9 Levels of Hell: Volume 1

by Static, E. C.

  It was that soldier. The only player who had noticed his grenade. Who noticed him.

  Shit. He must have slipped up the other set of stairs and sneaked up on Clint from behind. Clint had been so focused on the players down below, he’d missed the threat over his own damn shoulder.

  “Is okay,” the man said in a thick Russian accent. His gun stayed firmly still, but his other hand yanked at Clint’s rifle strap, sending pain coiling down Clint’s chest like tiny snakes. “Give.”

  Clint eased the rifle off his shoulder and passed it blindly backwards.

  The man took it with surprising calm. He patted Clint’s injured shoulder and kept his hand resting there, firmly. The bullet wound pulsed hotly under the man’s palm. Clint fought the urge to gasp.

  The man tapped his gun against the back of Clint’s neck. “Go,” he said.

  “I think we’ve met before,” Clint said, trying to keep his voice steady, like he wasn’t terrified and in pain.

  “Da.”

  “You know, we could work tog—”

  The man’s fingers dug into Clint’s bandage, just enough to make Clint groan, “Oh, fuck,” and punch his own thigh to keep himself from yelling.

  “Go,” the man repeated, his voice as cold as his pistol.

  Clint walked forward, his hands above his head, even though it made the nerves in his right shoulder screech like violin strings.

  When he came down the stairs, Malina glared at him over her shoulder, blood trickling from her busted temple down her jawline. Her eyes seemed to say: if we ever get out of here, I am going to fucking kill you.

  Florence’s gun did not waver as she turned a gleaming smile on Clint. That smile was all honey and acid. She was beautiful and terrifying. In real life, she was the kind of woman whose glance would have slipped over him like he was part of the wall.

  Now, she picked him apart with her stare, like she was already imagining his cadaver.

  “There’s your friend,” she cooed to Malina. “If you tell me the truth, I’ll let him live after all.”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck about him,” Malina snarled.

  “Gee, thanks buddy,” Clint muttered.

  “Yeah, fuck you too, getting us caught like this.”

  “Me?”

  “You two can kindly shut up,” Florence said, and the threat of her soldiers and their guns silenced them both.

  The man holding the gun to Clint’s head pushed him down to his knees beside Malina. She glared at him out of the corner of her eye.

  Now Florence stalked in front of them, pacing back and forth. This close up, he could see the mud and gore caked to the soles of her boots.

  She held her gun against her hip, casually, and said, “You must be Clint Hawkins.”

  “Yeah,” he said, hating how his voice lifted up like a question. Like he was afraid of admitting it.

  “I’ve noticed you. Not many boys at your level can take on my soldiers. Even with your friend here carrying you.”

  “Maybe you need better soldiers,” Clint said.

  That earned a bitter, barking laugh from Malina.

  Florence didn’t react. She squatted down to his level and offered him a poison-sweet smile. “Clint, what did Death take from you to bring you here?”

  His mouth hung open uselessly for a moment. “What?” he managed.

  “Don’t try to be coy. He’s got something hanging over all our heads. He understands a vital truth: this game doesn’t work unless the players have something to fight for. If you help me, I can give you all of that back. Your life, your loved ones, your soul… everything.”

  Florence gestured to Malina with her pistol. “She wouldn’t do the same for you, but I’m generous. You could even talk me into saving her.”

  Clint swallowed the dry lump in his throat. He tried to imagine Rachel kneeling beside him. What she would say, if she was here, looking at all those bastards and their guns.

  Don’t tell that psycho bitch anything, probably.

  Hell, if Rachel was here, she could have sat in the library window and picked Florence’s soldiers off like rabbits. He once (and only once) went on a hunting trip with her family. She dropped a rabbit from a hundred yards away and dressed it while Clint stood there, trying not to vomit.

  God, everything would be so much better if she was here next to him. She was his only reason to be strong, to keep fighting.

  Clint licked his lips and said, “I’m sorry. There’s nothing in here.”

  Beside him, the Russian guy tensed, eyes flashing.

  But Florence’s poker face was perfect. She didn’t even flinch as she said, “Then you’ve both risked your lives for absolutely nothing?”

  She sighed and stood up. Her holster was rubbed smooth on the side, and Clint saw it was because her finger traced a constant restless circle over the same spot.

  “That’s a real shame,” Florence said. “I thought we could work together.”

  “What would make us ever want to trust you?” Malina said.

  Florence’s eyes gleamed. “Nothing. But your other choice is death.”

  “Bring it on, you fucking bastard,” Malina snarled back.

  That made Florence nod along with a crisp, unsurprised smile.

  “Jeffery, darling,” she said to the man beside her, who had singed-off eyebrows and a startled look. He tensed like a trained dog when she spoke to him. “Take them out to the field and shoot them.”

  CHAPTER 27

  F

  LORENCE DIDN’T REALLY WANT TO kill them. That was the only way any of this made sense.

  Clint walked side by side with Malina, their hands tightly bound behind their backs with Clint’s own duct tape. The rain soaked into his shoulders, and it was the only thing that kept all this from feeling too unreal to process.

  His thoughts whirled and collided as he scrambled for some sense of strategy. This must have been some psychological mind-fuck. There was no difference between being dead in the field and dead in the library; Florence wouldn’t care where she happened to blow his brains out.

  She had no idea how to get to Level 2. And she thought they did.

  He did not let his triumph show. Admittedly, it was hard to feel properly arrogant about it while he was being marched across a flat empty field by five people carrying rifles and machine guns.

  The singed-eyebrow dude walked so close behind him that Clint could feel the man’s hot breath against his neck. Jeffery. He’d heard Florence call him that.

  When Clint twisted his neck to dare a glance backward, he saw the other players: two men and two women, including Florence herself. The other woman carried Clint’s pack slung over one shoulder, while one of the men brought along Malina’s.

  The Russian trailed a couple feet behind them all, glancing at the sky like he expected Death himself to come down from it.

  “Eyes forward,” Jeffery snapped, slapping the back of Clint’s head.

  “Listen, you dick—” Clint started.

  “Shut up.” Malina glowered at him without turning her head. “Don’t piss them off.”

  “Listen to your bitch,” Jeffery said.

  Malina’s glare snapped to him. “You’re the only bitch I see here. What the fuck happened to your face?”

  That made the eyebrowless man’s face flush red with fury. He grabbed Malina by her hair and pressed the rifle to her cheek.

  “You and your buddy happened to it. I was driving the jeep you threw that fucking grenade into.”

  Malina looked at Clint, and she smiled like a wolf, even with the gun barrel digging into her flesh. “Looks like you missed some XP.”

  They stopped in the middle of the field. The man shoved Malina down so hard, her face slammed into the mud. She wriggled and started to sit up, but he rested his filthy boot against the side of her head.

  Clint hesitated there for a moment before the Russian gripped his elbow and pushed downward on hi
s bad shoulder. Pain exploded in little stars in the corners of Clint’s eyes as he collapsed to his knees beside Malina.

  “So much for not pissing them off,” he gasped at her.

  “They pissed me off.”

  Jeffery didn’t lift his foot off Malina’s head, but he leaned forward to prod at Clint’s shoulder with his own rifle, until tears bit at the corners of his eyes.

  “What? Did you get a little scratch?” He laughed and ground his heel into the back of Malina’s skull once more before he stalked back to Florence’s side.

  Malina lifted her face out of the mud and smeared the dirt off on her shoulder the best she could. Even filthy and bleeding, she looked proud, fierce.

  It would be a shame to watch her die out here.

  Florence stood before them as her cronies made a loose circle, their guns raised. Ready for any hint of a struggle.

  The rain pattered against Clint’s forehead. It drummed up small puddles in the earth. He watched the water bounce and wondered if it was the last thing he would ever see.

  It was too easy to imagine her beside him, kneeling in the mud, walling off her terror behind her rage. The idea of her made his belly twist with a despair he had been compartmentalizing since he first woke up here.

  He imagined telling her, Sorry, Rachel. I did my best.

  Florence nodded to the gang members holding the packs. “Search their things.”

  Clint shifted his hands, uncomfortably.

  “If you’re going to do it, just fucking do it already.” Malina’s snarl came out cloudy in the cool air.

  “Are you that anxious to die?” Florence rolled her eyes and gestured with her pistol at Malina. “She can go first.”

  Clint tried to pass her a worried look, but Malina wasn’t looking at him. She was glaring up at the sky, muttering prayers or curses under her breath. He couldn’t tell which.

  Florence nodded at their backpacks. “Search their shit.”

  Her crew worked fast, upending both bags and dumping their contents into the mud.

  Clint twisted his head to watch. His own bag was almost exactly how he remembered it: his bandages and painkillers, extra ammunition, the pistol the Russian had yanked from his belt, his last bottle of water.

  But the book was gone.

  “What did you find in there?” Florence growled at them.

  “Nothing,” Clint answered.

  He must have spoken too urgently, because Florence rolled her eyes and pointed her gun at him. “Check their pockets. See if they’re hiding anything.”

  Jeffery moved to pat down Clint first. He delved into the front pocket of Clint’s jeans. Clint’s fists tightened as the man produced Rachel’s little pink hair bow and the small, strange coin Clint had found.

  Indignation burned hot up Clint’s throat. He fought against his duct tape and growled, “Give that back.”

  “This must look very nice in your hair,” Jeffery said.

  “It’s my girlfriend’s. Give it back.”

  “Oh, is she waiting for you to save her?” The bastard grinned as he stuffed the clip and coin back into Clint’s pocket. “Maybe you’ll see her down in Hell.”

  Clint barely kept himself from spitting in the guy’s smug face. He took a deep breath.

  No pissing them off. No getting himself killed, not when there was still a chance to talk his way out of this.

  Malina grinned at Florence, all poison and delight. “You really have no fucking clue what you’re looking for, do you? You dumb bitch. You can’t shoot your way to the next le—”

  Florence cracked her pistol across Malina’s bleeding temple. The sound was loud as thunder, but Malina made no sound.

  She dipped her head as the blood dripped from her eyebrow to the earth. Then she looked up and gave Florence another barbed smile, her spit scarlet over her teeth.

  “That won’t get you through, either,” Malina said.

  “Honey,” Florence said, calmly, “unless you really want me to blow your brains out right here and right now, you’d best shut up.”

  Malina looked like she wanted to argue.

  Clint spoke before she could. “There was a bookshelf, inside,” he said. “We found a hidden room behind it.”

  The look Malina gave him was wild-eyed and confused, but she quickly turned it into anger.

  “Don’t tell her,” Malina started, and Florence hit her across the mouth with her gun. Blood dripped between Malina’s lips, and she drooled scarlet into the dust.

  “It’s not your turn to talk,” Florence chided her, idly, like she was a misbehaving child.

  She crouched down in front of Clint and nestled her pistol against the soft belly of his chin, tilting his head upwards. She was so close now that Clint could see the flecks of amber in her brown eyes.

  Florence searched his face like she could not quite bring herself to believe him. “What’s behind this bookshelf?”

  He swallowed hard. “There was a stairway. Leading down. We were going to go look, and then I heard Malina, and—”

  “You will tell me where it is.”

  Clint’s heart pounded against his ribcage. He nodded against the metal on his chin.

  “Please,” he said, dipping his head toward Malina. “Don’t kill her. She’s the best shot I’ve ever met. She’s fearless as hell, and you’d be killing someone who could help you.”

  Malina gave him a look of mute surprise.

  Florence pulled her gun away and stood. She clicked her tongue, patted her pistol thoughtfully against her thigh. “I do like when boys beg. But you’ll have to do better than that.”

  Something shifted in the grass at Clint’s knee. He glanced down.

  A thin brown snake sat coiled among the sage. It seemed to be watching him, its black eyes inquisitive. Intelligent.

  Clint’s mind wheeled back to Virgil’s smirk. That marked passage in the Inferno.

  “Minos,” he breathed.

  Malina followed his stare down to the snake, her brows crinkled in perfect confusion.

  Clint snapped his head back up and met Florence’s eyes. He said, with fake confidence and real urgency, “It’s the last bookshelf at the end. The middle one. I had to pull out a copy of, uh…”

  Clint racked his brain, trying to think of the books he really had seen. Florence’s stare grew more and more unimpressed.

  “Paradise Lost,” he spat out. “It was Paradise Lost. It opened the room.”

  Florence walked behind them. She toed through their belongings with her boot, smearing them in mud and blood. She picked up the ammunition and tossed it to Jeffery, who still held Clint’s rifle.

  “Here,” she said. “Just in case.”

  Then, she turned and fixed Clint with a sour-sweet smile.

  “I’m going to go test your story. And if you’re lying to me, I’m going to call my friend Jeffery here”—she patted the browless man’s shoulder—“and I’m going to tell him to shoot you both. So you’d best be telling me the honest truth, boy.”

  “I am,” he insisted.

  “You two,” Florence barked at two of her cronies, the woman and the Russian guy, “follow me. The rest of you stay here.”

  She pulled a radio from her belt and said into it, “Atlas? You sober?”

  “Somewhat,” came a grumbled reply.

  “Good. Get out to the field. Shit’s going down.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Florence tucked away her radio and stalked off, and the female soldier immediately followed. The Russian paused and held Clint’s stare for a long few seconds before he walked after her.

  Clint and Malina knelt in the rain, Jeffery and the other soldier standing over them, guns lazily trained at them.

  For minutes that felt like hours, no one said anything. Then the men began to relax and let their guns down, as if they had accepted that their prisoners really weren’t going to pull any shit. They picked through Malina
and Clint’s belongings, bickering and dividing things up amongst themselves.

  “Well,” Malina muttered, “at least we tried.”

  Clint glanced down to look for the snake, but it had vanished. His stomach sank deeper than any pit of Hell.

  An ATV appeared at the edge of the field, kicking up tiny waves of mud water. Its engine whined as it approached, growing louder and louder, until it winced to a stop a few feet away.

  A dark-haired man staggered out. Atlas. That was the name Florence used over the radio. He whistled and pushed his sunglasses above his forehead.

  “You all seem like you’ve had quite a day.” His stare caught on Jeffery, and he snorted. “You look grim, mate. The med kit couldn’t do anything about that?” He gestured at his own eyebrows.

  Jeffery scowled. “They’ll grow back. You can all stop talking about it.”

  “Hey,” the other soldier said, ignoring them both. He held up a packet of cigarettes from Malina’s bag. “Look what I found.”

  “Oh, brilliant,” Atlas said. He sounded British, maybe; Clint had never been good with accents. “You lucky cunt. I’ve been looking for a fresh pack.”

  Malina’s shoulders stiffened, but she said nothing.

  “What?” A fox smirk played on Atlas’s lips. He held out the pack toward her. “Either one of you want one last smoke before you go?”

  Clint caught movement in the corner of his eye. Something dark brown and writhing. It sure as hell wasn’t mud. He tried to keep the anticipation off his face.

  “I’m not the one dying today,” Malina said.

  “Oh, feisty and optimistic. I like you.” Atlas flicked open the pack and tapped out a cigarette. He tucked it between his lips and turned to the other two soldiers. “You two got some details for me?”

  Their captors stepped away to smoke their cigarettes and speak in low, hushed tones — except for Atlas, who was drunker than Clint first thought. He swayed even as he stood still, holding onto his cigarette like it could give him balance.

  Clint inclined his head slightly to Malina to whisper, “I figured it out.”

  She looked back at him, her question in her eyes.

  Clint nodded down at the earth. “The snakes.”