Through the Gates of Hell

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Chapter One

During the good times, when cash and dark stone and booze flowed freely through town, the Sandstone Saloon would have been packed with people, gambling and drinking and flirting with the serving girls, filling the evening air with music and laughter and joy, secure in their beliefs that the good times would continue on forever.

But good times always ended. Tonight, the Sandstone Saloon was pretty dead. Walt Sutter hunched over at the bar, a mug of warm beer clutched in his hands like a lifeline, and glanced over his shoulder at the few other patrons. They were a miserable bunch, to be sure. Mine workers, mostly, but there were a few other locals mixed in. A few were playing cards in the corner, but most everyone else sat by themselves and nursed their drinks in silence. There was no music, as the saloon’s piano player had left town two days before. The place was a shambles, with a few chairs knocked over, broken bottles on the floor, mud and accumulated filth that no one had bothered to clean up. It didn’t really even look like a proper saloon anymore, it was closer in resemblance to an abandoned old ruin where some homeless drunks had chosen to spend the night.

Walt frowned and turned back to his drink. He didn’t remember the last time he had taken a sip from it. He didn’t know how long he had even been sitting there. A few hours? Surely not more than three hours. But it was dark outside, and Walt was pretty sure it had still been daytime when he came in. He had been struggling with episodes like that lately, long periods when he sat alone with his thoughts for hours and completely lost track of time.

Things had not been good in the town of Peaceful Valley. Three of the mining operations had completely closed up shop and left for better opportunities elsewhere. Two were still in operation, but they hadn’t opened a new mine in at least a month, and most of the productive mines were nearly picked clean of dark stone. But the main problem wasn’t lack of available dark stone. The companies were simply running out of willing bodies to work the mines at all.

Six months ago, things had been very different. Peaceful Valley had been a hub of frantic activity, full of crowds of new faces every day, desperate or foolish people hoping to strike it rich with dark stone. Miners, laborers, gamblers, entrepreneurs, businessmen, the curious and the greedy. Most of them were gone now. The lucky ones had left town with what little money they could scrape together, and the unlucky ones …

Walt squeezed his eyes shut and gripped his mug until his knuckles were white. Fragmented bits of memory flickered and flashed at the edges of his vision, but he forced his eyes closed so hard that all he could see was dark red, and eventually the threatening, tormented images faded. Walt didn’t like to think about the unlucky ones. And there were lots and lots of unlucky ones.

Walt knew that he should have moved on already, but something kept him stuck in this miserable town, holding him back like an anchor. He was almost completely broke now, having blown through two fortunes in dark stone in the past two years. No matter how much dark stone he dug out of the ground, no matter how much money he made, it was never enough. He spent it and wasted it on entertainment and women and whiskey, and always the mines called him back like an undeniable siren’s call. It was an addiction worse than booze, worse than opium, worse than anything. The dark stone was like an itch in his blood, always bringing him back.

Walt could remember when dark stone was first discovered. It was like a miracle substance, with all kinds of industrial applications, and the subsequent mining boom that erupted in the Arizona Territory made the California Gold Rush look like a weekend curiosity. Walt had been there almost since the beginning, and had watched with his own eyes as those early months of excitement and sudden wealth had gradually deteriorated into corruption, fear, and misery.

Dark stone was incredibly valuable, but that value came at a terrible price. At first, it was just a few random incidents reported as vague gossip. And then a few more stories leaked out, with specific details and the names of the people involved. Walt didn’t really believe the stories at the time, but like so many others, he was seduced by the dark stone and the incredible wealth it offered. But soon, those vague rumors became common knowledge. Stories of death and terror, of unnatural events and supernatural phenomena, of hideous creatures summoned deep in the mines. The stories were true. Walt had more than a few stories of his own …

Someone banged open the doors to the saloon, but Walt didn’t bother to turn around and look. Probably just some other lonely and beaten-down miner coming to drown his sorrows in whiskey, just like Walt. Or maybe some new fool arriving in town, hoping to strike it rich. If that was the case, Walt would be tempted to tell the poor fool to get out of town while he still had a chance.

“My name is Robert Holden,” barked a strong, deep voice. “I’m a United States Marshall and I’m looking for the Sheriff of this town. I was told his name is Bill Cooper, but there’s no one at the Sheriff’s office. Someone tell me where I can find him.”

Walt turned in his seat to take a look at the newcomer. He was a middle-aged man with dark brown hair and a neatly-trimmed mustache. He wore a brown hat, a tan shirt with brown leather vest, and black pants. A silver Marshall’s star was pinned on his vest.

The other patrons of the saloon looked uncomfortably around at each other, but no one spoke. The bartender had already made himself scarce in the back office. For a few breaths, no one said anything, until the silence was almost unbearable.

“Well?” Robert Holden snapped. “Someone tell me what the hell’s going on around here!”

“He’s dead,” Walt said. He hadn’t spoken out loud in so long that his voice sounded coarse and strangled, so he cleared his throat awkwardly and said again, “He’s dead. The Sheriff died … I don’t know, five or six days ago. I can’t remember.”

Robert, to his credit, did not seem surprised. If he had been surprised by the news, then Walt would have written him off as some inexperienced or incompetent officer who had spent his career behind a desk. Instead, Robert just narrowed his eyes and frowned, merely annoyed by the news, as if learning that the person he was looking for had died of a long illness. The news was disappointing, but not unexpected.

“How did he die?” Robert asked.

Walt scratched at his beard, unsure how much he wanted to tell this man. “There was … somethin’ happened in one of the mines. The Sheriff went to investigate, and he …”

“All right,” Robert said bitterly. “I can guess the rest. Did he have a deputy? Are there any officers of the law in this town at all?”

Walt shrugged. “I don’t reckon so.”

Robert frowned and took off his hat, patting it free of dust as he glanced around the saloon, taking in the faces of the other miserable souls drinking their troubles away. “I take it you’ve had some difficulties here in this town?”

“Difficulties,” Walt said with a straight face. “You could say that.”

Robert studied him for a moment. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Walt Sutter.”

“You work in the mines?”

“Yeah. I’m a prospector here.”

“Well, Mr. Sutter, I’d appreciate your assistance,” Robert said, stepping forward. “Sheriff Cooper sent a telegram to our office last week, requesting additional officers to help deal with what he referred to as ‘civil disturbances.’ Unfortunately, we’re understaffed right now, as I’m sure you can understand. It was only yesterday that I was given my orders to come here and assist Sheriff Cooper.”

“You got here a bit too late, then.”

“Yes,” Robert agreed sincerely. “It seems that way. I need someone to fill me in on the details about what’s been going on in this town.” He paused to glance around the saloon. “And it seems the other residents here are in no mood to help. Can’t say I blame them, to be honest. But if you could help give me any information you can, I would be grateful.”

Instead of giving an answer, Walt asked, “You been to some of the other minin’ towns?”

“Yes, I have,” Robert replied. “I’m fully aware of the dangers that men face when they go down to work in the mines.”

“Then I reckon you already got all the information you need,” Walt said.

Robert nodded slightly, but then said, “I need specifics. I need to know exactly what this town is dealing with.”

Walt knew what he was really asking, but neither man really felt comfortable saying such things out loud. Even now, people still spoke circles around the truth, using euphemisms and double-talk to cover up what they could all see with their own eyes.

The real questions Robert wanted to ask were, What kind of creatures live in the mines? How many men have died? Have the creatures come into town?

Walt didn’t want to answer those questions. He didn’t want to think about it at all. No one left in town wanted to talk about the nightmarish horrors that crept out of the darkness of the deep mines. Those that remained were just trying to survive one more day. Maybe they could collect a little bit of dark stone to make all of their sacrifice worth something. Maybe they could make something out of their lives, or at the very least, afford to drink enough to make them forget all that they had seen.

Walt could only wipe his mouth nervously and shake his head. “I can’t,” he said, unable to look Robert in the eye. “If I was you, I’d turn around and go back home. You’re just wastin’ your time here.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Robert said evenly. He patted Walt on the shoulder and said, “Thank you for your time. If you change your mind, I’ll be at the Sheriff’s office. You can come and talk –”

The end of his sentence was cut off by a sound outside. A scream, but nothing in that sound was anything like a human voice could make. It as a long, wavering sound that sent chills down Walt’s spine, and soon it was joined by others, a chorus of bestial howls and roars that seemed to come from every direction, swallowing up the entire town in a tornado of inhuman screaming.

The night was alive with the sound of demons.

Already the other patrons were running for it, abandoning their tables and their drinks and running off to hide in the saloon’s back rooms. Robert turned and ran for the door, but Walt grabbed his arm. “No!” he choked out, his eyes wide with fear. “Don’t go out there! We got to hide!”

Robert shook off his arm. “I didn’t come here to hide,” he said. “I came here to fight.”

He ran out the saloon door into the night, leaving Walt standing in paralyzed indecision. Walt had seen too much already, lived through too many terrors of his own. He could not face another. But something – perhaps a tiny half-forgotten fragment of the man he used to be – compelled him forward in pursuit of the Marshall.

He staggered through the doors as a crowd of people rushed past, running for their lives. Down the street, fire bloomed and chaos reigned. A two-story building – one of the town’s general stores – was under attack. In less than a few seconds, it was already burning, making the entire street glow orange. Clawing flames reached from the windows and thick black smoke belched up into the night sky.

Robert was fighting with his horse, which was tied to a post in front of the saloon, as it whinnied in terror and yanked itself free of the reins. From a long sleeve strapped to the horse’s saddle, Robert pulled out a long double-barrel shotgun. He was forced to jump free as the animal broke loose and bolted in a panic, but he didn’t attempt to chase after it. All around him, people were running down the street, screaming and crying. Robert ignored them and walked purposefully in the other direction, pushing people aside if they got in his way. Fearless, he went down the street in the direction of the burning building, like a man on a mission.

Fighting the urge to flee, Walt stumbled down the street after him. The sound of the monsters roaring in fury was like a knife in his chest, making the visions threaten to overwhelm him again. He lurched against a wooden post and watched in horror as huge shadowy things moved through the smoke, like nightmares haunting him from the depths of his subconscious. It was all he could do to wrap his arms around the post and slump to the ground, as fear clutched at his heart with icy claws.

Robert stood in the middle of the street and raised his shotgun. It boomed like a crack of thunder, a flash erupting from the barrel, and he ran forward toward the flames. Walt couldn’t see what Robert was shooting at, but he heard the hideous squeal of some kind of creature, and then Robert fired again, the blast from the shotgun making Walt flinch back.

Robert opened the shotgun, and with only the slightest twist of his arms, ejected the two empty shells, which trailed smoke as they tumbled to the ground. He jammed two more shells into the gun and immediately began to shoot again, firing into the smoke at things that seemed to swirl and dance in the flames. Any moment, Walt expected one of those terrible shapes to come for Robert and silence his shotgun for good, but the Marshall ran into the blinding smoke and kept shooting, heedless of the danger. His shotgun boomed over and over again, like a hammering heartbeat in the center of chaos.

It seemed to last for just a few seconds. Walt heard the sound of creaking and crumbling wooden beams above the sound of the crackling fire, and then the entire general store tilted forward, flames blossoming around the entire building. More people screamed, and Walt wanted to cry out with them, but he could not find his own voice. He was frozen in utter terror, his eyes wide open as tears streamed down his rough cheeks. The entire building became a swirling inferno of twisting flames and blowing smoke, and Walt felt the heat on his face as if he was gazing straight down into Hell itself.

The general store collapsed with a shuddering boom that made the ground tremble. Meteors of smoking wreckage shot out in all directions like a huge explosion, and billowing smoke swept across the entire street. Monsters roared and howled, filling the air with their evil, demonic laughter, and just as soon as they had arrived, they were gone. They disappeared and returned back to the pit where they had come from.

Walt staggered upright, still leaning on the wooden post for support. The smoke stung his eyes and made him cough. He looked around in a daze as a few other survivors stumbled out into the street to stare in disbelief at the damage. As the smoke began to clear, they could see the entire general store had been reduced to a pile of burning rubble.

A lone figure emerged from the ruins, carrying something in his arms. His clothing was streaked black with smoke, and spattered with blood, both red and purple. He strode defiantly from the smoldering wreckage, his hat missing and his shotgun lost as well.

In his arms, Marshall Robert Holden carried a young boy. The child lay limp and motionless, but was clearly still alive and breathing. A few of the survivors saw him and ran over in shock. Robert spoke to them and handed the child over, and they hurried off to get the child medical attention. Robert didn’t wait for thanks or congratulations, he simply turned and walked back towards the wreckage.

Walt finally found his voice. “Wait!” he called out.

Robert turned and glanced at him. He looked completely unfazed by what had just occurred, and the hard look in his eyes was fierce and unafraid. The blood all over his clothing did not belong to him. He had walked through a nightmare without a thought, and came out unscathed. Walt just stared at him in awe, as if standing in the presence of some kind of mythic hero.

“Where … where are you goin’?” Walt said in a half-whisper.

Robert gestured toward the smoking remains of the general store. “I have to get my shotgun,” he said calmly. “I left it on the ground over there. I’m going to need it.”

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