The Pit

Day 24 – Beneath the Earth

Father Gabriel Royce had never truly feared hell.

But as he lay in the dirt, staring up at the sheer walls of the pit that had become his prison, he realized he had been wrong.

Hell wasn’t fire and brimstone.

It was a hole in the ground, filled with the stink of rot and sweat, surrounded by laughter from men above who thought they were gods.

And worse?

He wasn’t alone.

Gabriel sat up slowly, his ribs aching from the beating Calloway’s men had given him.

Around him, half a dozen other prisoners lurked in the shadows, their faces hollow, their eyes dark.

Some were silent.

Others whispered to themselves, lost in their own private suffering.

But one of them—a tall, lean man with a jagged scar across his forehead—watched Gabriel carefully.

"New arrival?" the man murmured.

Gabriel exhaled. "Apparently."

The man nodded, rubbing a hand across his unshaven jaw.

"Guess that means you pissed off Calloway," he said.

Gabriel smiled grimly. "I tend to have that effect on tyrants."

The man chuckled, dry and humorless.

"Then you’re not gonna be here long."

Gabriel’s jaw tightened.

"That a threat?"

The man shook his head.

"No," he said softly. "It’s just the truth."

Gabriel took a slow breath, studying the other prisoners.

They were thin, beaten down, but not broken.

Not yet.

But something about the way they stayed in the shadows made his stomach tighten.

Like they knew something he didn’t.

Finally, he turned back to the scarred man.

"And you are?"

The man smirked. "Name’s Devon. Used to run with a group down in Baton Rouge before Calloway’s boys rolled through. They took me and a few others. Rest? Slaughtered."

Gabriel clenched his fists.

"How long have you been down here?"

Devon shrugged. "A month? Maybe two? Hard to tell. They don’t let us see the sun much."

Gabriel exhaled sharply.

"And why keep you alive?"

The other prisoners tensed.

For the first time, Devon’s smirk faded.

His voice dropped.

"Because some of us get to leave."

A chill ran down Gabriel’s spine.

"Where?"

Devon’s eyes darkened.

"They call it ‘The Trial.’"

Before Gabriel could ask more, a shout from above cut through the silence.

"Get up, rats!"

Gabriel looked up.

Two militia guards stood at the edge of the pit, rifles slung across their backs.

One of them tossed down a thick rope.

"Time to see if you’re worth keeping!"

The other grinned. "Or if you belong in the dirt!"

The prisoners stiffened.

Devon muttered, "Shit."

Gabriel’s stomach tightened.

Because now?

Now he knew what was coming.

The prisoners were led through the camp, past rows of militia fighters who jeered and laughed, throwing scraps of food at them like animals.

Gabriel kept his head high, refusing to give them the satisfaction of looking beaten.

The arena was nothing more than a cleared-out patch of dirt, surrounded by stacked crates and old metal fencing.

At least fifty militia members crowded around, waiting for the show to start.

Gabriel’s breath steadied.

Calloway was standing at the front, watching like a king surveying his kingdom.

He smiled when he saw Gabriel.

"Ah, Father," he mused. "I was wondering how long you’d last."

Gabriel didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

Because he was too busy watching the other side of the arena.

Where two men were dragging out a body.

A fresh corpse.

A prisoner.

And the crowd roared in approval.

Gabriel’s blood went cold.

Because now he understood.

This wasn’t a trial.

It was a fight to the death.

And he was next.