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By Root 788 0

The first looks up from the scroll and orders, “The Benumbment Spell has taken effect. The Inscriptions must begin.” But the entity’s voice sounds echoic and like gravel being poured from a dump truck. On command, each of the remaining things dip long, jointy fingers into what looks like a mortar. The fingers come away brown. “Anoint her,” speaks the primary demon. “Make her despoilment rich. It nourishes the Flux . . .” With their sullied fingertips, the demons begin to write on the woman’s luxuriant, nude body, and in the midst of the dream, Hudson’s psyche becomes active, and he wonders, What was that stuff in the cup? But the query is stifled when he sees exactly what the demons are inscribing: a multitude of sixes. “Good, good,” the first demon approves. “The anointing is sufficient.” The voice crackles and grinds. “We must discorporate shortly. Light the Subservience Ash.” Then it begins to intone words in some unknown language. Before the dream veers away, the woman’s face is finally revealed: Deaconess Wilson.

That’s when Hudson woke up.

What a pile of crap for a dream! his thoughts squalled. The recollections disgusted him. He dragged himself up, showered, then nearly howled when he looked at the clock.

Six P.M.

I slept the whole day away!

He searched the cupboards for something to eat but found nothing—just a bottle of Vigo olive oil. Great . . . Then he stared at the kitchen table, noticing the envelope full of money and the handwritten notice that he’d won the “Senary.” At least that part wasn’t a dream.

But what would he do with the cash? Save it? Or: I’ll put half in the bank and give the rest to the church or a homeless shelter.

Would that make him a better person in God’s eyes? He wondered. Don’t be a crummy person, the evangelist’s words kept sideswiping him. But when he looked at the envelope again . . .

Maybe it’s time to see what this Senary business is all about . . .

Two winos shared the bus shelter with him, sleeping or passed out. A third man, who looked normal, must’ve been possessed by some syndrome like Tourette’s. He peered right at Hudson and spouted, “Fuck luck suck druck muck cluck nuck tuck BLUCK!”

And a good day to you, too, Hudson thought. He dressed normally, in faded jeans and a T-shirt, sneakers. The shelter’s plastic windows shuddered when the bus pulled up.

Hudson took the first seat, while the winos neglected to get on. Maybe they’re . . . dead, he considered, looking out the window at them. They remained sidled over in the shelter, drooling. The Tourette’s man went all the way to the back; then the bus jerked away.

The Senary, Hudson contemplated. What the hell is it? He looked at the announcement, with the address and instructions.

. . . CARRY ON TO THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS AFTER SUNDOWN WITHIN THE NEXT SIX DAYS . . .

It had only been one day, and a glance to the horizon showed him he still had several hours before sundown. A copy of the Tampa Bay Times sat on his seat; Hudson picked it up, began to thumb through. One article enthused over the governor’s bid to build a “biomass” electric plant; the plant ran on natural gas derived from elephant grass and dog feces. Then Hudson spotted this:

FEMALE PASTOR DISAPPEARS

The article went on to disclose that Andrea Wilson, forty, a well-regarded deaconess at the Grace Unitarian Church of St. Petersburg, seemingly disappeared from her post several days ago. She gave no notice of resignation, nor notice of taking leave.

It’s her, Hudson thought when he looked at the accompanying picture, the blonde hair conservatively pulled back, the strongly angled but attractive face, and the Roman collar.

“She’s such a wonderful person,” quoted a woman who regularly attended the church. “She’s so inspiring, so full of faith. And she’s simply not the type of person to leave and not tell anyone where she went.”

I know where she went yesterday, came Hudson’s dreadful thought. My apartment, to tell me I’ve won a contest called the Senary, and then strip nude and rub herself down with my olive oil . . .

He wondered if he should call the police