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Hell
Hole: The Official Screenplay
Hole: The Official Screenplay
by
Donald Firesmith and Leland Anderson
Donald Firesmith and Leland Anderson
Genre:
SciFi, Paranormal Horror
SciFi, Paranormal Horror
When
a huge hole opens up in the path of a controversial new pipeline, the
oil company’s head of safety convinces her estranged husband to fly
up to Alaska’s North Slope and investigate. But when geologist Jack
Oswald rappels down into the mysterious pit, he discovers it is
unlike anything he has ever seen. Giant wolf-like creatures attack
the nearby protester camp, slaughtering both wildlife and people.
When they kill protesters and even the oil company’s armed guards,
a member of a secret society dedicated to defending humanity from
demons has no choice but to reveal herself. The survivors soon learn
there are worse monsters than hellhounds. To repair his broken
marriage, Jack only needs to save his wife, defeat a devil, seal the
hell hole, and put an end to Armageddon. What could possibly go
wrong?
a huge hole opens up in the path of a controversial new pipeline, the
oil company’s head of safety convinces her estranged husband to fly
up to Alaska’s North Slope and investigate. But when geologist Jack
Oswald rappels down into the mysterious pit, he discovers it is
unlike anything he has ever seen. Giant wolf-like creatures attack
the nearby protester camp, slaughtering both wildlife and people.
When they kill protesters and even the oil company’s armed guards,
a member of a secret society dedicated to defending humanity from
demons has no choice but to reveal herself. The survivors soon learn
there are worse monsters than hellhounds. To repair his broken
marriage, Jack only needs to save his wife, defeat a devil, seal the
hell hole, and put an end to Armageddon. What could possibly go
wrong?
This
movie script for the full-length feature film, Hell Hole, is based on
Donald Firesmith’s novel, Hell Holes: What Lurks Below.
Hell
Holes
Holes
Book
1: What Lurks Below
1: What Lurks Below
It’s
August in Alaska, and geology professor Jack Oswald prepares for the
new school year. But when hundreds of huge holes mysteriously appearovernight in the frozen tundra north of the Arctic Circle, Jack
receives an unexpected phone call. An oil company exec hires Jack to
investigate, and he picks his climatologist wife and two of their
graduate students as his team. Uncharacteristically, Jack also lets
Aileen O’Shannon, a bewitchingly beautiful young photojournalist,
talk him into coming along as their photographer. When they arrive in
the remote oil town of Deadhorse, the exec and a biologist to protect
them from wild animals join the team. Their task: to assess the risk
of more holes opening under the Trans-Alaska Pipeline and the wells
and pipelines that feed it. But they discover a far worse danger
lurks below. When it emerges, it threatens to shatter Jack’s
unshakable faith in science. And destroy us all…
August in Alaska, and geology professor Jack Oswald prepares for the
new school year. But when hundreds of huge holes mysteriously appearovernight in the frozen tundra north of the Arctic Circle, Jack
receives an unexpected phone call. An oil company exec hires Jack to
investigate, and he picks his climatologist wife and two of their
graduate students as his team. Uncharacteristically, Jack also lets
Aileen O’Shannon, a bewitchingly beautiful young photojournalist,
talk him into coming along as their photographer. When they arrive in
the remote oil town of Deadhorse, the exec and a biologist to protect
them from wild animals join the team. Their task: to assess the risk
of more holes opening under the Trans-Alaska Pipeline and the wells
and pipelines that feed it. But they discover a far worse danger
lurks below. When it emerges, it threatens to shatter Jack’s
unshakable faith in science. And destroy us all…
**Get
it FREE!!**
it FREE!!**
Hell
Holes
Holes
Book
2: Demons on the Dalton
When
hundreds of huge holes mysteriously appeared overnight in the frozen
tundra north of the Arctic Circle, geologist Jack Oswald picked
Angele Menendez, his climatologist wife, to determine if the record
temperatures due to climate change was the cause. But the holes were
not natural. They were unnatural portals for an invading army of
demons. Together with Aileen O’Shannon, a 1,400-year-old sorceress
demon-hunter, the three survivors of the research team sent to study
the holes had only one chance: to flee down the dangerous Dalton
Highway towards the relative safety of Fairbanks. However, the
advancing horde of devils, imps, hellhounds, and gargoyles will stop
at nothing to prevent their prey from escaping. It is a 350-mile race
with simple rules. Win and live; lose and die…
hundreds of huge holes mysteriously appeared overnight in the frozen
tundra north of the Arctic Circle, geologist Jack Oswald picked
Angele Menendez, his climatologist wife, to determine if the record
temperatures due to climate change was the cause. But the holes were
not natural. They were unnatural portals for an invading army of
demons. Together with Aileen O’Shannon, a 1,400-year-old sorceress
demon-hunter, the three survivors of the research team sent to study
the holes had only one chance: to flee down the dangerous Dalton
Highway towards the relative safety of Fairbanks. However, the
advancing horde of devils, imps, hellhounds, and gargoyles will stop
at nothing to prevent their prey from escaping. It is a 350-mile race
with simple rules. Win and live; lose and die…
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.99 cents!!**
.99 cents!!**
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A
geek by day, Donald Firesmith works as a system and software engineer
helping the US Government acquire large, complex software-intensive
systems. In this guise, he has authored seven technical books,
written numerous software- and system-related articles and papers,
and spoken at more conferences than he can possibly remember. He’s
also proud to have been named a Distinguished Engineer by the
Association of Computing Machinery, although his pride is tempered
somewhat by his fear that the term “distinguished” makes
him sound like a graybeard academic rather than an active engineer
whose beard is still slightly more red than gray.
geek by day, Donald Firesmith works as a system and software engineer
helping the US Government acquire large, complex software-intensive
systems. In this guise, he has authored seven technical books,
written numerous software- and system-related articles and papers,
and spoken at more conferences than he can possibly remember. He’s
also proud to have been named a Distinguished Engineer by the
Association of Computing Machinery, although his pride is tempered
somewhat by his fear that the term “distinguished” makes
him sound like a graybeard academic rather than an active engineer
whose beard is still slightly more red than gray.
By
night and on weekends, his alter ego writes modern paranormal
fantasy, apocalyptic science fiction, action and adventure novels and
relaxes by handcrafting magic wands from various magical woods and
mystical gemstones. His first foray into fiction is the book Magical
Wands: A Cornucopia of Wand Lore written under the pen name Wolfrick
Ignatius Feuerschmied. He lives in Crafton, Pennsylvania with his
wife Becky, and his son Dane, and varying numbers of dogs, cats, and
birds.
night and on weekends, his alter ego writes modern paranormal
fantasy, apocalyptic science fiction, action and adventure novels and
relaxes by handcrafting magic wands from various magical woods and
mystical gemstones. His first foray into fiction is the book Magical
Wands: A Cornucopia of Wand Lore written under the pen name Wolfrick
Ignatius Feuerschmied. He lives in Crafton, Pennsylvania with his
wife Becky, and his son Dane, and varying numbers of dogs, cats, and
birds.
“Professor, take a look at this,” Mark said, squatting down and pointing at the nearest mound of
dirt. He held his hand a few inches over it. “There are small holes, and I can feel gas escaping
from them. That’s weird; it should be freezing, but it’s actually warm.” He leaned over and
sniffed the air just above the hole. “Jesus, that reeks,” he cursed as he stood up and rubbed his
eyes.
I reached down. There was a surprisingly large flow of gas coming out of the hole. I looked
around at all of the other mounds of dirt dotting the ice on which we were standing. “Shit,” I
exclaimed. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
“Why?” he asked with a confused look on his face. “We just got here.”
“Prudhoe Bay natural gas is about three fourths methane. One eighth is ethane, propane, and
other heavier hydrocarbons, while the remaining eighth is carbon dioxide. I’m not worried about
the methane and ethane; they’re lighter than air and will drift up and out of the hole. But carbon
dioxide, propane, and hydrogen sulfide are all heavier than air and build up in low areas.”
“Like the bottom of this hole,” Mark said as the nature of our danger dawned on him.
“Like the bottom of this hole,” I agreed.
Although I was breathing rapidly, it was becoming increasingly harder to catch my breath.
Both were early signs of carbon dioxide poisoning. Meanwhile, my eyes were really watering,
my nose was running, and my lungs were starting to burn. Hydrogen sulfide combined with the
water on their moist surfaces to form hydrosulfuric acid. I had a dull headache and was
becoming increasingly nauseated. Worse, the stench of sulfur had begun to disappear: a classic
symptom of hydrogen sulfide poisoning. “We have to head back up and strap on oxygen tanks
and full face respirators before we come back down.”
“Okay, Professor,” he replied, looking at me with concern. “You’re definitely not looking so
good.”
Weak and increasingly clumsy, Mark had to help me reach the rope and secure it to my
climbing harness. Then he said into his walkie-talkie, “Angela, there’s hydrogen sulfide and
excessive carbon dioxide down here, and we need to get out of here right now. It’s made the
professor sick, so I’m sending him up first.”
“Understood, Mark,” Angie replied, her voice indicating her concern. “Is he ready?”
“Yes, all hooked up,” Mark replied.A second later, the rope began pulling me up. It sped faster and faster until I was practically
running up the side of the hole. Soon, I was up to where the permafrost gave way to damp dirt. I
slipped going over the boundary, and the rope dragged me face first over the short muddy slope.
Bill helped me climb over the ridge of dirt surrounding the edge and unhooked my climbing
harness.
Coughing and unable to catch my breath, I stumbled into Angie’s arms. The caustic gasses at
the bottom of the pit had set off one of my ordinarily rare asthma attacks, leaving me gasping for
air. I fumbled through my pockets, found my rescue inhaler, and had to give myself three puffs
before my breathing became easier. Meanwhile, my eyes were still burning and watering so
heavily that I heard rather than saw Bill throw the end of the rope back into the pit and use the
winch to lower it rapidly into the hole. After helping me wipe the mud from my face, Angie
wrapped me a bear hug, totally heedless of the muck she was transferring to her own face and
clothes.
“It’s down,” Jill said, her voice amplified through our walkie-talkies.
Bill stopped the winch, and we waited for Mark to tell us when he was ready to come up.
“Okay, I’m ready,” Mark said. “Bring me up.”
Bill restarted the winch, and the rope began winding itself back around its spinning shaft.
Feeling stronger, I let go of Angie and turned back towards the pit so I could watch Mark
being raised over the edge. It was at that moment, through eyes still somewhat blurry from tears,
that I saw Kowalski. He was standing near the edge of the hole, a few feet downwind so that the
smoke from his cigarette wouldn’t bother us. He took a final puff and carelessly flicked the still
smoldering butt into the pit.
“Stop!” I croaked, my voice raspy and painful from coughing.
Kowalski turned towards me, and our eyes met. Unaware of what he’d just done, he was
completely confused by the expression of horror on my face.
After seconds that seemed to stretch into eternity, the cigarette butt tumbled past Mark and
eventually reached the depth where the concentration of methane and hydrogen sulfide reached
explosive levels.
dirt. He held his hand a few inches over it. “There are small holes, and I can feel gas escaping
from them. That’s weird; it should be freezing, but it’s actually warm.” He leaned over and
sniffed the air just above the hole. “Jesus, that reeks,” he cursed as he stood up and rubbed his
eyes.
I reached down. There was a surprisingly large flow of gas coming out of the hole. I looked
around at all of the other mounds of dirt dotting the ice on which we were standing. “Shit,” I
exclaimed. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
“Why?” he asked with a confused look on his face. “We just got here.”
“Prudhoe Bay natural gas is about three fourths methane. One eighth is ethane, propane, and
other heavier hydrocarbons, while the remaining eighth is carbon dioxide. I’m not worried about
the methane and ethane; they’re lighter than air and will drift up and out of the hole. But carbon
dioxide, propane, and hydrogen sulfide are all heavier than air and build up in low areas.”
“Like the bottom of this hole,” Mark said as the nature of our danger dawned on him.
“Like the bottom of this hole,” I agreed.
Although I was breathing rapidly, it was becoming increasingly harder to catch my breath.
Both were early signs of carbon dioxide poisoning. Meanwhile, my eyes were really watering,
my nose was running, and my lungs were starting to burn. Hydrogen sulfide combined with the
water on their moist surfaces to form hydrosulfuric acid. I had a dull headache and was
becoming increasingly nauseated. Worse, the stench of sulfur had begun to disappear: a classic
symptom of hydrogen sulfide poisoning. “We have to head back up and strap on oxygen tanks
and full face respirators before we come back down.”
“Okay, Professor,” he replied, looking at me with concern. “You’re definitely not looking so
good.”
Weak and increasingly clumsy, Mark had to help me reach the rope and secure it to my
climbing harness. Then he said into his walkie-talkie, “Angela, there’s hydrogen sulfide and
excessive carbon dioxide down here, and we need to get out of here right now. It’s made the
professor sick, so I’m sending him up first.”
“Understood, Mark,” Angie replied, her voice indicating her concern. “Is he ready?”
“Yes, all hooked up,” Mark replied.A second later, the rope began pulling me up. It sped faster and faster until I was practically
running up the side of the hole. Soon, I was up to where the permafrost gave way to damp dirt. I
slipped going over the boundary, and the rope dragged me face first over the short muddy slope.
Bill helped me climb over the ridge of dirt surrounding the edge and unhooked my climbing
harness.
Coughing and unable to catch my breath, I stumbled into Angie’s arms. The caustic gasses at
the bottom of the pit had set off one of my ordinarily rare asthma attacks, leaving me gasping for
air. I fumbled through my pockets, found my rescue inhaler, and had to give myself three puffs
before my breathing became easier. Meanwhile, my eyes were still burning and watering so
heavily that I heard rather than saw Bill throw the end of the rope back into the pit and use the
winch to lower it rapidly into the hole. After helping me wipe the mud from my face, Angie
wrapped me a bear hug, totally heedless of the muck she was transferring to her own face and
clothes.
“It’s down,” Jill said, her voice amplified through our walkie-talkies.
Bill stopped the winch, and we waited for Mark to tell us when he was ready to come up.
“Okay, I’m ready,” Mark said. “Bring me up.”
Bill restarted the winch, and the rope began winding itself back around its spinning shaft.
Feeling stronger, I let go of Angie and turned back towards the pit so I could watch Mark
being raised over the edge. It was at that moment, through eyes still somewhat blurry from tears,
that I saw Kowalski. He was standing near the edge of the hole, a few feet downwind so that the
smoke from his cigarette wouldn’t bother us. He took a final puff and carelessly flicked the still
smoldering butt into the pit.
“Stop!” I croaked, my voice raspy and painful from coughing.
Kowalski turned towards me, and our eyes met. Unaware of what he’d just done, he was
completely confused by the expression of horror on my face.
After seconds that seemed to stretch into eternity, the cigarette butt tumbled past Mark and
eventually reached the depth where the concentration of methane and hydrogen sulfide reached
explosive levels.
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