Inferno: Go to Hell

By Scott Reeves

"The seal must not be broken. What's inside must not get out."

 

The 10th century A.D.
Fanatical Christians rebelling against the Pope dig deep into the Earth in a quest to find Hell. And for a thousand years, they kept on digging.

 

The present day.
A group of American college students stranded in England descend into an abandoned medieval mine, where they encounter a hellish nightmare world.

Getting in was easy. Getting out will unleash Hell on Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Reeves
• Release date: Aug 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502280756

Book preview

Prologue

SOUTHERN ENGLAND - 965 A.D.

In a heavily wooded, shallow valley, a knight and a bald monk were concealed behind a thicket of bushes. The knight was dressed in light armor, the monk in a plain brown robe tied at the waist with a sash.

They were looking out at a mining site where muscular, heavily armored men were whipping dozens of comparatively frail, bare-chested miners like slaves. The miners, urged by the whips of their overlords, were entering and emerging from the mine mouth—a steep slope that descended into a huge, shadowy maw in the rocky ground. Nearby, a huge water wheel creaked and splashed as it turned in a narrow river.

The monk whispered, Who are these dark knights, Sir Beckett?

The knight responded, Heathen, wicked devils called the Black Order. They claim to serve Christ Jesus, but in truth they are sworn to the service of Satan himself. I weep to see that they've finally arrived on Briton's golden shore.

The monk paled.

A tall, powerfully built black-armored knight strode confidently from the mouth of the mine. He took up a position beside it and surveyed the operation with a critical eye. Helmetless, the back of his bald head was painted with a red, upside down cross. His bone-thin face radiated menace.

Sir Beckett gasped as he saw the black armored knight. By all that's holy! Their Black Pope is here. He crossed himself.

The monk paled even further. They apparently captured this mine three weeks ago, my Lord. One of the enslaved miners escaped two days ago and alerted us to their presence. We in turn alerted you. It chills me to know they've been working here even as I and my brothers went about our prayers in damned ignorance.

You did well in summoning me, Friar Peter, said Sir Beckett. Did this miner speak of the Black Order's purpose here?

He says they intend to dig down to Hell itself, my Lord, opening the way for Satan's minions to come to the surface. Friar Peter shivered at the thought.

Sir Beckett stroked his beard thoughtfully. The same as they’re doing at the other sites. He shook his head. I would speak with this escaped miner.

Impossible, Sire, Friar Peter told the knight. He was mortally wounded in his escape. He died in our rectory, shortly after. Friar Peter respectfully made the sign of the cross.

Sir Beckett said, Most unfortunate.

He withdrew through the woods to the top of the valley. As he crested the ridge, he looked out over the regiment of knighted men sitting patiently on horseback. They were formed up in ranks twenty deep, and waiting for the signal to charge into battle.

Sir Beckett drew his sword and raised it above his head. For God and country! he bellowed. Destroy these black-hearted bastards! As they had done before, so would they do again.

The host of knights cried out and surged forward, flowing over the ridge and down into the valley like a breaking wave.

The Black Pope, seeing the approach of doom, ordered his overlords and their slaves to retreat into the mine. Without waiting to see if they complied, he himself turned and stalked into the darkness.

Sir Beckett’s regiment swept down upon the mine. Many overlords managed to make it into the mine entrance, but just as many did not. The latter were cut down even as they made the attempt.

Some of the slaves took up arms against Sir Beckett’s regiment. These were dispatched to face God’s judgment. Other slaves surrendered and were granted mercy. Still others attempted to retreat into the mine. Those who didn’t succeed shared the fate of their overlords.

Quite soon the area was cleared of resistance and the ground was muddy with blood. The surviving slaves were gathered into a group and herded away into the woods. The corpses were left to rot where they had fallen, in spreading pools of their own blood.

Sir Beckett called for the great bronze plug to be brought forth, and it was. The thick bronze disk was pushed into the mouth of the mine. It took a team of six men the better part of the day to push the bronze plug hundreds of feet down through the mine’s narrow tunnel. They pushed it forward upright, like a massive shield, so that they couldn’t see anything beyond it. Any of the Black Order lurking on the other side would be forced to retreat deeper into the mine.

Finally, at the same depth they had placed the plug in the other Black Order digs in various parts of the world, the bronze plug was fastened to the rocky wall of the tunnel with huge brass hinges, becoming in essence a door in the tunnel.

When the thing was finally in place, Sir Beckett stepped forward and surveyed it by the flickering light of the torches held high in the hands of his men.

It looks good, he pronounced.

He ran a finger through the pentagram that had been cast into the surface of the bronze plug. He nodded. Drawing his dagger, he sliced his wrist open. He rubbed his oozing wrist along the grooves of the pentagram, smearing his blood into it. When he was through, the symbol was thick and dripping with his gore.

He crossed himself and muttered the unholy words he had been taught. Evil words in a filthy language, made good by their holy purpose.

Without wasting time, he moved his arm in a great circle, following the edges of the door. Blood from his wound was flung into the seams of the door, staining the ground and walls of the cavern muddy red.

Once again he spoke the unholy words, his sanctified spirit rebelling at the blackness that coursed through him as he did so.

The cross! he said. Quickly, bring the cross.

A man holding a steaming bucket stepped forward and smeared a large patch of hot wax onto the bloodied pentagram. Then he stepped back and another man stepped forward. This man held a cross made from oak, which he pushed into the wax, affixing it to the door atop the dripping pentagram.

Once more Sir Beckett dribbled his blood onto the cross until it dripped red.

Then he uttered the foul words one final time, crossed himself and bowed his head. It is accomplished, he said.

Even as they had been working the door, setting it into place and sealing it with his blood, his brother had been moving across the countryside in a wide circle. Under his brother’s supervision, other brothers of their order were sacrificed and buried at various spots along the circumference of this circle. Stone crosses were planted above them, and blood was spilled, establishing wards that would seal this place.

Now Sir Beckett, with his final uttering, had completed the circuit, activating the system of wards that would keep the Black Order confined within these grounds.

On the other side of the bronze door, he could sense the Black Pope lurking in the pitch-blackness, trapped for eternity.

Let not the seal be broken, Sir Beckett intoned. These wicked devils must not get out. He looked around at his men, their features shifting as the flickering torch light made shadows dance. As I do here, so shall you do elsewhere when your turn comes. He looked at each of their faces, and they each acknowledged him with a nod. Now let us leave this unholy place

He and his men left the mine, but Sir Beckett did not leave the area as his men did. He and his true brother stayed behind, to guard and to tend the wards, ever vigilant.

CHAPTER ONE

THE ENGINE GAVE ONE last sputtering gasp. Then it shuddered and died. Paula fought to turn the sluggish wheel and pull the powerless Nissan to the side of the narrow road. It bumped across the gravel of the shoulder and coasted to a stop.

Stacy, in the passenger seat, slapped the dashboard and glared at Paula. Dammit! she shouted. You just had to take the scenic route, didn’t you? She was a gorgeous blond, buxom, with lusciously long legs. She was wearing a tight tank top with a generous amount of cleavage on display, and a pair of denim shorts.

Paula pointed off to the side of the road. Crumbling limestone walls and two soaring towers, one of them leaning precariously, rose from a thick tangle of overgrown bushes and weeds. Hey. At least we found that medieval parish church I wanted to see. Paula was pretty in a plain, no-nonsense sort of way. She was dressed conservatively in slacks and a polo shirt.

Who cares about some damned ruins? Stacy hissed. We came to see the royal wedding! She glared at Paula. If I miss it, I swear I will kill you.

Ladies, ladies, scolded Jason from the back seat. Please. You’re supposed to be best friends. Jason was Stacy’s boyfriend. He was thin, with shaggy hair and huge, myopic eyes that had recently been rescued from nerdy bottle-thick glasses by the miracle of Lasik. He looked over at Mike, sitting next to him, and rolled his eyes. Women drivers.

Paula speared Mike with a look. Excuse me? she asked, as if Mike had made the comment rather than Jason.

Mike threw up his hands, palms out. I didn’t say a word. He was a classically handsome guy with chiseled, angular features. He was stocky, with very muscular arms.

Stacy looked at Jason. How about you two get out there and work some man magic to get this car running again?

Sweetie, I’m a physics major, Jason protested. Geeks like me don’t have any man magic. You said that’s why you loved me.

That doesn’t sound like something I would say.

Well, you did.

Mike opened his door and got out. Leave it to the jock. I’ve got enough man magic for the both of us. He went to the front of the car and motioned to Paula. Pop the hood, baby.

Paula did so. Mike opened the hood and peered inside.

Jason got out of the car and came around to Mike’s side. He examined the engine for a moment, then delivered his conclusion. Here’s the trouble. The doohickey has obviously gotten out of whack with the thingamajig.

You’ll make a great physicist, honey, Stacy said from inside the car. You’ve got the jargon down pat.

Mike finished his own examination and straightened. Seriously. I can’t see anything wrong. Try starting it again, baby.

Paula did so. Absolutely nothing happened.

You think maybe it’s the battery? Stacy asked.

Mike stroked his chin. If it was the battery, I doubt the engine would have cut out like that while we were driving. I think it’s something a little more serious.

Paula pulled out her cell phone. I’ll call the rental company. They’ll send someone out, I’m sure.

Mike slammed the hood.

Stacy got out of the car and stretched. Then, as Paula started talking to the rental company, she, Jason and Mike walked up the road a bit.

They were in the south of England, in a sparsely populated, heavily wooded area. They’d taken the semester off from college and flown across the ocean to backpack across Europe. A week ago, Stacy had insisted that they travel up to England for the wedding of the British Prince and his commonplace fiancée. Paula, an archeology major, had counter-insisted that on the way they stop and visit various ruins in the English countryside.

Damn her, Stacy grumbled as she walked along with Mike and Jason.

Let it go, sweetie, Jason said. He wrapped his arm around her. The rental company will send someone out pronto. We’ll make the wedding.

She looked around at the woods. The mid-afternoon summer sunlight speared through the thick forest canopy in golden shafts that were alive with flying insects. Purple flowers bloomed everywhere. The ruins of the parish church beckoned nearby.

Stacy smiled. This is a pretty magical place, isn’t it?

Absolutely enchanting, Mike said.

Don’t let any of your football buddies hear you talking like that, Jason teased him.

Mike grinned.

They wandered back to the Nissan. Paula had just finished her call. She folded her phone and put it away.

Well, baby? Mike asked.

They can’t send anyone out today, she replied. Everyone’s off for the next few days.

What? Stacy screeched, breaking free from Jason and taking a threatening step toward Paula.

For your precious wedding, Paula said. It’s a national holiday. And anyway, the rental company says we declined the roadside assistance add on.

Stacy speared her with her eyes. We did?

What do you think, I’m rich or something? Paula said. I didn’t hear you offer to kick in any money for the car.

Jason pulled Stacy back into his arms. Come on, sweetie. The situation is what it is.

I’m going to miss the goddamn wedding, that’s what the situation is! Stacy shouted. She squirmed in Jason’s grasp, but it was only a half-hearted struggle. She liked the way his arms felt around her.

A sudden cough from the side of the road drew their attention.

It took a moment for them to see the guy, standing among the bushes. He stepped forth, coughed again. Hello, he said. What’s this? Having a bit of car trouble, are we? He was tall and skinny, in his late twenties, perhaps early thirties. He had a scraggly beard and long, thin ears. His jeans were faded and fraying at the ankles; his white tee shirt was a bit dirty. Despite his appearance, he had a friendly demeanor. He stepped out onto the road and approached the car.

Jason muttered, Okay. Four college students break down in the middle of nowhere. Creepy guy shows up. I think I’ve seen this movie before.

Stacy stepped forward and shook the guy’s hand. Yes, car trouble. I’m Stacy. She’d made a habit of enthusiastically greeting every native they met, clearly marking herself as a foreign tourist. She was friendly with the women, and overly friendly with the guys, bordering on the flirtatious. She’d put Jason’s tolerance to the test numerous times in Spain, and they’d gotten into several heated arguments as a result.

From the States, eh? the guy said. My name’s Nigel.