Hell
Hole: The Official Screenplay
by
Donald Firesmith and Leland Anderson
Genre:
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?
This
movie script for the full-length feature film, Hell Hole, is based on
Donald Firesmith's novel, Hell Holes: What Lurks Below.
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Hell
Holes
Book
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 appear
overnight 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…
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Though the sun had finally dipped behind the rounded mountains of the Brooks Range, the temperature remained well above freezing, leaving the ground moist from the morning’s rains. It was quiet except for the soft sound of the breeze blowing through the short shrubs and sedges that covered the tundra of the North Slope.
An arctic fox silently patrolled his territory. He sniffed the ground, following the scent of a female that had passed by earlier that evening. She had brushed against a bearberry bush, and he stopped to breathe in her enticing smell. She was in heat, and he hoped to father her second litter of the season.
Though the fox occasionally heard the distant rumble of big rigs driving north along the Dalton, carrying supplies to Deadhorse and the oil fields around Prudhoe Bay, he paid them no mind. The humans were several miles away, and unlike wolves and wolverines, they posed no threat.
The fox abruptly stopped, turning his head to the side in puzzlement. He heard a faint hum that seemed to come from the ground below him. It was a new sound, one that he had not heard before. It rapidly increased in volume until it became a piercing, high-pitched whine, far beyond the dull hearing of the humans in their trucks. In agony, the fox rolled on the ground, desperately pawing at his ears in a vain attempt to stop the pain. He yipped and whined, adding his voice to the faraway howling of wolves.
The sound suddenly stopped, replaced by a deep rumble as the ground beneath the fox began to shake. Slowly, foot by foot, a huge circle of tundra the size of a large pond began to push itself above the surrounding tundra. Carrying the fox upward, it rose until it reached the height of a caribou’s antlers. Along its circular boundary, loose wet dirt and ragged patches of plants fell off, forming a ring-shaped pile that surrounded the rising ground.
With a sharp jerk, the massive cylindrical plug of earth underneath the fox stopped rising and began sliding downward. No longer incapacitated by pain, the terrified fox sped across the quivering ground, running for his life as it continued its unrelenting collapse. He ran toward the edge, arriving just as the ground beneath him slipped below the short ring of loose and muddy soil that marked its circumference. With a desperate leap, the fox jumped up, landing on the ring’s slippery slope as the ground continued its collapse into the rapidly deepening crater. He slipped, sliding perilously backwards before desperately pawing his way back up and over the top. Once down on the solid ground surrounding the huge hole, he ran away as if he were chased by a pack of starving wolves.
The frightened fox was several hundred yards from the hole when the rumbling stopped. Still running for his life, he did not see the brilliant blue burst of light that shot skyward out of the huge crater. But he did see dozens of similar blue beams briefly light up the northern horizon. As suddenly as they appeared, the lights winked out. The fox did not stop until he had placed several miles between himself and the pit. Silence returned to the North Slope, while the scent of sulfur and decay filled the air above the newly formed hell holes.
Hell
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...
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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.
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.
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