Lucifer's Lottery - Edward Lee [58]
“Counting what?”
“My steps. The Turnstile is programmed to rephase our location every 666 steps—”
“I never would’ve guessed,” you groan.
“Don’t scoff, Mr. Hudson. The Imperfect Number is quite a powerful force of Nether-Energy. As God proclaimed seven to be the perfect number, he unwittingly empowered the imperfection of one digit lower. Lucifer embraces it. In fact, when God cast his Once Favorite off the Twelfth Gate of Heaven, Lucifer, the Morning Star, plummeted in the configuration of the number six. Through that number, in one manner or other, all occult science is activated—the Senarial Science. You’re about to behold more examples.”
You suddenly grimace as the crackling black fuzz of the Turnstile shreds the sights before you. You feel the pressure drop, and again that feeling of falling recurs to the point that you wail, when—
PUNITARY FILLING STATION #5096—HUMANS ONLY, the next sign reads. NEXT LEFT.
You shake off the vertigo to find yourself being walked into a compound supervised by figures in policelike garb. Every six of the figures is joined by a hooded monk with an aura of luminous black mist. “The Constabularies are the federal police,” Howard says. “They’re mostly Human-Demon Hybrids who undergo extensive training and Spirit Manipulation. And the hooded gents are Bio-Wizards, in the event of, shall we say, civil disobedience.”
As usual, you’re duly confused. “That sign said filling station, but I don’t see any cars. They have gas here?”
Howard ruefully shakes his head no, and carries you farther . . .
“It’s a Human filling station, Mr. Hudson. Another demonstration of Lucifer’s execration for the Human Damned.” Then Howard gestures a prison wagon being drawn in by more unnameable horned beasts. Within the wagon’s iron bars, you can’t help but see the group of naked Humans. They’re either pleading for mercy, or down on their knees in desperate prayer.
“This Cove tends to Humans who have the audacity to continue to pray to God. It should go without saying: Lucifer does not approve of such behavior . . .” Now Howard points upward to a high water tower but when you look at it, you do a double take.
The tower reads, URINE ONLY.
“Every urinal in the District empties into that collection tank. It’s 66,666 gallons, by the way.”
You’re already getting sick in the contemplation; then your eyes follow several pipes leading from the tower’s base to six objects that appear almost identical to gasoline pumps in the Living World.
Six at a time, then, Humans from the prison wagon—male and female alike—are strapped to gurneys and rolled before the pumps.
You feel your spirit paling as you watch . . .
Equally identical nozzles are brandished by Imp attendants. “Fill ’em up!” a Constable shouts, and then the Imps part the jaws of the Humans and insert the nozzles down their throats. The handles are depressed, and bells begin to ring for each gallon dispensed.
The Human prisoners are promptly filled.
“Next!” shouts the Constable. “Keep ’em moving!”
“Exactly six gallons are pumped into each captive,” Howard adds.
The gurneys are moved off, to be replaced by more. Of the Humans already filled, their abdomens bloat. More Imps move now, holding objects that look like blowtorches but when the triggers are pulled, mist, not flame, shoots out. The mist is applied across the mouths and anuses and urethras of the captives, and before your own eyes, their lips and excretory orifices are impossibly sealed shut.
Howard explains further, in his piping accent, “You see, Lucifer wants them filled. And what they’re filled with—the urine of Hell—must remain contained; hence, the Flesh Welders. A gasified pontica dust provides the occult mist, which seals them shut. This way, the urine can never be voided.