Armageddon - By James Patterson Page 0,54
chiseled into them, symbols that even I, with my encyclopedic knowledge of runes and symbology, couldn’t translate.
“This cave definitely needs a crate of Tic Tacs,” Joe said as a stench that went beyond putrid surged out of the cavern’s mouth.
“Or we could hose it down with a tanker truck full of Listerine,” suggested Dana.
The suffocating stink was, we suspected, strong enough to kill. Two soldiers who had volunteered to scout the entryway passed out, succumbing to the noxious fumes.
“Gas masks!” shouted Willy. Those of us still standing slapped on our protective gear.
When we raced forward to retrieve our comrades, jets of gaseous dragon fire shot out of the tunnel as if it were a gigantic blowtorch.
“Erm, Daniel,” said Joe, when the firestorm finally subsided, “maybe now would be a good time to turn back?”
“What?”
“Well, my friend, I think we’ve discovered the actual gates of hell.”
“Not a place that’s ever been on my must-see list of earthly attractions,” added Dana.
“Abbadon is down there,” I said.
“Daniel and I are going in,” announced Willy. “Who’s coming with us?”
“I guess this is why they say the road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Joe quipped as he stepped up to join us.
Emma and Dana were right behind Joe, with Dana remarking, “It’s like they say: If you’re going through hell, keep going.”
Lieutenant Russell and the remaining members of the strike force fell in behind my friends.
We were all moving forward. Together, to the end.
As we entered the eerie gloom of the sweltering shaft, each member of my squadron knew the harsh truth hanging over our heads: another fire blast could shoot up the tunnel at any moment and incinerate us alive.
Because this wasn’t just a parallel world.
This was a parallel nightmare.
Chapter 73
AS WE JOURNEYED deeper into the unknown, we started encountering trapped souls of the damned.
The first group—whom we encountered in a chamber where Joe pegged the temperature at 120 degrees Fahrenheit—were people who, basically, did nothing in life. They weren’t good, but they weren’t really evil, either. They didn’t even bemoan their eternal fate in this sweatbox. They were blasé blobs.
I remembered what Dante had written: “The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.”
“Let’s keep moving,” I called out to my squad, all of whom were gawking at the silent specters surrounding us. The souls of the “uncommitted” swatted at wasps and hornets swarming around their heads. They tried to swipe away the maggots and leeches ferociously sucking on their flesh.
We left them to their eternal misery.
After passing through this vestibule, we boarded a ferry-boat and crossed a black underground river.
“Next stop, hell,” droned the ferry pilot. “Hell is next.”
I looked at Lieutenant Russell. He actually grinned. We were both remembering the vow he’d made after our martial arts match: Heck, kid—I’d follow you into hell itself.
We now entered a series of terraced, circular rooms spiraling down in receding levels. It was kind of like the Guggenheim Museum in New York City—only the walls were black and slick and slimy.
The first circle was crowded with souls who simply looked lost or confused.
“I did nothing wrong!” cried a woman. “Why am I stuck in limbo?”
The second circle down was full of those who had been overcome by lust. I recognized a few dead politicians and celebrities, all famous for cheating on their spouses.
We continued down the wraparounds, as if we were trying to get out of a parking garage.
The next circular chamber was filled with souls wallowing in filth, like pigs, while raw sewage dribbled on their heads.
“Why are you here?” I called out.
“In life I was a glutton. I ate like a pig. All day, every day!”
I realized that Dante had been spot-on in his description of the circles of hell. So, having uploaded his masterwork into my memory banks at the age of six, I knew that beneath the gluttons would come the avaricious and the prodigal; that is, people who had spent their lives chasing money. In hell, they had to chase after one another with giant boulders.
The level below that, the fifth circle, was a swampy place—an open cesspool where those whose lives had been filled with rage had to wrestle one another in a pool of chunky brown muck. If you ever visit the fifth circle of hell, trust me—you want to pack nose plugs.
We looped down to the sixth circle, which was filled with heretics (those who disagreed with official Church teachings), and wound our way