The creature’s sheer height—that of a seventy-story building—forbade the use of scaffolds, which turned impractical past 300 or so feet. Instead, crew pallets buoyed in the air by noble gas balloons—Balloon Skiffs—sufficed, each overseen by a Conscript and Air Operator. From the skiffs, Imps and Trolls leaned out to manipulate the Demonculus’s flesh, with bare hands and styli administering the final touches to the thing’s pestilent outer skin. Many such artisans fell—indeed, some jumped of their own will—but were replaced by the next cycle.
The Master Builder watched fascinated as the highest such balloon hovered at the Demonculus’s face, a slab of horror with gashes for eyes and mouth. Soon, Curwen thought, unholy life will shine behind those dead eyes, while MY heart beats in its infernal chest . . .
Hundreds of feet below him, a clamor rose, as did Curwen’s joy. Ushers and Constabularies were unloading prison wagons full of the next round of sacrifants, most of whom appeared to be women and children.
(III)
After sundown within the next six days, the words rolled around his head like dice. Hudson walked down the side road toward the glittering lights and hot-rod-and-motorcycle traffic of the main drag, his return trip from that evening’s church duties. The money hadn’t vanished yet, so by ten P.M. he had no choice but to believe that the entire incident with Deaconess Wilson was not the product of a dream.
That’s a lot of money, he thought.
Walking along, he wondered briefly about the young guy he’d spoken with earlier—Gerold, in the wheelchair. Hudson had seen that look before during his volunteer duties in hospices and critical-care wards. The look of death in someone still alive. One could only do so much, he knew, but at least Hudson felt some relief in the nearly universal notion that true suicidals never raised the issue. He felt reasonably sure that Gerold would attend Sunday services and talk to Father Darren afterward.
He damn well better.
He walked into the Qwik-Mart, a ubiquitous 7-Eleven clone that was stuck between a pizza place and a Thai restaurant. It was here that Hudson’s best friend from childhood worked night shifts—Randal—who’d now risen to manager. One could never see inside due to the literal wallpapering of the front glass with poster-size advertisements: mostly LatinoAmerica! phone cards and the state lottery. PLAY TO WIN! one poster assaulted him. Doesn’t everybody? Hudson figured. Does anybody play to LOSE? But then he caught himself staring.
Lottery, he thought. Senary. Then: It’s like . . . a lottery, he recalled the naked deaconess. But how could I win when I never played? I never bought a ticket, never got my numbers. Hudson didn’t even believe in lotteries, which tended to bilk money out of the poor with false hopes. When he nudged the thought behind him and edged into the store, an irritating cowbell rang.
No customers occupied the disheveled and poorly stocked store. A rat looked up from the hot-dog rotisserie, then darted into the gap between the wall and counter. I pity the rat that eats one of those hot dogs, Hudson commiserated. He frowned around the establishment. No customers, true, and no Randal.
A door clicked, then came the aggressive snap of flip-flops. Hudson’s brow shot up when a skanky young woman in frayed cutoffs and a faded but overflowing bikini top snapped out of the rear hall. Her sloppy breasts were huge, swaying as though the top’s cups were hammocks, and no doubt most of their distention could be attributed to the fact that their scroungy owner had to be eight-plus-months pregnant. The tanned, veiny belly stretched tight as an overblown balloon around a popped-out navel like someone’s pinkie toe. That’s not a bun in the oven, Hudson thought. It’s the whole bakery. But he saw women such as this all too frequently. A prostitute even lower on the social rungs than the women he’d nearly solicited last night. These drug-addict urchins were the flotsam of the local streets.
“Is, uh, Randal around?”
She frowned back, neglecting to answer. She kept her lips tightly closed, and began looking around the store. Hudson immediately got the impression that she had a mouthful of something and was desperate to find a place to expectorate.
When she found no convenient wastebasket—
splap . . .
—she bowed her head by a carousel of potato chips and spat on the floor.
Then she winced at Hudson in his neat black attire. “What are you, a priest or somethin’?”
“I’m a . . . seminarist-to-be,” Hudson replied.
She kept wincing.
“Is Randal around?”
“I don’t know the asshole’s name, buddy,” she snapped. She yanked off several bags of chips, attacked a Mrs. Freshley’s snack cake rack, paused, then darted behind the service counter and grabbed a carton of Marlboros. “The tightwad poo-putt motherfucker’s in back.” Then the cowbell clanged and she flip-flopped briskly out, milk-sodden breasts tossing as if they sought to rock their way out of the top.
The sidewall was hung with black velvet paintings of either Elvis, Jeff Gordon, or Christ. The Jesus paintings were cheapest. Randal appeared next, looking displeased. “Oh, hey, man.”
“Hi, Randal. An . . . acquaintance of yours just made a speedy exit. Probably not on her way back to Yale.”
“The dumb ho. Pain in the ass. Gives the worst bj’s in town but at least I talked her down to fifteen.” Randal shook his head—a shaggy head and an atrocious Talibanlike beard. “Guess I get what I pay for.”
“You may have gotten a little more than you paid for.” Hudson pointed to the floor where the woman had spat.
Randal’s nostrils flared, like those of an indignant bull. “That bitch! She spat my load on the floor?”
“And then promptly relieved you of some chips, snack cakes, and one carton of Marlboros.”
“That bitch! That thieving pregnant bitch!”
“ ‘The wages of sin are death,’ ” Hudson recited. “It’s God’s way of saying ‘what goes around, comes around.’ Think about it.”
“Oh, listen to Mr. Almost-A-Priest over here. Mr. Celibacy. I’ve seen you eyeball chicks before.” Randal grinned wickedly. “Didn’t Jesus say that if you look at a chick and think, ‘Wow, I’d love to plug her slot,’ that’s the same as really doing her?”
“Well, not in language quite so refined,” Hudson laughed, “but, yes, he did.” He was going to further point out his lifelong celibacy but then declined. Don’t be a hypocrite. Crude as he may be, Randal’s right. Last night I came very close to being a whoremonger.