Lucifer's Lottery - Edward Lee [88]
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 TIME 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