Hell 7, New York 0

By AuthorHouse

In the depths of Hell, Satan has built the most powerful and deadly football team in the history of the game. Its goal: To crush pro football’s world champions in a game to the death in HELL 7, NEW YORK 0.

Trapped within the fringes of Hell, quarterback Gil Gatlin finds himself the main focus of a vicious team of demons as he and his teammates fight for their very souls against staggering odds, for Satan has not only supplied this team of underworld all-stars, but the arena, fans, and officials as well.

Dark humor and raw emotion surface as each second brings the New Yorkers closer to oblivion in this bone-snapping battle of good versus evil, that Hell’s promoter bills as the "Subterranean Super Bowl."

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 31, 2001
• ISBN: 9780759643208

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Gil Gatlin stepped up behind the center and looked over the Miami defense. They were lined up in a 3-3-5 formation, a prevent defense, all set to stop a pass. Figuring they were expecting one, with third and four at the Miami 48, Gil had called a fullback draw in the huddle. With only three defensive linemen, the play should gain big. New York needed at least 15 yards to get in field goal range, but preseason or not, he was looking for a touchdown. As he began yelling signals, the defense jumped back into a 4-3 set with the linebackers showing run blitz, ready to fill the gaps in their line.

Can’t waste my last timeout now.

Without missing a beat, he changed the call by yelling Red in his signals. This meant that a blitz was coming and the receivers and the halfback were to run short routes and be ready for a quick pass before the rush got to him. On the third Hut, the ball slapped into his hands and the line of scrimmage erupted into a frenzy of grunts, curses, and collisions. He turned toward the fullback, shoving the ball into his gut and then pulling it back as the big man plowed toward the battle. Gil slid the ball down on his hip and glanced to his right. The halfback, Billy Ewbanks, had been alert to the audible and was running a fade pattern toward the sideline, a defender had yet to see his movement.

Gil glanced down field to keep the secondary busy, and then rifled the ball out to Billy in the right flat. The lean halfback caught the ball three yards from the sideline, took a stutter-step to get around a late-arriving cornerback, then took off across the field at the 40-yard line, waiting for the blocks to set up in front of him.

As Gil watched the halfback pull in the ball, his world suddenly disappeared in a blinding red flash. A tremendous jolt of pain shot through the left side of his head as he felt his body being driven to the floor of the stadium. Momentarily stunned, he was unable to see his play come to a successful conclusion. From the sound of his teammates, he didn’t need to. Tight end Ken Schweiger took out the strong safety on the left hashmark and Ewbanks sped down the left sideline with half the Miami defense in futile pursuit.

Gil managed to sit upright on the ground and noticed a yellow penalty flag next to his left hand. He looked up at the referee and crossed his hands in front of himself. He figured the penalty was for a late hit and was refusing it. He stood, somewhat shakily, and began trotting off the field as the extra point team came running on. He heard several way to go and Nice call, you old coot from his teammates over the jeers and boos of the Miami fans. A few players slapped him on the back as he walked through them to the Gatorade table. As he grabbed a cup, Glenn Oliver, the team’s veteran right guard, stepped up next to him, killing off a cup of the fluid in big gulps, unmindful of the dirty sweat that mixed with it as he drank.

You be sure come cut time, you tell Albright that I’m still keepin’ ‘em off yo’ ass! Okay Gat? The big man showed a wide toothy grin at the quarterback.

Why are you worrying Oly, you’re always telling us how good you are, quipped Paul Akers, the center.

Hey, Ox is lookin’ pretty damn good. I’m just makin’ sure he stay’s a backup.

Hell, Oly! I’ve been thinking of trying my hand at right guard, coach says I’d have a good chance at it.

The crack came from Ewbanks, who had completed his bows to the riled up Miami fans seated behind the end zone.

Hey screw you, Arky! Oly said as he feigned a right jab at the young halfback.

Despite the dull throb in his skull, Gil managed a chuckle, none of the players would even think of hurting the kid; he was special. Special in particular to the aging quarterback. Before the team drafted Billy out of Arkansas, Gil was merely a bulls-eye for other teams to take aim at. With no running attack to speak of, and a bunch of banged-up receivers to throw to, retirement seemed the only sane thing to do. At thirty-three, someone was bound to break him in half sooner or later.

But the Arky Flash had changed all that. He was a lean, blue-eyed, golden-haired country boy, who could run like a deer and knock down walls with his 6’2", 205-pound frame. His effervescence was contagious. He could party ‘til the wee hours and still run over the meanest linebacker in a game the following afternoon. He danced his way to rookie of the year honors and took a ton of pressure off the passing game. Gil turned from tackling dummy to superstar, as in his younger days, winning passing titles and two straight world championships in the process. Retirement now seemed like a nagging reality, something to be held off for as long as possible.

The defense, led by ageless middle linebacker Jerry Looney, intercepted Miami’s first pass after the kickoff and rookie quarterback Bobby Greer went out with the offense to take the final snap and run out the clock.

You better watch that kid, Gat, kidded Ewbanks. He sits on that ball just like an old pro.

The gun sounded to end the game and the players began trotting down the sideline toward the tunnel. Gil shook hands with some of the Miami players that came over to meet his group. Some wished him good luck, others said they hoped his luck would rub off on them. At the tunnel entrance, several eager kids were hanging over the low wall, pens and artifacts in hand, pleading for autographs. Gil never could walk by them. He hated the looks on their faces when their heroes passed them by without a glance. As he stopped at the wall, a score of photos, footballs, and other memorabilia were thrust out to him. He reminded the kids as he stepped up to them not to push each other out of the way or he would keep walking. He surprised himself with the first signature;

What the hell is my last name? He puzzled over this for a moment before simply signing Best Wishes, Gil #14. Finally another youth called out Mister Gatlin, would you sign mine? Somewhat relieved, he continued.

Fullback Mark Slater and Ewbanks were not far away, also signing autographs. They finished up and began walking toward the quarterback.

C’mon you glory hound. Said Slater from under his bushy brown mustache. It’s too damn hot out here.

Be right with you, Gil answered. He finished signing a football for a wide-eyed youngster and handed it back to him with a wink. Maybe I’ll be asking for your autograph one of these days.

Gosh, that’d be swell Mister Gatlin! The little boy’s smile showed a wide gap that yearned for new front teeth. He then whirled around and ran up the stadium stairs to show his father his prize.

As Gil started into the tunnel with Mark and Billy, Perry Newman, the team doctor, walked up behind him and gently squeezed his left arm.

Looked to me like you were having a little trouble writing, Gil. He said. I thought you took a pretty good shot out there. Try spelling your last name for me.

Slightly perturbed, Gil stopped and looked at the doctor.

G … I…L.

Your last name, Gil!

The quarterback stared at him for a few seconds, trying to find the name that had been a part of him all his life. Offensive coordinator Chris Mosby trotted by them and yelled, Nice call Gat, fooled everybody!

G A T L I N, Gil said as he looked at Perry.

Nice try! You couldn’t remember it until Chris said it. Your pupils are dilated too. I’m going to have to keep an eye on you for a while, my friend.

All right, Gat! Somebody to hold your hand in the shower again, quipped Ewbanks.

Cool! added Slater. Me first.

No big deal, Gil, said Newman. But I’m going to keep you awake on the plane for a little while to see how you’re doing. Why Albright makes you play the entire last preseason game is beyond me. It seems like there’s always some rookie that tries to take your head off so he can make the team.

You’re the boss, returned Gil, unable to remember Perry’s name now.

CHAPTER 2

Hey Gil! No cheating now buddy. Come on. Wake up! Gil could feel a rough set of fingers patting none to gently on his cheek. His eyes opened slightly to identify his antagonist as Mark Slater.

Perry will have my ass if he sees you sleeping, bud. So snap to.

Gil blinked awake and looked up to see Ben Jameson and Donny Lee, his two favorite receivers, leaning over the tall backrests of the seats in front of him.

Can’t be noddin’ out with a dinger, Gat, smiled Jameson.

Gil smiled slightly, but his eyes did not show the quick recognition that friends are accustomed to. He turned his head to the right and found a window next to him. He finally deduced that he was sitting in a jet, it’s engines emitting a low whirring noise. He wasn’t sure what airport he was at, but he knew the plane was preparing to leave. Who had they played? He knew he had played because his body was sore and becoming stiff. His head felt a dull thud each time his heart beat. Who did they play? Houston? No, the Super Bowl was months ago…or was it? He remembered all the preparation, the interviews, the game. It had been a blowout. Two straight championships. MVP. Things were great. He looked back at Slater, grinning.

Glad to see you’re happy, you hoser! What are you grinning about? asked the fullback. His brown eyes twinkled from under dark bushy eyebrows and bright white teeth smiled through his equally thick mustache.

Two straight, answered Gil. Looking forward to getting home and celebrating.

Oh great! Is this for real? The question came from Looney, who was loitering nearby in the aisle. His voice carried through the airliner. We open in Dallas next week and Gat’s seein’ UFOs! The big linebacker shook his head slowly. His long shaggy black hair brushed the top of his broad shoulders. His dark glowering eyes always betrayed mischief and his stout jaw jutting out from under a huge black mustache always seemed to dare a response to his barbs. Each year he seemed to lose half a step, but he made up for it by becoming meaner and more unpredictable with age.

Ease up on him, Loon, defended Slater. I remember you took such a shot in L.A., that you gave away all your beer on the flight home and later accused Ewbanks of stealing it!

I still think that Okie stole it! snorted Looney. He turned and walked down the aisle.

Screw him, Gat, retorted Jameson. He just chased too many parked cars in his first life!

Gil did not reply, but merely stared out the window at the long shadows developing across the tarmac from the setting sun. The chatter about him faded away as the steadily growing shadow of a nearby propjet stretched across the asphalt toward him. As the sun sank lower toward the horizon, the shadows extending from the propellers of the parked airplane looked like fingers; reaching, groping for the wing that was attached to the fuselage immediately below and just behind where Gil was seated. The shadow seemed to bend away from its origin and was creeping in a direction no longer in line with the setting sun. The pavement under the wing gave no sign of the shadow where it should have been. He turned his body slightly toward the window to watch this slow moving specter as it began to crawl up on the wing tip and feel it’s way toward the starboard engine. Six dark fingers slid over and around the front of the engine cowling and soundlessly slid inside. The sun slipped past the horizon and Gil could see no more of what could only have been a trick of his bruised subconscious.

Gil. Gil. Gat! Buckle up buddy, we’re moving. Slater gently shook his stricken friend, who finally turned himself away from the window and looked back at him. C’mon buddy, strap up! We’re pulling out, he urged.

We’re gonna have a problem with that engine, Mark, Gil stated flatly.

Excuse me? he replied, raising an eyebrow.

Something just crawled into that engine. answered Gil, nodding toward the wing. It was like a shadow with long fingers.

Buddy, that’s just what it was, a shadow. Said Mark softly. He now knew his friend was more seriously hurt than anyone had thought. He