Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1) by Keith Ahrens (books for 8th graders .txt) 📗

blade is writhing in the dirt on his back, clutching the bolt lodged in his gut. His squadmates run over to him. I see the fletching of the bolt sticking out of his abdomen, near the midline. Bad place to be hit. My eyes widen when I see his friend trying to help.

“No! Don't pull it out! Leave it alone!” I yell, jumping to my feet.

But, I’m too late. His buddy grabs the shaft and yanks before I finish shouting. Blood fountains up in the air as the barbed head of the arrow pulls free. A chunk of glistening red meat is stuck on the end. The impaled man howls in pain and curls up into a ball, a wide pool of blood already forming around him.

“Get that armor off him, now!” I slide to my knees next to him and begin pulling at the leather straps. His movements are getting weaker and his moans fainter. “Give me a hand here!” His friend stares dumbfounded at the crossbow bolt in his hand. I reach up and grab a knife off his belt and begin to saw through the thick leather.

I barely get two of the straps cut when I realize he's already stopped moving. I cut through one more and roll him onto his back, flipping the breastplate aside. No more blood flows from the wound. I look at his face, his mouth slack, eyes half-open and glassy. His chest doesn't rise. Glancing at the wound, I see the bolt had landed just left and high of his belly button. At a guess, it went right through the abdominal aorta, one of the largest arteries in the human body. The bolt was keeping the hole plugged, but once it was ripped out, he bled out in seconds. I sigh and grab a handful of loose dirt to soak up the blood on my hands.

I glance up at his friend. “He's dead.”

The bolt drops from his nerveless fingers, and he begins to cry without making a sound. I stand and put my hand on his shoulder for a moment and say nothing, a silent understanding briefly passing between us.

But, of course, he refuses to believe it. Frantic desperation drives him to start tearing the gauntlet and bracer off his friend’s wrist.

I can see from here the whole circle is black, but his friend presses a bloody finger against it anyway. An image of a leering, grinning skull pops into view for everyone to see. I catch a glimpse of the man’s name etched on the skull, but it fades before I can see details.

I turn and walk back to Colt. As I pass Haynes, he says, “Well, they'll get their dinner after all.”

“Where the hell is Thorn?” I ask, the anger in my voice evident.

Des walks over. “She ain’t gonna show up out here, not with all these hungry bastards around. It’d be like a sparrow landing in a cat’s mouth and not expecting to get eaten.”

“Well, we gotta bring Colt to her, then.” I look around and then pick up my spear. “Hey, Nian, let me have your spear. Sarge, I need a couple of shirts, pants, or long rags.” Nian hesitates but tosses me his spear and puts his hand on the hilt of his sword, scanning and sniffing the area for other threats.

Haynes goes and talks to the other squad. They pull the pants and shirt off the dead guy, and the bald man volunteers his own shirt. His skin is pale and littered with thick, ropy scars, looking like he had been slam-dancing with a woodchipper. I wince to myself when I think of the injuries that must have caused them.

Sliding the two spears parallel to each other through the legs of the pants and then the armholes of the shirts, I construct a very crude litter. The spears are about seven feet long, so if we let Colt's feet drag a little, we can easily carry him back to the cells. Nodding to the bald guy, I ask, “What’s your name?”

“Vince. Vince Holmes… Why did you do all this?”

“What, help him? Seriously? 'Cause we're all in this together, and we need to start acting like it. We gotta stop letting them play us off each other. None of us want to be here, and we're only making it worse on one another.” I look around at the few people still in the immediate area and see a few heads nodding, though most look down at the ground or up at the walls.

I position the litter next to Colt and get my hands under his shoulders. As I get ready to lift him up, I see Vince picking up his feet. He nods to me, and we shift him over onto the makeshift stretcher.

Our squad, with Haynes and Des in the lead, forms up around us, Colt’s squad filling in the gaps, and we make our way across the field to the cells. We leave the other body behind. There's no use carrying him with us; there won't be any funeral. From behind, I can hear the laughter and grunts of the ogres returning. The crowd parts before us, and a lot of people stare at our ensemble.

“Hey, Sarge,” I mutter to his back, “Are we expecting more trouble?”

“Maybe. Jesse cut one of 'em up real bad. We don't know who else they're friends with. Or why they targeted Colt.” He never stops scanning the crowd, his hand on the hilt of his sword. As we near the double doors leading to the underground halls, the crowds get closer and more claustrophobic. The sweat running down my back turns cold as my arms begin to burn with the strain of carrying my half of the two hundred and fifty pounds between us. Tightening my grip, I roll my shoulders to relieve some of the strain. I'll be damned if I'm gonna call for a rest after all this in the middle of a semi-hostile crowd. Not a