Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1)

by Keith Ahrens

  I ignore his advice and sit up. Letting my legs swing to the ground, I brace my feet wide for some stability as my head spins again. The same looking heavy, brass shackle connects my left ankle to the wall behind me with an eight-foot brass chain. Each link is about an inch-and-a-half wide and substantial in weight. My uniform pants and boots are filthy with dirt and dried blood. The blood is difficult to see against the navy blue, but the stiffness of the fabric is a dead giveaway. My medic shirt is torn to shreds, and all the patches are ripped off. I can see my white t-shirt through the holes.

  “They remove all patches and unit insignia before they bring you in,” says my new pal as he notices where I'm looking. “What branch were you?”

  “Branch? Oh, no, I’m not military—EMS,” I reply, still feeling a bit groggy. “Did we get hit again?” After making it through a rather significant terrorist attack and a few other smaller-scale ones, it’s never far from my mind that it could happen again at any time.

  My head is pounding like a bad hangover, making it difficult to concentrate on the conversation. I struggle to remember what happened last night for me to end up here. Did I get arrested? The things I can recall don't seem right. The best answer I can give myself is that I was punched harder than I thought, or maybe I got drugged somehow during the fight with that crazy pig-fighting man.

  “Hit again? What do you mean?” the man asks, interrupting my train of thought.

  I stare at him for a minute, wondering if he’s messing with me. “Yeah, hit again… another bombing or a shooter on a crowded street? Terrorist attack?” His face remains impassive… “You’ve got to be kidding me… aren’t you military?” I gesture toward his tattered uniform.

  “Sure am, Sergeant Elias Haynes, US Army, 5th Special Forces Group. So, what’s this EMS? What does it stand for? Are you some kind of fireman or something?”

  “No, I’m a Medic—Emergency Medical Service. Are you seriously telling me you’re unaware of the terrorist threats in New York, hell, all over the damn place for like the last fifteen or twenty years?”

  “Keep your voice down; you’re gonna draw attention. They don’t like us talking among ourselves too much.” He puts one finger to his lips in the universal ‘shut the hell up’ gesture and tilts his head toward the door. I listen as well and hear a ponderous step, drag, step, drag coming toward our door. Whoever it is, must be heavy with a bad limp. The sound gets louder as it slowly works its way toward us.

  The labored steps come to a halt outside the heavy wooden door, and a small window swings outward. It has a brass frame and is set into the door about six-and-a-half feet up from the ground.

  Thin bars cross the opening, and a large, yellow, bloodshot eye peers through. Staring at me. My mouth goes even dryer, and I automatically clamp it shut. The eye shifts to Haynes, lingers for a moment, then the little door slams shut. The step, drag cadence slowly recedes down the hall.

  Up until now, I feel like I've been keeping my cool and handling everything as if it's all normal. But everyone has a point where he or she just can’t take more weird shit stacked up any higher. I take a deep breath and whisper (not hysterically… or at least, I hope not hysterically), “What the fuck was that?”

  “I told you to ask me again later," Sergeant Haynes reiterates himself. "You’re not going to believe me now.”

  “Stop the cryptic shit for a second, all right? That guy or thing, or whatever the hell that was that just looked in here, had to be at least seven feet tall to look through that hole, and its eye color was not natural," I keep rambling, "…that eye was too big to be a contact lens and too intelligent looking to be a fake. And the skin around it looked kind of greenish. Like lizard greenish." I shake my head as I say the words, not even believing it myself.

  Haynes just looks at me, not saying anything. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, as if this is a good time for a rest.

  So, I ask again… “What the fuck was that?” My voice rises to a higher pitch. Haynes opens his eyes and looks at me, steady and not blinking. Slowly putting his index finger to his lips, he waits for me to break eye contact. I refuse to.

  With a resigned shrug, he simply replies with nonchalance, “Ogre. We got a history with that one. He doesn’t like us much.”

  I snort a laugh through my nose.

  “Uh-huh. Are there goblins out there too?” I ask, heavy on the sarcasm.

  “Nope. They guard the gates and walls. Ogres guard the cells.” I wait for him to laugh or smile or something. I wait a while. I wait longer. Then I decide he's serious. Seriously unhinged. One of the first things you learn in EMS training is not to feed a crazy man’s delusions. On the flip side, it’s also somewhat dangerous to challenge their reality. I choose to let the subject drop for the moment. Why am I getting all the crazy ones lately?

  A few minutes pass. I think. It’s tough to tell time down here, and I’m still feeling muzzy-headed. I’ve been staring up at the dim light for a while now, trying to figure who would put fancy lightbulbs in a prison cell. It’s about the size of a baseball but made of faceted quartz crystal, suspended in a brass wire cage. It flickers a bit, like a bad bulb, and now gives off a bluish cast around the room.

  My attention turns back to my new tattoo. The skin is clean and fresh around it, which would indicate I’ve had it for a while. Anyone who has gotten a tat knows it takes weeks for them to heal right. I want to activate it again to see what else it says, but I'll wait until no one else can see it.

  Without warning, a muffled clanking noise comes from the door, like a large lock turning. It swings far enough open to allow a slight figure to slip in. A hood and veil mask her face, loose blue robes clinging to her curves and leaving no doubt that this figure is a female.

  She carries a brown leather bag strapped over her left shoulder, crossing her chest and swinging near her right hand. In her left hand, she carries a small, leather-wrapped canteen. Her footsteps are light in her soft, deer hide boots. She walks over to me, stopping just out of arms reach, and studies my face. Her bright blue eyes have almost an Asian cast to them as she peers intently at me over the top of the veil covering her nose and mouth. No, not at me, at the cuts and bruises, and probably, the glass still stuck in my face. She glances at Haynes and asks in a soft, accented voice, “Is he calm, or is he going to be a problem?”

  Her accent sounds like an Irish brogue, yet off a little. It's close, but not quite. Maybe Scottish? I can never really tell the difference between the two.

  “I think he'll be okay, but he could probably use some water first,” replies Haynes, as he sits up on his pallet.

  She turns back to me, studying me some more with a critical eye.

  “Thirsty?” she asks and raises her canteen toward me. She's moving slowly, like a person does with a dog when they don't know if it's gonna bite them.

  I try to restrain myself, but the thought of a cool drink right now is almost enough to bring a tear to my eye. A manly tear, of course. “Yes, ma’am, I really am.” I don’t quite snatch it from her. “Thanks.”

  She looks sidelong at Haynes. “At least this one has some manners,” she says, possibly smiling behind her veil. I’m too busy uncapping the canteen to reply. The bottle is cool in my hand as I fumble with the clasp; my mouth seems to be getting dryer by the second. Finally, success! I tilt my head back and greedily drink as much water as I can in one gulp.

  It is refreshingly cold. I swish some around my mouth to rid myself of the last of the dried blood. I don’t spit it out; there's no place to spit except on the floor in front of her, and that would just be rude. So, I swallow my metallic mouthful quickly and continue to drink. I taste some mint now and something else. Can’t place the second flavor, but the cold water is soothing my raw throat and clearing my head a little. I drink a little more before coming up for air.

  “Thank you,” I say again, and mean it.

  I see a definite smile now as it reaches her eyes. “Finish it all up, lad.”

&nbs
p; I return her smile and quickly drain the last of the canteen. Damn, that’s refreshing! And a little spicy…?

  “Thanks again. What’s your name? And what are we doing here?” is what I mean to say. What comes out is just slurred gibberish. I clear my throat and try again, “Thnx egern, wazzz urnnaame?” Uh oh. This may be worse than a concussion. I look at her in a bit of a panic and try to figure out how to tell them that something is very wrong.

  Suddenly, I'm having trouble focusing my eyes. What the hell? Is she laughing? Everything starts to sound slow and distorted. I try to look at Haynes, but when I turn my head, it feels loose and heavy at the same time. I fall over. My head hits the dirty straw on the wooden pallet with a dull thud. I can’t even raise my hands to catch myself. I try to speak again, but the pain of the fall is now starting to make itself known. The annoying throbbing in my head begins to roar, and my vision starts to go dark at the edges. I try to get up, try to speak; I have to…. dammit.

  “Idiot,” she says with a light laugh. Reaching out, she grabs hold of my left hand and flips it palm up. I try to pull away, but all the strength is rushing out of my limbs.

  She traces a finger around the circle on my wrist. Through bleary eyes and double vision, I see the red circle and black wedge start to fade to a grey color.

  I try to speak one more time, but nothing comes out. The circle goes completely grey, and I’m out.

  3

  “Time to get up, pal.” A rough hand shakes my shoulder. I sit up fast and seize the hand, confused. I recognize the face, but the name escapes me for a moment. Dim light, stone walls, stinking straw, locked door… yeah, this is still happening.

  Haynes (Haynes, that's his name!) twists his hand from my grip with ease and asks, “You hungry?”

  My stomach growls right on cue. The other two guys are awake, sitting up on their bunks and looking at me. “Sure am.”

  He hands me a small package in thick brown plastic. “MREs?" I look at my dehydrated meal with disdain. "What the hell is this place? A government facility?”

  “Nope. Just a prison run by some sadistic jerks. Enjoy the grub. If you’re lucky, you’ll get two of these a day. Maybe more if you prove your worth,” explains Haynes with a small, sad smile.

  “Prove my worth? To who, you?”

  “Nah, not me or any of these guys in this room, either. Eat up while we make some introductions.”

  Obviously, I'm still suspicious of the men around me, but no need to let them know that. I'm pretty sure I was drugged by that mystery lady dressed like a classy gypsy, but I don't know why. Not much to build trust on, especially when everyone but me seems to know what’s going on. I glance down at my tattoo; I doubt they respected my privacy enough not to check my information while I was out.

  I inspect the package in my hand. The seal is intact, and the expiration date is still good. If they wanted me dead, they had plenty of chances before to do it—why waste the time and effort now to poison the food? Sound reasoning, right? Whatever, I'm too hungry to care. Besides, I survived the last drugging, didn’t I?

  I tear open the MRE or ‘meal ready to eat’ for those who don’t know. These are prepackaged meals designed and made for the U.S. Armed Forces, with a shelf life of a few decades, I think. Yup, beef stew or some such in a bag, good for a generation or two. Sounds delicious, doesn’t it? The label on mine reads: “Chicken Chunks with Cheddar Cheese Spread and Hot Sauce, Buffalo Style.” Not one of my favorites, but I’m starving, and it doesn’t look like there is much of a choice in the menu. I tear open the package and dig in with the provided plastic spork. Or is it ‘sfork’? Either way, I hate these things; they're useless as an eating implement.

  I eye the bucket of water sitting on the floor in the middle of us.

  “Don’t worry, that stuff's clean,” says Beard-Face. I look up at the guy with the blue jeans and beard. He sketches a small salute with a wooden cup and sips the water from it. “I’m Desmond, but everyone calls me Des. You’ve met the Sarge, and that’s Jesse Kearningham.” His tone and demeanor are friendly and disarming. I make a mental note not to trust him the most.

  He nods toward the third man, the one dressed in dirty green rags. Dirty Rags, or Jesse Kearningham as Des calls him, just kind of stares at the wall in front of him while he slowly eats. At least he's put a shirt on—a four-button, long sleeve, white pullover—albeit filthy. A crumpled green coat lies on the bed next to him. Getting a good look at him, I can see that he, too, sports a full-size beard, though quite unkempt, giving him a rugged mountain man appearance.

  “I’m Caleb,” I say around a mouth full of food. “Can you tell me what the hell is going on here, and why that lady drugged me?”

  “First things first, before I forget. Put this on your wrist.” Des tosses me a wide leather strap with a leather cord punched through a few rough holes. He holds up his arm and points to a near-identical one on his own wrist. Glancing around, I see Haynes and Jesse also wear the same bands.

  “Is this like some kind of friendship bracelet?" I ask. "Are we all gonna be BFFs now?” I can’t help it sometimes; sarcasm is my default setting.

  “Trust me,” he says. “Like I told you before, you're gonna want to keep that hidden.” He holds up one finger, forestalling my next comment. “You’ll see why later.” This time, as he speaks, I can hear his light Southern drawl.

  “Did you assholes put this tattoo here?” My question is blunter than I intended, but at this point, I'm ready to burst not knowing what is going on or where I am.

  “Not us, and stop asking so many damn questions,” Haynes says, not offended. “Now, feel your face… notice anything different? And I bet your head doesn’t hurt anymore, does it?”

  I drop the spork into the small cardboard food tray and feel the right side of my face where the glass was. Now that he mentions it, I don’t feel any of the aches and bruises I would expect after receiving an ass-kicking like that. My head isn’t spinning anymore, and there is smooth skin where I know glass was previously stuck inside a deep cut.

  I begin to wrap the leather band around the new tattoo when I remember it had been turning grey right before I passed out. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or the drugs, but now it's back to a solid red without the black slice in it. Seriously? What is this, some kind of mood ring in tattoo form? I finish wrapping the leather around my wrist, determined not to draw more attention to it until I can figure a few things out.

  “How long was I out this time?”

  “Only a few hours, and she had to do it. It was my call. We weren’t sure which way you were gonna jump, and the healing part hurts like hell,” says Haynes, a.k.a. ‘Sarge’ by his fellows.

  Shuffling over, I fill a wooden cup with water from the bucket and check out my reflection in the dim light. Light scars cover my right cheek, nose, and upper left lip, which is badly in need of a shave, and I have faint bruising around both eyes. All indications of a few weeks’ worth of natural healing. But the stubble is only a day or two old. I return to my pallet and shovel more chicken chunks in my mouth, trying to work through this in my thoughts.

  “Our healer's pretty important to us, and we couldn’t take the risk of you freaking out and trying to hurt her,” says Des.

  “Healer? Like, she’s your medic, right, or a doctor? Is there some kind of new surgical technique I’m not aware of? Maybe a type of experimental nanotech?” I ask, still chewing supposed chicken chunks with hot sauce. This is all kinds of weird.

  They both pause and share a questioning look. Haynes shrugs with minimal movement. Des blows out a long breath and says, “You ever do any reading? Like fantasy and sci-fi novels and stuff?”

  I nod in the affirmative.

  “You ever read any Tolkien?”

  “Sure, when I was a kid. The movies were really great.”

  “They made movies about them books? Dammit! I can't believe I missed 'em! Wait a sec, stay on the topic, Son. Tolkien and those folks who came after him knew some truth ab
out the Fey. Of course, they changed a few things to make a better story. Tolkien made the elves a lot more benevolent and less tricky, but that should give you some sort of frame of reference. You get the gist of what I'm saying, don’t you?” Des asks, with a straight face. “How ‘bout them fancy role-playing games? Whatcha call them… RPG’s? You know, like Dungeons and Trolls, or some such?"

  “Yeah, I know what an RPG is. I used to play them all the time. And, yes, I’ve read a ton of fantasy and sci-fi. I just don’t believe what you’re telling me, or what you’re hinting at." I put my hands up placatingly. "No offense.”

  “Forget it," Haynes says to Des. "He’ll just have a lot more questions later.” Then he turns to me. “Remember when I told you that you wouldn’t believe me?”

  I nod.

  “You still don't, and that’s fine. We'll talk again tonight.” Some noises come from the hallway, a sound like a heavy key ring rattling and weighted doors creaking open.

  “Eat up fast, you're gonna need your strength.” Des nods at the MRE. “But try to save some for later.” The noises from the hallway are getting louder and closer. The sound of numerous feet walking and shuffling rises to a low clamor. A guttural, growling voice seems to be calling out orders in a language I don’t understand.

  The three other men get to their feet. I hear a loud step, drag, step, drag sound from outside our door—those same ponderous footsteps we heard last night. There is a loud jangle of keys, and our door swings open with a creaking bang.

  A towering form stands backlit by a relatively bright light in the hall and fills the doorway. Or rather, most of it fills the doorway. The rest of it is out of view, obscuring everything behind it. I'd guessed before that it was about seven feet tall, but now I need to revise my estimate to at least a foot greater than that. The thing has mostly green skin with some brown and yellow blotches all mottled together, making its flesh look like something rotten. There are yellow, runny eyes on either side of a snout that would be better suited to a wild boar. The wide mouth is complete with stained and cracked tusks, sporting an underbite that would make a bulldog wince. Its broad shoulders and chest are covered in a hodge-podge of dirty leather straps and tarnished brass plates.