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

sink and pushing away, but it feels like my skull is getting crushed. Also, the strain on my neck is something awful, and I swear I hear a few vertebrae pop. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I feel hot blood burst from my nose.

With a final heave, I'm off my feet, shoulders hitting the walls on either side of the mirror. More hands reach out and grab the back of my shirt, my shoulders, my hair, all pulling me in. Into where? I open my eyes and scream, this time out of real fear and pain.

I land in a darkened room and see several large forms surrounding me. I hear loud, crude laughter and see the flash of a club. There's an explosion of pain all over my body, and I feel myself dropping to the stone floor. Next thing I know, a heavy boot comes swinging at me, and then everything goes black.

2

Waking up with dried blood in my mouth and a pounding headache is, sadly, not a new experience for me. Waking up chained to a wall in a room with three other guys I don’t know, accompanying said headache and blood in my mouth, is something new.

Slowly, I start to realize that I’m lying on what feels like a wooden pallet. Judging by the foul smell coming from beneath me, it's covered in somewhat rank straw. I can only get my left eye open, so I choose to stay still and observe the room as I breathe slowly through my mouth.

There is a single dull light suspended from the ceiling, and the walls appear to be solid rough stone without mortar lines. The floor looks damp and earthen. Three other wood and straw pallets crowd the small room, and each has an occupant.

The first man lies facing away from me toward the wall. He has short hair, though its color is difficult to tell through the dirt and grime. Thin white scars crisscross his shirtless back, shoulders, and upper arms with some wrapping around his chest, blocked from my view. Stained, green pants, made of some sort of thick cotton material, and scuffed leather boots complete his outfit. A thick, brass shackle and chain stretch from his left leg to the wall, bolted about two feet off the ground.

The second figure is lying on his back, a full beard obscuring his open mouth, swaying in rhythm with his loud snores. He’s wearing a pair of ripped and dirty blue jeans with an equally grubby flannel shirt. He also has thin white scars covering the left side of his face from what little I can see above his beard. A similar brass shackle and chain also connect him to the wall.

I shift my head with slow movements, trying to get a look at the third, and final, figure. He’s already staring at me, probably studying me the way I've been studying the others.

“A thinking man, eh?” His voice is low and gravelly.

“Whaa…(cough… cough),” are all I can manage in a less-than-witty reply.

“Some people wake-up screaming, full of bluster, demanding answers. Some try to figure out what happened and assess the situation. Some just kind of go catatonic. I think you might be the second kind. Of course, there’s still time for you to freak out and go crazy. Let me know what you decide.” He falls silent, calmly watching me, his dark eyes squinting slightly in the gloom.

I see an old scar across the bridge of a nose that has been broken more than once. His grayish-black hair is styled in what the military calls a “high and tight,” and he is clean-shaven. A ripped and sewn, black t-shirt and multi-patched over, old camouflage BDUs1 complete his outfit. His worn, ankle-high leather boots are neatly within reach on the floor next to his pallet.

I take a moment to work up some moisture in my mouth to loosen the dried blood and spit it onto the floor. Just that little movement makes my head spin and throb. I groan a little and try not to throw up. Okay… obvious concussion… I wonder how long I’ve been knocked out?

“Go easy," he says. “You’ve been down 'bout twelve hours." Did he just read my mind? "And I think there's some glass stuck in your face.”

I lie back down and quietly ask, “What the hell happened?” My voice still sounds strange to me. I wonder if it’s the concussion or if I just gained some more hearing damage. Or maybe it’s both. I gingerly raise my hand to my throbbing cheek and—ouch. Yup, feels like some glass and more dried blood. It’s hot and swollen too. With no mirror in sight (isn't that ironic?), there is not much I can do about it right now, except try to ignore it. The wounds are painful, but there's no active bleeding, so it’s not gonna kill me.

Wait a sec, what the hell is this? On the inside of my left wrist is a red circle with a few dozen hash marks evenly spaced around the edge. Within the circle is a singular black wedge shape, like a standard pie graph. When did I get a new tattoo? And why? My other tattoos all have real significance to me, so why would I choose this? And what’s it supposed to mean?

I rub it with my thumb in the vain hopes it’s just a magic marker prank or something. A flash startles me as the tattoo projects a bright light right into my eyes. Moving my wrist away, I see an image form in the air, like a hologram out of a sci-fi movie.

It looks like a lit-up, rectangular piece of parchment paper with intricate filigree up and down both borders. Emblazoned across the center, on the top of the page, is a shield with swords crossed behind it. Flowing, delicate script covers the page, unreadable to me in some foreign hand. As I stare, agape, it begins to translate into plain English:

Cell#