stained black from said soot, and the 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?